Staged to Death (A Caprice De Luca Mystery) (7 page)

“Do you mind if I take him to the yard for a while?” Roz asked. “With all the trees between the houses, no one should get a glimpse of me. Playing with Dylan might take my mind off everything for a while.”

“I wonder when you’ll be able to get back into your house.”

“I don’t know if I want to get back in. Though I do need clothes.”

The dress Roz had pulled from Caprice’s closet looked good on her. It was a copper-colored, high-waisted shift with embroidery across the bodice. It attractively molded to Roz’s body when she moved and fit her in a way it didn’t fit Caprice. But then Roz looked like a fashion model in anything.

Dylan yipped.

Stooping down, Caprice asked, “Would you like to go out with Roz while I make lunch?”

Dylan barked again.

“One of his balls is on the back porch. If you throw it, he’ll bring it back to you until he gets tired. Then he’ll just plop down.”

Roz smiled. “Don’t go to any trouble for lunch.”

“I won’t. I’ll find something to go with the soup.”

After Roz took Dylan outside, Caprice started toward the pantry but stopped at the kitchen window. Roz had thrown the orange ball. Dylan scampered after it. It was a shame Roz couldn’t take Dylan for a walk down the street. One of the reasons Caprice liked this neighborhood so much was the decades-old trees that shaded the sidewalk and the front yards of many of the properties. This time of year dogwoods were blooming, and shrubs were greening and filling out. In a few weeks she’d be planting zinnias. They’d add lush color wherever she planted them. Zinnias were one of those dependable summer flower varieties that didn’t take a lot of care.

In the pantry, she pulled a can of tuna from the shelf. If she remembered correctly, she had a hard-boiled egg in the refrigerator. With pickle relish and mayo, she could make tuna cups that would go well with the soup. She set the oven for 350 degrees.

She was about to open the can with her grape-colored electric can opener when the counter phone rang. She smiled when she saw her mom’s number on caller ID.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How are you?” Her mother’s voice was filled with concern. “And how is Roz?”

She’d called her mother last night and told her what had happened, swearing her to secrecy with everyone but her dad and Nana. “I’m fine. Roz seems to be coping. She just took Dylan outside.”

“That will be good for her. I know you believe animals can help anyone through anything. Do you still take Sophia to the retirement center?”

“When I can.”

There was a pause. “I called because I heard a rumor that there was a commotion at the police station this morning. I wondered if you were involved.”

“I was there.” She sighed. She might as well tell her mom what was going on. Vince would find out from Grant, and he’d have questions. Vince never let anything slip by. Besides, very few secrets kept well in Kismet.

“Why were you there? You said you already gave a statement.”

How much to say. As a high school English teacher, her mom was plugged in to the community in a way Caprice wasn’t. She taught kids from families living in Reservoir Heights and would hear a variety of tidbits, some true, some not.

“Roz and I both gave statements last night. But they wanted to talk with her some more.”

“I hope she had a lawyer with her. She shouldn’t say a word without one present. The spouse is always the first suspect.”

So her mother watched the same TV shows or read the same books that she had. “I tried to call Vince,” Caprice admitted, “but he was in court. So Grant stood in.”

“What did they ask her?”

There wasn’t much she could do but give her mom a little more detail. “I couldn’t sit in on the interview. I tried to go in with Roz for moral support, but Grant gave her that instead.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“I didn’t feel anything. I was glad he could help when Vince couldn’t.”

“Oh, really. You and Grant got along well?”

“We weren’t together long enough. Getting along wasn’t a priority. Helping Roz was.”

“Caprice—” Her mother’s voice had that motherly, singsong quality that all daughters knew meant trouble. She tried to brace herself for what was coming.

“Honey . . .”

That endearment meant even more trouble.

Then it came. “The past few years you and Grant have had a sort of tension between you. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She had to extricate herself from this conversation quickly. “Grant and I have hardly seen each other the past few years. I don’t know why you think you see tension.”

“I see something when the two of you go out of your way to avoid each other.”

“Your imagination—”

“Is
not
working overtime. I’m just calling a spade a spade. You’ve always liked him. Since his daughter drowned and he got divorced, you think you have to treat him with kid gloves. You don’t.”

“I don’t treat him that way at all,” she protested hotly.

“Then how do you treat him? Don’t you think your dad and I could see how much you once liked him?”

Oh, Lord. If they had seen it, who else had?

“I was a kid.”

