Within a matter of minutes an ambulance and two squad cars arrived with lights and sirens blaring.
I stood behind the counter gripping Paula’s hand while the uniforms swarmed all over the sidewalk and into my restaurant. I wasn’t holding her hand just to be supportive. She still had a problem dealing with cops even though her ex, a cop who’d abused her and tried to kill both of us, was safely behind prison bars. Mostly I held onto her hand because I was afraid she would run away and hide, and that sort of action tends to look suspicious.
All things considered, she was doing pretty good, though she had a vice-like grip on my hand and was a few shades paler than normal.
“You the lady who called 911?” a big burly cop asked me.
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Sir.”
“You said you killed this man?”
“No! Well, yes, I probably said that, but I didn’t mean I killed him.”
The cop pushed his hat back on his head and scowled at me. Do they teach them Scowling 101 in the Police Academy? They all seemed to do it so well, and that included Adam Trent, the homicide detective I was almost dating. “Then what did you mean?” he asked.
I threw one arm in the air, still restraining Paula with the other hand. “I don’t know! I was upset! I just meant he died after eating dessert in my restaurant. I was worried he might have nut allergies. My cookies have nuts.”
“Brownies,” Paula interjected. “He had a brownie, not a cookie.”
“My brownies have nuts, too. There’s a warning sign, but people don’t always pay attention. I make nut-free brownies, but those don’t sell as well, so I don’t make them as often. Who wouldn’t rather have nuts unless, of course, nuts make you sick.” I was babbling. I could tell from the way the cop’s eyes were starting to cross. “So, anyway, if I killed him, I didn’t mean to.” That still didn’t sound right. “What did he die from?”
“We won’t know until we get the autopsy results. What made you think he didn’t die from natural causes?”
“I never said he didn’t!”
The cop pulled out a small notepad and a pen. “I need your name, address and phone number.”
Great. I wasn’t anxious for this latest news to get back to Trent. We were already delayed in having any kind of a relationship because Rick wouldn’t sign those freaking divorce papers, and now I was being questioned about a death right outside my restaurant. This latest incident wasn’t likely to increase my aura of respectability.
I consoled myself with the thought that it could have been worse. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with my parents for a couple of weeks. They were on a cruise to Alaska, enjoying cooler temperatures and, I hoped, out of cell phone and newscast range. They already considered me undependable and irresponsible. When they heard this latest news, it would somehow be my fault that the man died at my restaurant. If I’d been a little more responsible, he’d have died down the street outside the tattoo parlor.
I sighed and turned my attention to the cop. “My name is Lindsay Powell.”
“It’s Lindsay Kramer!” Rick shouted from a table across the room. Apparently his conversation with another cop wasn’t enough to prevent his eavesdropping on my conversation.
I ignored him. “Lindsay Powell,” I assured my cop. “I never changed my name. Women can do that now. That rude man who just shouted at me brought the dead man in here. Well, he wasn’t dead when he came in, of course. But the two of them were eating chocolate together. He’s the one you need to be questioning, not me.”
“We’re talking to everybody,” my cop assured me. “Your address and phone number?”
***
By the time Paula and I got rid of the cops and cleaned up the restaurant, it was late afternoon. Getting rid of the cops was the hardest part. Telling the 911 operator I had killed a man was not a good idea. I have often wished I had some kind of filter between my brain and my mouth. Unfortunately, they don’t sell those on eBay.
Paula and I finished cleaning the restaurant, then I drove to my home that had, for a short while that day, doubled in value. With Rodney Bradford dead, my house had likely returned to its former minimal value.
Sure enough, it looked just the same as when I’d left it early that morning.
I stowed my elderly but still fast Celica in my detached garage that lists to the southeast at about a twenty degree angle, walked out and tugged the creaky door closed behind me.
As I crossed my au naturel lawn, I reflected that it needed to be mowed. The dandelions were gaining on the clover. Not that it really bothered me. Dandelions have green leaves and pretty yellow flowers followed by fluffy white blossoms. Clover has pretty flowers and smells wonderful. Grass, on the other hand, does nothing but sit there and make demands…water me, fertilize me, mow me, kill off my friends, the dandelions and clover.
My house was small and old, the garage threatened to fall over every time the wind blew (and the wind blows a lot in Kansas City), and my lawn had more weeds than grass. Why was Bradford willing to pay so much money for this place?
Maybe his autopsy would reveal that he’d died from a brain tumor which had caused him to do inexplicable and irrational things like running naked down the middle of Interstate 435 in rush hour traffic, shouting bomb threats at the airport, and offering to buy rundown real estate for twice what it was worth.
As soon as I entered my front door, my cat, King Henry, strolled leisurely across the hardwood floor to greet me. He’s a large animal, twenty-three pounds of solid muscle, white with gold markings on his face and tail. He moved in last fall and has been in control ever since.
