Murder Is a Piece of Cake (15 page)

Chapter 26

Tuesday, October 30

It was all over for Rita, except for her arrest.

Josie’s lunch with Phoebe Winstid at the Blue Rose Tearoom was a waste of time. But
she’d already set up this scheme to politely interrogate George’s mother.

I have to go through with this, Josie told herself. I can’t waste Phoebe’s time, too.
At least I’ll have a good lunch.

She arrived at the Blue Rose fifteen minutes early and talked to Rachel, the plump,
rosy-cheeked hostess. “My friend Phoebe will be asking for me,” Josie said. “Lunch
is my treat. Please don’t bring the check to our table. Here’s my credit card. I’ll
settle the bill after she leaves.”

“I’ll take care of it for you,” Rachel said. She seated Josie at a table by the window
and brought tea in a Blue Willow pot. Josie poured herself a cup and studied the antique
photo of a young woman stiffly posed in a long dark dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves.
She stared solemnly from the wall across from her table.

Phoebe arrived precisely at noon. On the phone, she’d sounded too young to be George’s
mother. She looked that way, too. Josie guessed her age at about sixty, but she seemed
no older than forty-five.

Phoebe was about Josie’s height—five feet six—and slender. Rich brown hair framed
her heart-shaped face. She dressed like a woman who’d once had money. Her black pantsuit
was well cut but slightly shiny at the cuffs.

Josie introduced herself and a server brought a basket of cranberry scones and a tiered
plate of salmon and cucumber sandwiches.

“It’s so nice of you to share your lunch with me,” Phoebe said.

“I’m happy to do it,” Josie said.

“My son says I’m too young for tearooms, but I love them,” Phoebe said. “Tea is so
gracious, don’t you think? This is a return to a gentler time.”

Josie glanced at the young woman in the old photo on the wall. Her troubles had been
over for more than a century, but Josie doubted that her sorrows, losses, and fears
had been any gentler than Josie’s.

“Maybe in retrospect,” Josie said.

“My late husband, Walter, always said I romanticized the past,” Phoebe said.

“When Walt was alive, I’d lunch here once a week with my girlfriends. Now that money’s
a little tight, I don’t come here quite so often. Enough about me. Tell me about yourself.
Are you married? Do you work?”

“I’m getting married the day after Thanksgiving,” Josie said.

The tea and crustless sandwiches disappeared as Josie told Phoebe about her upcoming
wedding at the Jewel Box, the reception, the flowers, and her fiancé the doctor—everything
except that the doctor was the notorious Ted Scottsmeyer.

“I’ve been rattling on too much about my wedding,” Josie said.

“I asked you,” Phoebe said. “I like hearing happy things. The last time I was here
I was with my son, George. My son is a beer drinker, but he made the sacrifice for
me.”

“He sounds thoughtful,” Josie said.

“He’s the best,” Phoebe said. “I’m so lucky. George is engaged, but he won’t be getting
married in St. Louis. He lives in Montana.”

“He likes the great outdoors?” Josie said.

“He says Montana is amazing, but that’s not why he moved there. He was trying to get
away from a woman.”

“Unlucky in love?” Josie asked.

“It wasn’t love,” Phoebe said. “He didn’t even like Molly.”

“Molly?” Josie said. “Why does that name seem familiar? What’s her last name?”

“Molly Deaver,” Phoebe said. “You can’t turn on the TV without hearing her name lately.
She was shot by the mother of a man she was stalking. Molly went to his place of business
in a bridal dress and he didn’t know anything about the wedding.”

“That’s right,” Josie said. “Now I remember.”

“Before she stalked that man, she latched onto my son. All George did was sell Molly
some carpet. My son is a top salesman for Brenhoff Carpet and Flooring Corporation.
They’re a national chain with stores in forty-eight states.”

Josie found Phoebe’s maternal pride endearing.

“George was working at the Clayton store in St. Louis,” Phoebe said, “and sold this
Molly Deaver wall-to-wall for her living room. That’s all he did. George never showed
the slightest interest in her, but she started stalking my son. She turned up at his
store, she watched him in the parking lot, even followed him to his apartment. He
couldn’t turn around without running into Molly Deaver.

“George had no interest in dating her, but I could see why she was attracted to him.
My son is handsome, reliable, has a steady job, and he treats me well. You can tell
a lot about a man by how he treats his mother. The stalking got so bad, George couldn’t
even go to the supermarket without running into her.”

“Did George get a restraining order?” Josie asked.

“He didn’t want one,” Phoebe said. “It would have been bad for his career. Molly told
everyone they were engaged and then formally announced it in the paper. When George
saw a chance to move to the Billings store in Montana, he jumped at it. I hated to
see him go, but I understood.

