Murder Has a Sweet Tooth (13 page)

I knew I was right when he latched on to my arm and dragged me over near the back door that led into the alley where Jim parked his motorcycle. Jim was still busy cleaning up and Eve was in the middle of showing the Doc calendar to Marc, but Tyler checked over his shoulder anyway to make sure no one could hear us.

“You’ve got to help me out here, Annie. Eve is so worried about this whole thing . . .” He checked over his shoulder again and lowered his voice. “She’s making me crazy. You know how she can be. She’s taken all her worries about Alex and sort of transferred them. You know what I mean? She’s obsessed. With your wedding. And if we don’t do something fast to calm her down . . .”

I thought of the Doc calendar. I thought about Eve’s plans for Fi and Richard’s girls, and about the champagne fountain. I knew Tyler was right. Not only did we need to help Alex, but we needed to de-stress Eve. Fast. Before my own wedding was completely out of my control.

And we had a dog as a ring bearer.

Just thinking about it made me woozy, so I concentrated on the case instead. “You think the phone call is suspicious?” I asked Tyler.

“I think . . .” He ordered his thoughts. “If the person who placed that call was nothing but an innocent by-stander who just happened on the scene, that person would have stayed around. Or at least shown up at the station later. That’s what usually happens. They think about it, they know they have to do the right thing, they come clean and show up and admit they made the call.”

“But that’s not what happened in this case.”

“You got that right,” Tyler grumbled. “If Derek Harold wasn’t such a bonehead, he’d see what this means.”

“And what this means is . . .”

“Well, any idiot can see that,” he said, and then when he realized he’d just called me an idiot without actually calling me an idiot, he had the good sense to blush, but, Tyler being Tyler, not the good manners to apologize. “It means the person who placed the call is probably the person who killed Vickie Monroe. The killer wanted us to find Alex with the body.”

Hope sprang in my heart. Tyler and I were on the same page! Before I could let my relief get carried away, I stuck with the facts. “And that person wanted you to find Alex with Vickie so it would look like Alex was the killer.” Tyler and I eyed each other for a couple seconds, and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking: It was so unusual for us to agree about a case—any case—that he was wondering where to go from here. So was I, so I went for the obvious. “Is there any way you can take over the case?” I asked.

His cynical laugh was the only answer I needed. “Is there any way,” Tyler asked, “that you could talk to the husband? You know, get us some firsthand information so that I don’t have to accept what Detective Harold says? I swear, the man wouldn’t know his head from a—”

I wasn’t as worried about Detective Harold as I was about Edward Monroe. That was why I interrupted. “He’s a suspect?” I asked, then clarified. “Edward Monroe? You think he—”

Tyler’s mouth thinned. “The husband’s always a suspect. And I hear he’s got an alibi, but I’m just not buying it. The whole thing’s a little too convenient. She was stepping out on him, and she ends up dead. It’s every husband’s dream come true.”

I flinched. “That’s a cynical view of marriage.”

“It’s a fact. Most victims are murdered by people they know, and if they’re married . . .”

“Then it’s usually the spouse who did it.” I might not like what Tyler was saying, but I nodded my understanding. “Edward has an alibi?”

“Says he was at a soccer league meeting.”

“Then the people he was there with must have confirmed that.” Tyler didn’t say a thing. He didn’t have to. The police weren’t about to accept an alibi without checking it every which way and backward. I came at the problem from another angle. “And you think Edward has a motive because he knew about Vickie and Alex.”

“He thought she was going to a cooking class every Tuesday night.”

“With her friends.” This tallied. Sort of. “But if her friends were at the cooking class and Vickie wasn’t there with them . . .” I made a mental note to myself.

“Her friends say that lately, she had excuses for not going to class every Tuesday,” Tyler told me. “She wasn’t feeling well. One of the kids was sick. She was too busy, too tired.”

“But you’re not buying it.”

Without making it look like he was surrendering to confusion, Tyler shrugged. “I’m not sure it adds up. If you could talk to Vickie Monroe’s friends, if you could chat up her husband . . . well, maybe they wouldn’t give you the pat answers they’re giving us. If Edward Monroe found out Vickie wasn’t where she was supposed to be . . . if he found out she was really over at Swallows with Alex . . .”

Again, I nodded. “I wonder why her friends never bothered to mention it to me,” I said, talking more to myself than to Tyler. I knew he wasn’t following so I filled him in. “They told me that Vickie never would have snuck around behind Edward’s back. But they never mentioned that she’d missed cooking classes. They knew she wasn’t with them when they went to Sonny’s on Tuesday nights and she must have missed plenty of classes. She went to Swallows more than once. So what did her friends think she was up to?”

It was a very good question, and I intended to find the answer.

Before I left Bellywasher’s, I let Jim know I would gladly take him up on the offer of the cheese platter and the Greek dessert.

After all, designated cooking expert or not, I was going to a wine tasting, and I couldn’t go empty-handed.

BETH AND MICHAEL’S HOUSE WAS EVEN MORE
elegant than the brick Colonial I imagined for myself. It was sprawling and modern, with lots of windows, clean lines, and a roof sloped at impossible angles. The yard was a match for the house, neat without being severe, landscaped with just the right amount of shrubs to be interesting without being overdone or overwhelming. In fact, the one and only concession to hominess was a too cute
Welcome Friends
sign on a post stuck into the flower bed near the front door. The sign was shaped like a giant egg and made out of weatherproof resin. The smiling, waving bear and moose on the sign looked as out of place in the gee-whiz neighborhood as I felt.