He wound around my legs, purred and looked up at me with Frank Sinatra blue eyes. I leaned over and stroked his thick fur. “Glad to see me, big guy? I saved the homestead today. You could have been out on the streets again, homeless, like you were when you came here? Remember?”
He didn’t. He gave a soft “rowr,” turned and led me to the kitchen where he showed me his empty food bowl. That bowl got empty a lot. And we’re not talking an ordinary kitty size dish. His head was too big to allow him to eat from one of those. I’d bought him a doggie bowl instead, and he did not like to see the bottom. I dutifully refilled it, and he dug in.
Wind chimes sounded in the distance. My cell phone.
I pulled my not-all-that-smart phone from my purse and noted the caller id. My other neighbor, Fred.
“Why did you tell the police you killed a man?” he asked in greeting.
“How on earth do you know that?” Fred rarely left his house, kept the shades closed all the time, spent his days on the computer as a day trader (ha!) yet somehow always seemed to know more than the local psychic.
“If Rodney Bradford died from natural causes, you’ll probably be okay, but it’s not a good idea to bring yourself to the attention of local law enforcement when you drive as fast as you do.”
“If he died of natural causes? Does this mean you don’t know what killed Bradford? I’m astonished there’s something you don’t know!”
Henry went to the back door, stood on his hind legs and tried to turn the knob with his paws. Subtle, he’s not. I opened the door to let him outside.
“I have no idea what caused Bradford’s death,” Fred said. “The police haven’t finished the autopsy.”
“So you get your information from the cops?” I asked, ever hopeful of tripping him up and learning something about him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he got information from the police database. I knew for a fact that he hacked into computer systems where he shouldn’t be hacking. Well, almost a fact. As close to as a fact as I was ever going to get with Fred.
Let’s just say I had a strong suspicion he was a hacker.
He ignored my question. “I’m making beef bourguignon. Would you like to join me for dinner?”
“How do you know I haven’t already eaten?”
“I don’t know, but since you just arrived home, I assume you haven’t had time to eat. Feeding that hair factory who lives with you would be your first priority.”
Fred pretended he doesn’t like Henry, and Henry pretends a supreme indifference to Fred. Actually, I don’t think Henry is pretending.
Fred complained about Henry’s shedding, and Henry tossed out a few extra hairs every time he got close to Fred.
“I’ll bring dessert,” I told Fred. I could almost hear him smiling. “Would you rather have chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese filling or chocolate fudge with peanut butter swirls?” I was teasing him. I knew the answer. “Or we could have both,” I added.
“That’ll be fine. Come over as soon as you get Henry back in the house.” He hung up. Fred doesn’t believe in protracted farewells.
There was no point in trying to figure out how he knew Henry was outside. I called my cat inside, grabbed the chocolate goodies I’d brought home from the shop, and headed next door.
Fred’s house is older than mine, but you’d never know it. Everything down to the last splinter of wood and chip of paint is perfect. Last winter a piece of baseboard molding in his hallway separated from the wall by a fraction of an inch. I suggested he caulk it. I’ve caulked much wider gaps in my molding. Enough caulk can hide a multitude of sins. But Fred completely replaced the molding on both sides of his hallways so there’d be no gaps and both pieces would match perfectly.
Once I squashed a spider on his hardwood floor—but that’s another story.
Needless to say, his yard is also perfect—every blade of grass exactly the same length, every leaf on every bush and tree symmetrical, all his flowers bright and in full bloom. Having my less-than-perfect yard next door has been good for him. It’s taught him tolerance. Or maybe it’s just taught him to look the other way when he leaves his house.
Fred answered my knock. “Bread just came out of the oven,” he said and turned to head back to the kitchen.
Is there anything that smells better than freshly-baked bread? Okay, maybe my freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, but bread’s a close second.
I followed the aroma and Fred’s tall, lanky frame through his shadowed living room to his kitchen with its wall of windows looking out on a forest of trees in his back yard. Those are the only windows in his house not covered by blinds. Of course, the trees create an effective curtain of greenery. Fred does not suffer from claustrophobia.
He busied himself at the stove, and I sat down at his glass-topped table that, like the wire-framed glasses he wears, never gets smudged. With his white hair—always immaculate, of course—I’d guess Fred’s age to be somewhere between forty and sixty. It’s hard to be more exact, and he’s not going to tell.
He served the beef concoction with a side of fresh asparagus, home-made bread with real butter and wine from a bottle with a cork in it instead of a screw top like I have at my house. Fred never does anything by half.
I took a bite of the beef. “This is wonderful.” Fortunately Fred’s culinary expertise doesn’t extend to chocolate. If it did, I’d have to kill him. There’s only room for one chocolatier in this town.
