I arrived at Norman Sweet’s home on Brewer Lane at 09:30 a.m., having left Gamma to do the washing up with Lauren. Obviously, I had her permission to do so—she was still my boss. This case took precedence over dishes. The sooner we figured it out, the easier it would be to get back to normal life.
Is that so?
I got out of my grandmother’s Mini-Cooper. Once again, Norman appeared to be home.
His screen door was wedged open, and the porch swing was still in motion, a glass pitcher of lemonade on the table beside it, beads of condensation dripping down its side. For a man who needed to leave early for work every day, Norman sure was home a lot.
“Mr. Sweet?” I called, broaching the front gate and starting up the path. “Mr. Sweet, are you home?”
A commotion started inside, a strange whispering and then silence.
“Hello? Mr. Sweet?” Two glasses next to the pitcher of lemonade, eh? Norman had company. “Hello?”
Finally, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was Norman himself, wearing a tank top, barefoot as he’d been the day before, this time with his blue jeans rolled up above a pair of bony ankles.
“Yeah?” He stopped, glaring at me through dark eyes.
“Could I talk to you for a second? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” I glanced pointedly at the glasses of lemonade.
“No.” His reply came with a tone of childish defiance.
“No I can’t talk to you? Or no I’m not interrupting anything?”
“No you’re not interrupting anything.” Norman joined me on the front path, looking as if he’d like to frogmarch me right back to the sidewalk but not daring to do it. A good thing too. It’d been a while since I’d broken a man’s arm, and I didn’t want to do it now.
“Mr. Sweet,” I started.
“Now, what’s this about?” he asked, before I could get to the point. “You can’t just come by asking me questions at odd hours of the day. I’ve heard all about your reporter types, and I won’t take it, you understand me?”
“Reporter? Oh, right!” I’d told him I was from an online magazine last time I’d been here. “Yeah. Well, it’s 09:30 a.m. so I thought it would be an OK time to drop by.”
“I might’ve been at work,” he said. “What about that? Did you think about that?”
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Mr. Sweet, actually. I’ve been thinking about how strange it is that you moved on from your deceased girlfriend so quickly.”
Norman made choking noises in his throat. “I—”
“There’s no use denying it, Mr. Sweet,” I said, going for the jugular. “I saw you and Kayla Wren together. And I’d wager that she’s in your house, right now. So, are you going to tell me the truth about what happened?” I’d skipped through interrogation techniques, right to the confrontation. I was out of patience with these games, and I needed something that could link Norman to the crime.
“How—?” Norman trembled on the spot. “I don’t care if you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t care who knows that I’m dating Kayla,” he said, louder this time.
A figure appeared in the doorway of his house. Kayla herself, clasping the doorjamb, white as a sheet. “Don’t,” she hissed. “Please. Stop it, Norman. We agreed—”
“Enough, Kayla. I’m starting to think you’re embarrassed of me or something.”
“It’s not that.”
Then what was it? Why was Kayla afraid that her connection to Norman would be exposed? Was she worried about another detail being exposed, perhaps? That she had gotten close to Norman for another reason?
Now that the recipe book was out of it, I had to consider other reasons for why Brenda might’ve been murdered. That narrowed my suspect list down to those closest to her. Who had different motives.
“Look,” he said, “look here for a second. I don’t care who knows that Brenda and I were on the brink of breaking up. The woman drove me crazy. Day and night with books and recipe books and having friends over and helping people. It was annoying. I didn’t want to be with her anymore. In fact, I planned on breaking up with her on the day it happened.”
“But you didn’t get the chance because someone had already taken care of that problem for you?” I asked, bluntly.
“How horrible.” Kayla turned on her heel and fled into the house. An air for the dramatic.
“If you want to say that, then yes, I’ll agree. Kayla and I have been seeing each other for months now, and we love each other. I’m going to marry her. There’s nothing you or anyone else can say that will stop me now,” he replied. “Nothing!”
A match made in heaven. Both over the top and strange.
“You’ve told me the truth about your relationship with Kayla. Will you tell me the truth about what you saw on Monday morning?”
“I did,” he replied. “Not that I owe you anything! Dirty reporter. They always say never talk to the press, and they’re right. I shouldn’t have bothered.”
“You told me everything you saw? You didn’t notice anything suspicious next door?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Brenda was asleep. The most blessed time of the day was when her mouth wasn’t yapping away.”
Isn’t he delightful?
“Now, get off my property!” Norman took a threatening step forward.
“A final question, please, Mr. Sweet,” I said. “Where do you work?”
“At the library, of course. That’s where Brenda and I met.” And off he marched back up the stairs toward the front of the house, calling for Kayla.
I left his front yard and walked across to the Mini-Cooper at the entrance of the cul-de-sac, trying to piece it together. If he worked at the library, why did he have to wake up early to leave for work? Unless he worked in more than one place? Did everyone in Gossip work multiple jobs?
I sighed, tapping the car keys against my palm, the soft whisper of the breeze in the bushes that flanked the yard behind me bringing no comfort.