“Maybe. Now you’re not. Don’t just sit back, Caprice, and let a possibility pass you by. If you’re both going to be helping Roz, anything could happen.”

Oh, yes, anything could happen. Roz could end up in jail, and Caprice could regret ever calling Grant. “You don’t usually interfere in my life.”

“No, I don’t. Because I learned long ago if I tell you not to do something, you will do it just to prove you can.”

“I do not!”

“You do. You take advice from Nana much better than from me.”

“She just gives me decorating advice.”

“With a little life advice thrown in. You just don’t notice it.”

Was that really true? She’d have to think about that later. “So what have you heard about Ted’s murder?” If she managed to coax her mother back to the original subject, maybe she’d forget about Grant.

“I don’t gossip.”

Caprice sighed. “I know you don’t, Mom. But didn’t you have a parent-teachers’ organization meeting last night?”

“It was a committee meeting for the last fundraiser of the year. We’re selling submarine sandwiches again.”

“And?”

After a long pause, her mother finally dropped her bombshell. “I think I know who killed Roz’s husband.”

“You know who might have killed him?” Caprice was shocked, surprised, and mystified.

“One of the parents, Mr. Waxman, blew up at Tracey Torriman.”

“Tracey’s the sweetest teacher in your building!”

“I know what you mean. She’s young, perky, bubbly, and nice to everyone to a fault, if you ask me.”

Her mother didn’t believe in tiptoeing around a subject, even with parents. But Tracey hated to hurt anyone’s feelings, including telling a parent her child wasn’t working up to par. She lavished praise often, sometimes even when it wasn’t deserved. Caprice knew Tracey because she’d redesigned a couple of rooms in her parents’ house, and Tracey’s parents were peers of Caprice’s parents.

“So what happened?”

“I’m not betraying any confidences because the situation happened in the hall in between classes. Tracey’s room is right next to the teachers’ room.”

The teachers’ lounge was hardly that. Visiting her mother there on occasion, Caprice knew it consisted of a unisex bathroom, an old couch someone had donated, a cafeteria table with about ten chairs around it, and a large coffeemaker that whoever was first into the room every morning started. However, it was a haven where some teachers ate lunch or did planning, and others stopped in before or after school just to chat. There were classrooms on either side of it and across from it.

Her mother continued, “Tracey’s chemistry class sometimes wanders into the discussion of modern medicine and pharmaceutical companies. Apparently she mentioned PA Pharmaceuticals and some of the advances they’ve made over the years in research and development. Well, Bart Waxman’s son is in that class. The next day Bart marched into Tracey’s classroom a few minutes before his son’s class started and began reaming her out because she was giving PA Pharmaceuticals good press. He’d been let go the week before without much explanation, and his blood pressure was up, that’s for sure, because his face was all red. He yelled at her, telling her she shouldn’t be advertising anything about that dirty-dealing company in her classroom.”

“And you heard all this?”

“All of us heard it. He was loud enough to wake the dead! Everyone was buzzing about it last night.”

“What was his position at PA Pharm?”

“I think he was a production manager. At least that’s what I heard after his outburst.”

“And he didn’t know why he was fired?”

“Not according to him. He said they were all crooks who just want to take the money and run.”

That sounded like a blanket statement, and Bart Waxman could just have been venting his frustration and anger.

“I didn’t tell you the best part,” her mom confided with a little bit of slyness that Caprice wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard before.

“The best part?”

“The day after Ted Winslow was killed, one of the other teachers told me Ted was Waxman’s boss, and the one who fired him.”

“Whoa.” Caprice blew out the word without thinking.

“Exactly. Whoa.”

That was certainly a motive if Caprice ever heard one. In these economic times no one wanted to be fired from anything. Jobs were too hard to find, especially in Kismet. Interviewing in Harrisburg or York would mean a commute. Most people weren’t happy with change, not unless they were running toward it.

So the question was: did the police know about Waxman? “Do Dad and Chief Powalski still have a monthly poker game?”

“Your dad hasn’t mentioned Mack recently, but I think he’s still one of the guys who antes up.”

Caprice chuckled. Her mom thought she knew the language, but she’d never sat at a poker table in her life. On the other hand, Caprice and Vince had filled in once in a while when her dad felt the group was short of players.

“In fact,” her mom continued, “one is scheduled for Thursday night.”

“Does Dad know this story about Waxman?”