“I hate to admit it, but he made the right decision. He’s just been elected president
of the National Carpeting and Floor Covering Association. They have two thousand members.”

The Brenhoff Web site said seventeen hundred, Josie thought, but a proud mom was allowed
a little exaggeration.

“That’s why George was back here this month,” Phoebe said. “He was sworn in as president
at the big convention in St. Louis. My son is a busy man, but he’s not too important
to take his mother to her favorite tearoom for lunch.

“When George and I were here, she sat right at that corner table.”

“Molly?” Josie asked.

“No, the woman who killed her,” Phoebe said. “Lenore something from Florida. Dramatic-looking
woman. Liked being the center of attention. She was showing off her pistol in the
tearoom. Pretty little thing. She showed off the pearl grips with her initials. She
made quite an impression. When I saw her on TV again after she shot that crazy bride,
I recognized her right away.”

“Do you think Lenore did it?” Josie asked.

“I’m sure, and she did the world a favor,” Phoebe said. “Don’t believe what you see
on TV. Channel Seven made that bride into a victim, but she was insane.

“I told my son I’d testify on Lenore’s behalf, but George begged me not to. He wants
to forget Molly ever happened.

“But I won’t. I lost my son. George had to move to Montana to get away from her. Thanks
to one demented woman, I lost my boy. He’s living more than thirteen hundred miles
away. I don’t have the money to fly there, and it’s a two- or three-day drive.

“George says the move to Montana turned out better than he hoped. That’s where he
met Renee, the woman he wants to marry. She’ll make a good daughter-in-law.”

“Now that Molly’s dead, they could move back here,” Josie said.

“I’d like that, but I don’t think it will happen,” Phoebe said. “Renee has her own
career. She’s the manager of a rental car agency there. Lot of tourists fly into Billings
and rent cars to drive to Yellowstone National Park. Renee would have to give up a
good job to move back here.

“If it hadn’t been for that mental case, my boy would have met a nice St. Louis girl
and settled down here to raise a family. And I’d be taking my grandbabies to the zoo,
the Arch, and picking apples at Eckert’s Orchard in the fall like all the other grandmas.

“Now that won’t happen,” Phoebe said. “She deprived me of my son and his future life.
I’m glad she’s dead.”

Phoebe slammed down her teacup with such force, there was an audible clink on the
saucer. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

“You have good reason to be upset,” Josie said. “It’s nearly two o’clock. I have to
pick up my daughter at school.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Phoebe said.

Josie walked George’s mother to the door of the restaurant. She watched Phoebe unlock
her charcoal Chevy Impala, waved good-bye, then returned to pay the bill.

The lunch crowd was clearing out of the tearoom parking lot. Inside her car, Josie
opened her cell phone to call Denise’s Dreams for the good news. By now Denise would
have fired Rita and the cops would have arrested the real killer. Then she could call
Ted and tell him Molly’s murderer had been arrested.

Time for Josie’s dream, she thought as she dialed Denise’s Dreams.

A worried, apologetic Denise answered the shop phone. “I’m sorry, Josie,” she said.
“Rita hasn’t reported for work yet. I’ve called her every half hour since noon. I
need a little more time.”

“You have until three o’clock,” Josie said. “Then I call the police.”

“I’ll keep trying,” Denise said. “She’s always so reliable. Maybe she’s sick.”

Josie was the one who felt sick. Rita knew they were on to her. She’d run.

Chapter 27

Tuesday, October 30

“Josie, I don’t know what’s wrong,” Denise said. “I keep calling and calling, but
Rita doesn’t answer her phone.”

Josie called the shop owner as soon as she got home from school with Amelia. “I can’t
reach her,” Denise said. “I’m worried she’s sick.”

“And I’m worried Rita skipped town,” Josie said. “I gave you till three o’clock. Your
time is up. An innocent woman is locked up while Rita goes free.”

“There’s no way Rita could know what we were planning,” Denise said. She had a defensive
edge.

“Really? Rita already figured out that Molly knew she was stealing from your shop,”
Josie said. “I’m calling the police.”

“No! Please!” Denise sounded frantic. “Could you go by her apartment first? Just to
see if she’s okay? I’m really, really worried.”

“You want me to go alone to an apartment where there’s a killer?” Josie asked. “I
saw that movie and didn’t like the ending.”

“You could take my pepper spray,” Denise said.

“I have my own,” Josie said. “I’m not going to Rita’s apartment alone.”

“You don’t have to sound so mean,” Denise said. “I’d go with you, but I can’t leave
the shop. I have a customer coming at three thirty. A real bride, not a pretend one
who wastes my time and doesn’t buy anything.”

“I caught your shoplifter,” Josie said, trying to tamp down her anger. “I didn’t waste
your time. I saved your business.”

“I know you did, but unless I sell enough to cover Rita’s losses, I won’t survive,”
Denise said. Her irritating whine drilled into Josie’s ear.