“Thank you,” Fred replied as he meticulously transferred every mushroom from his plate to mine.
“Not that I’m complaining about getting extra mushrooms, but why do you use them if you don’t like them?”
Fred looked at me as if I’d just asked why the sun always rose in the east. “I put them in because the recipe calls for them. I take them out because I don’t like them.”
It had been a stupid question.
“That guy who got killed, Rodney Bradford, he wanted to buy my house for a lot more money than it’s worth.”
“Uh huh.”
“How did you know that?”
Fred paused in the process of slathering butter on his bread. “You just told me.”
“Oh. Well, why do you think he made that offer?”
Fred ate a bite of beef, a bite of bread and a bite of asparagus. “I have no idea,” he finally said. “Do you?”
I sipped the rich red wine from a cut-crystal glass and shook my head. “Not really. Rick said the man’s grandparents used to live here, and he wanted the place for sentimental reasons. You knew the previous owners, didn’t you?”
“I moved in here a year before they left. You know a year isn’t time enough for me to develop a social relationship.”
I smiled. “Except with me.”
“You’re difficult to avoid. Besides, those people never offered me chocolate.”
“Nevertheless, I know how nosy you are. You’re bound to have noticed something. Did you ever meet their grandson?”
I waited while he ate another sequence of beef, bread and asparagus. “I believe I do remember a younger man coming to stay for a few weeks. It could have been a grandson.”
“What did the guy look like?”
Fred shrugged. “I don’t recall a lot about him. Medium height, thin brown hair.”
The man could have gained weight, his hair could have gone gray and Fred, who stood well over six feet, probably had a different definition of medium height than I did. “Do you remember his name?”
“I don’t believe we were ever introduced.”
“I suppose it could be the same guy. Maybe he really did want my house for sentimental reasons. But even if that part’s true, I’d be willing to bet that Rick was up to something.”
“Or Bradford was up to something. He just got out of prison.”
“What?” I almost choked on a piece of potato from the beef concoction.
“I said, he just got out of prison.” Fred can be annoyingly literal.
“When?”
“Two months ago.” He calmly cut another slice of bread, the mundane act at odds with the information he’d just imparted.
“What was he in prison for?”
“Committing a crime.”
Not that literal. He was jacking with me. He does that a lot. “Any crime in particular?”
“Of course. They don’t send people to prison for nonspecific crimes.” He ate a few more bites, making me wait. I poked him with my fork.
“Patience, Lindsay,” he said. “You need to learn patience. Bradford served three years for burglary. Homeowner woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and caught Bradford heading out the door with the silverware. It was a house in Prairie Village over on the Kansas side. The silverware was the real thing. The homeowner chased him outside and got his license plate. The police found other stolen items in Bradford’s home, and the man went to prison.”
“I thought he looked like a criminal! Well, I thought he looked like a mobster. I guess I was giving him too much credit. So he was just a petty burglar.” I sipped my wine and contemplated the fact that Rick was involved with a convicted felon. Could I somehow use that knowledge against him, force him to sign the divorce papers by threatening to expose his friendship with a criminal?
Probably not. Considering the people he hung out with, nobody would care.
“It does give rise to the question of why a petty burglar wanted your house so badly,” Fred said.
That was a very good question. “Maybe he needed a place close to your house so he could know when you were gone, break in here and steal your old movies.” Fred had one entire room dedicated to movies, especially old movies. They’re organized by VCR tape vs. DVD, then, within those physical categories, all are in order by title and cross-referenced on a dedicated computer by actors and subjects. Did I mention he’s a little OCD?
“Maybe,” he said.
“Or maybe he planned to break into your house and hack into your computer and find out just what it is you do all day.” I was being sort of facetious, but not totally. It was possible that Rick’s felonious client wanted access to Fred’s house and Fred’s secrets. Those secrets could be valuable. That seemed much more likely than his wanting my house because his dear old grandmother once lived there.
Fred ate his last bite of beef and drank his last sip of wine. Of course they ended at the same time. “I doubt Bradford would be smart enough to do that.”
“He could be just a front man for somebody bigger, somebody who is smart enough.” Another thought occurred to me. “And rich enough. If Bradford was stealing silverware for a living, where did he get the money to make such an outrageous offer on my house?”
Fred set his glass on the table and nodded. “Valid point. Maybe the reason he wanted your house has something to do with the reason he was killed.”
“He was killed? When I talked to you a few minutes ago, you said you didn’t know how he died! Do you know something I don’t know?”
“I know lots of things you don’t know. Did you bring the chocolate?”
He knew I brought the chocolate. The plastic containers were sitting on his counter. He was trying to change the subject.
Rodney Bradford’s autopsy might not be complete yet. The cops might not know the cause of Bradford’s death, but I had a sick feeling we’d all soon hear that the man had been murdered.