“Sure, he does. I don’t keep secrets from him. We talk about everything. Or at least I talk and he pretends to listen.”

Her mom and dad had been married for thirty-seven years. Caprice knew their romance very well because, along with her brother and sisters, she’d heard it many times over. Her mom had attended Shippensburg University, about an hour and a half away. She’d been home on summer break, living in York with her parents. She’d spent mornings helping her mom with her gardens, then during the afternoons and evenings worked in a clothing store in one of York’s malls. One morning, she’d gone outside to clip a bouquet of flowers to bring indoors. She’d just finished collecting roses and zinnias when she’d heard noise on the roof. When she’d looked up, she’d spotted a man around her age, nineteen, all bronzed and tanned and muscled, with black hair tousled by the wind. Their gazes locked, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Nicolas De Luca was a brick mason who had come to fix the flashing around the chimney. Today, at age fifty-seven, he was still a brick mason, though he had a crew of men working under him now. But he went out on jobs himself sometimes, and she knew that worried her mother. Her dad had been from Kismet, and they moved here after they married. When Francesca lost her parents—her mother to a heart attack, her father to a stroke—Caprice’s mom had found it more than difficult to sell that house. It had held so many memories, including the one where she’d found the love of her life. A few years back, they’d decided to put an addition on their house in Kismet so Nana Celia could move in with them, and that had helped. Bonds and connections were everything to Francesca De Luca, and Caprice found they were important to her too.

“Maybe Dad could say something to the chief about Waxman.”

“I imagine he could, but Mack never talks about ongoing investigations.”

“Not even after a few glasses of Dad’s favorite wine or a shot of Rock and Rye?”

“Mack is pretty tight-lipped, but maybe your dad can find out something. Maybe he can find out if Roz is a real suspect or not. Even if Mack won’t talk, your father can tell him about Bart Waxman.”

It hadn’t taken many detective skills to figure out that Roz was a prime suspect. Changing the subject, because that thought caused chills to run up and down her spine, Caprice asked, “So do you know what everyone is bringing for dinner on Sunday? I wish you would just let Bella, Nikki, and me cook.”

“Nonsense. You know your grandmother and I enjoy doing it. We’re making ravioli. Some cheese, some sausage. Bella is bringing a vegetable casserole. Nikki’s making antipasto salad and the cannoli shells. And you’re bringing the cream for the cannoli and baking bread.”

“Don’t forget Vince’s wine.”

Her mother laughed. “I could never forget Vince’s wine.”

The back door opened, and Roz and Dylan came in.

Caprice said to her mother, “Roz just came in with Dylan. We’re going to have lunch, then I think I’m going to give Bella a call. I might stop in for a visit.”

“You’re stopping in for a visit? You’ll be seeing her Sunday. What’s up?”

“Not a lot. I just wanted to talk to her about her beautician.”

 

 

Later that afternoon Caprice picked up a basket from the stack just inside the door of Kismet’s Grocery Fresh Market. The small store, with its produce, fruits, and deli was her favorite place to shop for ingredients for home-cooked dinners. When she’d called Bella, her sister had invited her to come over anytime, and asked if she could pick up some vine-ripened tomatoes and peppers so Bella could use them for dinner. Her car was on the fritz again.

The vehicle had been giving Bella problems for the past year. But her sister insisted she and Joe just didn’t have the funds to buy a new car or the monthly income to sustain higher payments. With two kids and one breadwinner, their budget was stretched to the limit. But just like all the De Luca women, and even their father on occasion, Bella preferred fresh ingredients for cooking. She clipped coupons, watched for sales, and skimped in other ways in order to buy fresh fruits and vegetables. Caprice knew her sister would insist on paying her for whatever she bought, but she didn’t have to tell her the real total of the bill. The vine-ripened tomatoes would just happen to be on special today.

For some reason Caprice suddenly compared Bella’s scrimping to Roz and Ted Winslow’s ability to buy anything their hearts desired. She’d left Roz making phone calls and working on an obituary for her husband. How hard was that going to be, knowing the man had been unfaithful?

For now, all Caprice could do for her friend was provide her with a place to stay, be available to listen, and cook food that would keep Roz healthy during this difficult time. Since it was a warm day, tonight she would whip up Nikki’s avocado, tomato, and pasta salad. Strolling past the produce counter, she picked up an avocado to use for that dish.