“What if she slipped in the shower and she’s lying there hurt?” Denise said. “Anyway,
you think she ran away. If you’re right, she won’t even be home.”

I want this over, Josie thought. The longer Denise dithers, the farther Rita can run.

Denise took Josie’s hesitation as a sign she was wavering. “Good,” she said. “Rita
lives in apartment 103. Second building on the right on that little street off Southwest
Avenue in Rock Road Village. Her apartment is on the first floor and has big sliding
doors. You might be able to see if she’s safe without going inside.”

I’ll take one look and if Rita’s at home, I’m calling the police myself, Josie thought.
To hell with Denise’s precious store. I’ll ask Mom to go with me. She can stay in
the car and call 911 if I need help.

“Then you’ll do it?” Denise asked, her voice shrill with hope.

“Only if my friend is available to go with me. I’ll ask her. If she says no, I’m calling
the police.”

Jane was home. “I’ll go with you, Josie,” she said. “I need to get out. What’s this
about?”

“This trip may help us find Molly Deaver’s killer,” Josie said. “I’ll tell you in
the car.”

Josie stopped by Amelia’s room where her daughter was texting with lightning-fast
thumbs. “Grandma and I will be gone about an hour,” Josie said. “I’m trusting you
to stay home alone again.”

Amelia jumped up. “I will! I’ll be good.”

“I hope so,” Josie said, running out the door.

On the short drive over, she gave her mother a sanitized version of Rita’s role: “She’s
been stealing from the shop and selling the items on eBay,” Josie said. “Molly figured
it out. She wanted to tell Denise the next day, but Rita found out and shot her with
Lenore’s pistol.”

“Terrible,” Jane said. “But this Rita must be clever. She framed Lenore and got away
with murder.”

“She’s not getting away with anything,” Josie said.

“Do you think she has a gun?” Jane asked.

“I think she’s skipped town,” Josie said. “Molly’s murder weapon was left at the scene,
remember?”

“I forgot,” Jane said. “So much is going on. We won’t have to take Rita into custody,
will we?”

“No, I just want to make sure she’s home and then I’ll call the police.”

“Is this the place?” Jane asked, wrinkling her nose. “It was so pretty when it was
built. But that was in 1968.”

“It’s not bad,” Josie said. But she noticed the mansard roof was missing a few shingles
and the doors could use fresh paint. She thought the climber roses on the entrance
archway would appeal to Rita’s romantic side.

She turned into the parking lot and saw a shiny green Kia in spot 103. Rita was home,
Josie decided. At least her car was.

“I’ll check the front and back doors, Mom,” Josie said. “Wait in the car. If I’m not
back in five minutes, call 911.”

“You are
not
giving your mother orders,” Jane said. “I’m going with you.”

“Mom, you can’t. What if someone attacks us?”

“I’ll stay behind on the sidewalk,” Jane said. “I’ve punched in 911. All I have to
do is hit the button if we need help.”

Josie didn’t argue. She charged up the sidewalk to Rita’s porch, prettily framed with
golden mums in blue pots. She rang the doorbell, tried the shiny brass handle, and
pounded on the door. No answer. She peered in the front window, but the view was blocked
by ruffled Cape Cod curtains.

“I’m going around to the back,” Josie said.

Josie dodged a toddler’s orange plastic tricycle on the sidewalk to the back of the
apartment, while Jane trotted behind. Rita lived in a corner unit with sliding doors
and a sunny patio with potted mums and lacy wrought-iron furniture.

Josie peered through the back sliders and saw a dark wood dining table with an overturned
coffee cup and a dining chair on its side.

“That doesn’t look right,” Josie said. She knocked on the sliders until they rattled,
calling, “Rita!”

No answer. Josie yanked the handle and the glass door slid open.

“Rita?” Josie called. “May I come in?”

Silence.

“Go on in,” Jane said, and gave Josie a small impatient push.

Josie’s foot crunched on the shattered remains of a china teddy bear cookie jar.

Josie and Jane followed a path of destruction through the kitchen, trying to avoid
the broken glass and splintered china.

“Grandma had an old Magic Chef stove like that,” Josie said.

“This isn’t a house tour,” Jane said. “Move!”

They tiptoed around the shards of a glass vase and a smashed plant stand. A trail
of teacup fragments spilled down the hall past the living room. Josie stopped suddenly,
staring at a fire-engine red vintage Coke machine in the living room. Curly letters
declared, “Drink Coca-Cola. 10 Cents.”

Jane ran into her daughter’s back.

“Rita left the shop so that Coke machine could be delivered,” Josie said.

“Wouldn’t want it in my living room,” Jane said. “It’s big as an icebox. Keep moving.
We need to get out of here.” She nearly dragged Josie down the hall.