Beth welcomed me inside, and I saw that the house had an open, airy foyer with a ceramic tile floor in a shade of ecru that appealed to my love of all colors neutral and my sense of decorating restraint. Just inside the front door and at the bottom of a winding staircase, the wall to my left was made from glass block and lit from behind. Set in front of it on see-through shelves was a collection of art glass that took my breath away.

At the risk of being rude, I couldn’t take my eyes off the vases and plates in various shapes and sizes and in a riot of blue, red, green, purple, and orange. Yeah, my mouth was hanging open, but I managed to gasp, “I’m not a fan of lots of color, but that’s just spectacular.”

Perfect hostess that she was, she smiled and thanked me. “The glass is Michael’s baby,” she said. “He’s the collector. I just go along with whatever he wants. That, and take out the feather duster when it all needs cleaning!”

I was so fascinated, I was being rude. I shook myself back to the present, remembered the bottle of wine I’d picked up at Très Bonne Cuisine and the darling gift bag Norman had chosen for it, one with the Eiffel Tower on it. “For you,” I said, handing the bag to Beth. It was the first I registered that she was a riot of color that Friday evening, too, in a floral print sundress as cheery as the daffodils that grew around the front door. “The wine is a zinfandel, just like you asked for. And here . . .” I’d brought the cheese plate and the mizithra, honey, and phyllo dessert in a carry bag and I gave that to her, too. “My contribution to the nibblers.”

“But no husband? We were looking forward to meeting him.” Wineglass in hand, Celia appeared from around the corner and looked over the scene. She was wearing silky black pants and a flowing black top that made my khakis and powder blue sweater look positively passé. “No problem if he can’t come until later. Our guys aren’t here yet, either, but they’ll be along eventually. You know how traffic is this time of the day.”

“Jim’s out of town on business!” I’d practiced the phrase in the car (and not incidentally, I’d borrowed Norman’s silver Jag for the occasion), and delivered it in a way that made it sound like
again!
even though I didn’t say it. “He sends his best and says he hopes to meet everyone next time. Oh!” I didn’t have to pretend to be embarrassed. If I wasn’t on a case and hadn’t come there specifically to try to get people to talk, I’d never dream of being that rude. “I mean, if we’re invited next time.”

“Of course you’re invited. We’re neighbors!” Glynis came from the back of the house. She was wearing a linen apron embroidered with spring violets over a pantsuit in an ashen color that matched her hair. She wound an arm through mine and gave it a squeeze. “And next time, you can bring those adorable girls of yours, too. The kids are playing upstairs.” Just as she said this, we heard a sound like thunder from upstairs. One of the doors along the hallway at the top of the steps flew open and a troop of children raced from one room to another. I recognized Beth’s Jeremy, Glynis’s Eli, and Carter, the soccer star. There were a couple older girls with them as well as three older boys I didn’t know and Vickie Monroe’s Henry and Antonia.

“Oh, Edward’s going to be here?” It was, of course, exactly what I was hoping for, so I tried not to look too pleased with myself. “I thought—”

“He’ll be along after work,” Beth said. “His kids came home from school with mine.”

“He needs to relax,” Glynis said.

“He needs to be with friends,” Celia added.

“And Edward has to be here. He’s got an announcement to make, and we’ve all got something to celebrate,” Beth said rather cryptically, and when her friends questioned her, she put a finger to her lips. “You’ll all find out soon enough,” she said in that singsong sort of way people do when they can’t wait to spill a secret.

Before any of us had a chance to say another word, the kids raced across the second-floor landing again.

“If you all settle down, you can go down to the media room and watch your movie,” Beth called up to them. “If not . . .”

The unspoken threat was enough to bring them in line instantly. They streamed down the steps, and Glynis told them to stop in the kitchen on their way to the media room. She had popcorn, sodas, and cookies all ready for them.

“Mine, mine, mine,” Beth said, patting the heads of Jeremy as well as two girls who looked to be twins. “You know Eli,” she said, pointing out Glynis’s son, “and these are her Isabelle and Connor.” The little girl ignored me; the boy smiled and turned pink.

“And these are my Jackson and Mitchell,” Celia added. They were clearly the oldest kids there and even though I wasn’t a mother, I knew exactly what Celia was going to say next. “Keep an eye on the little ones,” she told her sons. “No roughhousing! And if anyone spills anything—”

“We know,” the oldest boy rolled his eyes in a way that said he wasn’t being disrespectful so much as he was just teasing. He’d heard it all before. “Wipe it up and let you know if there’s a stain.”

“Beautiful kids,” I said, because it was true and because I know that’s what mothers are supposed to say to each other.

Glynis still had a hold of my arm. She tugged me toward the kitchen and I just naturally went along. “I suppose you’re wondering why we asked you to come so early,” she said.

“Sonny made flan in cooking class this week,” Celia added, though what this had to do with me arriving early for the wine tasting, I don’t know. “Flan Caraqueño. It’s a recipe from Venezuela.”

“And Celia . . .” Beth slid her friend a look. “Celia mentioned it to Michael. Michael loves flan. And since the celebration has something to do with Michael . . .”

Again her friends questioned her, but again, Beth clammed up like a . . . well, like a clam. We trooped into the kitchen (where I didn’t see a trace of flan) and Beth bustled to the refrigerator and took out eggs, butter, and milk. She set it on the quartz countertop while Celia brought over almonds and crackers, and Glynis went into a walk-in pantry as big as the kitchen in my apartment to get a bottle of vanilla extract.