With that in her basket, she proceeded to the ledge that held the tomatoes. Caprice couldn’t wait until the plants her mother raised from seedlings were growing in cages in her own garden and she could pick the tomatoes right off the vines.

But she didn’t want to rush summer when there was so much to enjoy about spring.

She’d dropped several tomatoes into her basket and was ready to move on to the poblano peppers when she noticed the man striding through the sliding-glass doors. Dr. Seth Randolph took a basket from the stack and headed toward the produce.

Caprice felt her heart give a little skip. Should she wait for him to catch up and maybe say hello? Would he remember who she was? Or should she just move on and forget about every silly notion that had just entered her head?

But the decision was made for her. Dr. Randolph walked up beside her, picked up a tomato, glanced at her . . . and recognized her. As he mentally placed her, the lines around his eyes crinkled and he smiled.

“Miss De Luca, isn’t it?”

“Caprice,” she said, pleased much more than she should have been that he’d remembered.

He set a tomato in his basket as his gaze passed over her flowered and fringed vest, her Beatles T-shirt, her red jeans. “And it is Miss, right?”

“Yes, it is.” Was he checking again for a reason? Her heart did that pitty-pat thing, and she wished she could just act like an adult and have a conversation without feeling all . . . giddy.

So she said the first thing that came into her head. “I didn’t expect to see you here at this time of day.”

“This happens to be my day off. At least it’s a day off until my phone buzzes or vibrates.”

That was the life of a doctor, she supposed. Mostly on call. That thought was fleeting as she registered the fact that he’d looked good in a lab coat, but he looked ten times better in a green football shirt and blue jeans. His sneakers had been around the block more than a few times. This was the everyday Dr. Seth Randolph, and she had to admit, shallow as it was, she really liked the way he looked—broad shoulders, tousled tawny hair, and all. Not to mention those very blue eyes that looked as if they were studying her now, trying to find an answer to a question.

“How’s your friend?”

She knew privacy laws kept her from getting information from him, but there was no reason he couldn’t ask her. Especially if he cared and he seemed to. “Physically she’s doing better. I encourage her to eat and drink, and mostly she just does it by rote. Emotionally, I’m not sure. She still stares into space a lot.”

He lowered his voice. “It’s awful imagining the two of you finding her husband’s body the way you did. I’ve come across accident scenes and of course trauma in the ER. It’s not easy to forget afterward.”

“No, it’s not.” In fact, she’d awakened last night with visions of the murder scene in her head. “I know how it affected me. I can only imagine the impact it had on Roz. One thing is helping, though. I took in a stray dog about a month ago. He and Roz have taken to each other. He even slept on her bed last night.”

“Animals are good therapy. Encourage her to take him for walks and she’ll get some exercise too.”

“On a walk she’s afraid reporters will find her. But she took him outside to play. That could become a habit while she’s with me.”

“Do you know how long that will be?”

“I have no idea, but I’m worried.” Maybe because Seth Randolph was a doctor, it was easy to confide in him. “The police asked her to come in for questioning this morning.”

“Because she wasn’t coherent last night?”

“I don’t think so. They wanted to delve a little more. They’re questioning her alibi, so we don’t know what to think.”

“If she was out running, someone probably saw her.”

“You really do have a good memory.” Maybe that just went along with being a doctor.

“I hope so.”

He checked out her basket. “It looks as if you’re going to be doing some real cooking.”

“The tomatoes are for my sister. I’m stopping over at her house for a while.”

She checked his basket. “One tomato, Dr. Randolph? Endless possibilities for that.”

He laughed. “It’s Seth. And try bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. Do not tell me I shouldn’t be eating bacon.”

“I wouldn’t dare. You’re the doctor.”

“Yes, I am, and on the healthy side I was thinking about picking up a pineapple to slice for dessert. You approve?”

Was he flirting with her? A man was actually flirting with her, Caprice De Luca . . . a man she was interested in too. “I approve.”

“I don’t want to hold you up,” he said.

She suddenly wished she wasn’t going to Bella’s to ask her about her hairstylist. As he paused, she held her breath.

“Do you like to play miniature golf?”

“I haven’t played since high school,” she admitted.

“That’s good. Then I can beat you. I was thinking maybe next Saturday afternoon. I’m on call this weekend. Unless you’re busy?”

He seemed a bit uncertain, and she liked that. She liked that he didn’t take for granted she’d fall at his feet. Many women would, and she suddenly wondered why he’d decided to ask her out. “Can I ask you something before I accept?”