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I’m not gonna lie...the bejeebers were officially scared out of me the next morning when my phone chirped and the caller ID beamed Mrs. Wade’s name. Couldn’t be. I’d witnessed her being rolled out of the house in a body bag.
Turned out to be Mr. Wade calling from Mrs. Wade’s phone.
“I need you to stock my food supplies,” he said. No please, no thank you, no I-know-this-is-your-day-off-but... He rattled off a list of foods he liked to eat; the kind of things Mrs. Wade never allowed in the house. Things like my personal favorites, Nutty Buddy Bars, which, by definition, contain nuts. “And Tater stinks. Do something.” Click.
That was curt, even by Mr. Wade standards. Although to be truthful, I’d had very little interaction with him over the years. While I would label him a man of few words, he had always been cordial. I chalked today’s behavior up to the sudden death of his wife of twelve years. That’s bound to change one’s personality, at least in the short term.
I couldn’t imagine myself working for him for the long haul, though. But I would, in Mrs. Wade’s memory, help him get through the next few weeks. Which is why, after only a few hours of restless sleep, I hauled myself out of bed and dressed for the day in jeans, long-sleeve T-shirt, and light zippered sweatshirt, which probably had food stains on it, but I was too tired to care. I believe it is better to feel good than to look good.
Two hours later I found myself juggling six bags of groceries while trying to punch numbers into the cypher lock on the Wade’s side door.
“Allow me.” A pair of strong arms relieved me of my grocery bags. Out of uniform and dressed instead in faded Levi’s, a crisp white button-down and scuffed square-toed boots, it took a minute for me to recognize Officer Todd Siddons, the oh-so-subtle interrogator from last night. He looked so much more approachable without the uniform—and without the gun—that I almost forgot to be wary of him and his interrogations.
But here he was, back, literally at the scene of the crime.
What, me worry?
Yup.
“Thank you, Officer.” I punched in the lock’s secret code. Well, not so secret. It was the house number. “Are you here on official business this morning?” There. That was good. I sounded cool as the proverbial kumquat.
“Please call me Todd.” He followed me in to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. “Nothing official to be here on. It’s not a murder investigation, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
I guess in a roundabout way that was what I’d been getting at. What a relief to know Mrs. Wade died from a tragic accident, not a killer sitting right next to her at the dinner table. But still disconcerting that life could end with so little notice. Inquiring minds—like mine—wanted to know what had triggered her allergic reaction.
Todd began unloading the bags onto the counter. “I believe I left my reading glasses behind last night. I couldn’t read my paper this morning. Throws my whole day off when my routine is interrupted.”
As a stickler for routine myself, I could relate to that. In fact, you could almost say my life was in a rut. A work-sleep-repeat rut. But I liked it that way.
The thundering of big dog paws echoed down the hallway, getting louder and louder. Before I could warn Todd to take cover, Tater zoomed into the room. He zoned in on the newcomer, greeting him with one-hundred-thirty-pounds of I’m so-happy-to-see-you enthusiasm; paws on the man’s shoulders and slurping his face like it was a big ol’ ice cream cone.
Todd took the fervent reception standing up, and with good humor. “Who do we have here?” he asked while massaging Tater’s ears. “A mighty smelly beast, it seems.”
“Tater, get down,” I said, to no avail. I grabbed a cannister of Pringles, quickly opened it and threw a stack of chips out the back door. Tater, always a fan of people food which Mrs. Wade frowned upon sharing, raced after the chips. I slammed and locked the door behind him. “Sorry, next on my agenda is to call You Dirty Dawg to come pick him up for a shampoo and set. He rolled in something last night down on the beach.”
“Nothing a little oatmeal bath won’t cure.” Todd washed his hands in the sink, dried them on his jeans, and then returned to unloading the groceries. “Gourmet food,” he said as he lifted a half-gallon carton of cheddar crackers shaped like little goldfish.
“Maybe if you’re a school boy.” I meant to sound flippant, but then realized I might have sounded condescending. He could be a super busy single guy who relies on prepared foods due to his demanding schedule of ridding our community of crime. Todd might very well survive on “a man, a can, and a plan” cuisine. I smiled at him, hoping that would soften my words. “I’ve got nothing against junk food. I often make a meal of Fritos and Diet Coke for myself. Mrs. Wade drove the healthy-eating in this house.” I held up two quarts of ice cream, one mint chocolate chip and one chunky monkey, “This is all at Mr. Wade’s request. I’m thinking he might be entering his second bachelorhood.” Again, that didn’t come out quite as glib as I’d hoped. The man’s wife had just died. Who wouldn’t want to stock up on comfort food?
Mr. Wade walked in, wearing the same clothes as last night, only considerably more rumpled. He looked like he’d had less sleep than I had. “Coffee,” he barked.
“Right away.” I put the ice cream in the Sub-Zero then headed for the Technovian Mochamaster, a true beast of a coffee machine.
“Bring it to my office when it’s done,” Mr. Wade snarled.
“Yes, sir,” I called after him as he headed down the hall. Once out of sight, I released a breath and relaxed my shoulders. Eggshells, I said to myself. I’d need to walk on eggshells while he dealt with his grief.
Todd tapped his knuckles on the marble counter. “He always like that?” He jerked his head toward the hallway.
I looked at Todd and shrugged an I-don’t-know response. “He’s not a chatty man, that’s for sure. I’ve never run into him before noon, so he might be one of those don’t-talk-to-me-before-my-first-cup-of-coffee types. And, well, you know, given the circumstances...”
Todd gave one last knock on the counter then came around to watch what I was doing. “That smells delicious.”
“Special Beachcomber Roast from Sea Haven Coffee down on the boardwalk. I’ll make a whole pot if you’d like a cup.”
“Yes, please. While that’s brewing, I’ll look around for my glasses, if that’s ok? I’m pretty sure I left them in the front room.”
“Knock yourself out.”
Todd walked out of the kitchen toward the formal area of the house. The place where the Wades entertained guests. And, well, last night, the posse of police officers.
I fixed Mr. Wade’s coffee tray and headed up the back stairs. The door to his office stood slightly ajar. I knocked, but no answer. I pushed it open. “Got your coffee, Mr. Wade,” I called out before stepping inside.
Mr. Wade looked up from his desk, his face expressing that of a broken, defeated man. Seriously, it would melt the Grinch’s heart. The pre-Christmas Grinch, not the friendly green guy who transformed into a lover of all Whos down in Whoville. “They think I did it,” he whispered.
“Did what?” I asked while placing the coffee tray on his desk.
“Killed Penny.”
Wait, what? Todd had just said there was no investigation into murder. “Why do you think that?”
“In today’s paper.” He flashed this morning’s Sea Haven Sentinel in my direction. The headline screamed Local Businessman Top Suspect in Wife’s Death.
The doorbell rang at that moment, a redundant signal since Tater had already sounded the alarm from his post in the backyard.
Mr. Wade looked out of the window.
I peeked over his shoulder. A police cruiser sat in the circular driveway, parked behind what I assumed was Todd’s smokey grey Wrangler, which was behind my darling red Miata.
Mr. Wade jumped out of his chair and raced for the door, shoving me out of his way as he passed.
Tater’s bark echoed up the front stairway while Mr. Wade’s footsteps clattered down the back stairs.
Was that the act of an innocent man? Or a guilty one?