Now Josie could see a broken milk-glass lamp in the bedroom doorway.

“Careful, Josie,” Jane said. “The burglar could be hiding in the closet.”

But Josie had stepped over the lamp and was already inside. The blue satin bedspread
was nearly pulled off the mattress.

Josie saw a china foot on the floor by the far side of the bed. A statue? She moved
carefully forward. The foot was an odd greenish white and the toenails were painted
pale pink. That was no statue. The foot was connected to a slender bare leg in a blue
satin robe.

“No, no, no, no,” Josie cried.

But no matter how hard she tried to deny it, Josie knew she was looking at a dead
woman.

Rita was sprawled next to the bed in a blue satin robe, her golden hair matted with
thick black blood.

“Don’t come in, Mom,” Josie said, her voice shaking. “Rita’s dead. Call 911.”

“How do you know she’s dead?” Jane asked.

“Her head’s all crushed in,” Josie said. She stumbled out of the bedroom, tripping
over the broken lamp.

Jane paled. “I’m going outside,” she said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She must have dragged Josie with her. She and Jane were sitting in matching wrought-iron
chairs on Rita’s patio.

Jane’s queasiness seemed to vanish when she made the call. Now Josie felt dizzy in
the hot afternoon sun. The patio tilted and she held on to the chair arm, trying to
focus on her mother’s conversation with the emergency operator. The chair’s wrought-iron
curlicue poked Josie in the back.

“Yes, I believe the young woman is dead,” Jane was saying. “No, we’re not inside the
apartment. We’re on the back patio. We’ll go sit on the front steps and wait for the
police. No, I won’t hang up.”

Jane took Josie’s hand and led her to the front steps. Josie sat on a sun-warmed step
and mimed to her mother that she was calling Amelia on her cell.

“Amelia,” Josie said, her voice thick with phony cheer, “Grandma and I are going to
be a little later. I’m trusting you to be on your own. Call my cell phone or Ted’s
if there’s any trouble.”

It felt good saying that. She had extra backup now. Josie heard the woeful sound of
the sirens and said, “I love you, sweetie. See you soon.”

“The police are here,” Jane said to the emergency operator, and clicked off her cell
phone. “I’m glad you called Amelia,” she said. “Now you’re going to tell the police
exactly what’s going on with Rita. It’s their job to catch her killer. Her death may
have nothing to do with Molly Deaver’s murder. She could have been killed by a burglar.”

“But, Mom.” Josie realized she sounded like Amelia.

“No ifs, ands, or buts,” Jane said. “I’m telling the police exactly what happened,
and so will you.” Her jaw was locked into a stubborn outward thrust. Jane was immovable
in that mood. Screeching police car tires ended any more conversation.

Josie had had way too much experience with murder scenes lately. This one was eerily
similar to Molly Deaver’s death. Jane and Josie were put in separate police cars,
questioned, and told to wait for the homicide detective.

Josie knew she’d be dealing with Detective Gray. Rock Road Village was too small to
have more than one homicide detective. Her mother was right. She’d have to tell him
everything. He’d be furious at her meddling.

The yellow crime scene tape had been strung, and cops and techs were swarming over
the apartment complex when Detective Gray’s Dodge Charger roared into the parking
lot. Gray slammed his door so hard, Josie winced. He was met by a uniform, and the
two hiked up the walkway and around the back of the apartment. Gray’s coat and tie
flapped, he moved so fast.

Josie felt sick. She studied the cage that penned her in the back of the patrol car
and wondered if she’d wind up behind bars.

Gray stomped down the sidewalk fifteen minutes later, bristling with rage. Even his
iron-colored hair looked angry.

He yanked open Josie’s door and said, “You again. Get out and stand over there. I
want to hear why you’re mixed up in this murder and I want the truth. You get one
chance or you go to jail.”

Josie climbed shakily out of the car and told Gray everything she could remember:
the tiara posted for sale on eBay, why Rita had to be the thief, and Denise’s outrage
when she discovered her trusted employee was stealing from her.

“So you
gave
this Denise twenty-four hours before you called the police?” the detective asked.

Josie nodded.

“And this Denise was upset?”

“Yes,” Josie said in small voice. “She’s afraid she’s going to lose her store.”

“Wonderful, Ms. Marcus,” he said. “You probably signed that poor woman’s death warrant.
You do realize you gave this Denise plenty of time to kill the victim and string you
along.”

Josie felt the tears coming. She didn’t want to appear weak in front of the irate
detective. She tried to stop crying but couldn’t.

“You’d better cry,” he said. “That woman was killed because of your meddling. You
know that, don’t you?”

Josie nodded. She carried a double burden of guilt: Rita was horribly dead and Josie’s
investigation had hit another dead end.

She’d have to start again to find Molly’s killer.