For a few moments I leaned against the door, steaming, until I heard Rick’s car drive away. Henry wound around my leg and purred loudly. Gradually my breathing slowed, and the anger went down a few notches. Amazing how a little feline affection can calm the nervous system.
I leaned over and lifted him into my arms, grateful for the comfort. He allowed me to cuddle him for a few seconds, then squirmed away and trotted off to the kitchen. I followed. He deserved a treat for threatening Rick.
I refilled Henry’s bowl of dry food then opened a can of tuna and gave him half. He purred and ate at the same time. The only thing he likes better than tuna is catnip. I considered some of that too but didn’t want a drunk watch cat if somebody really was trying to break into my house.
While Henry dined, I called Fred.
“Were you asleep?” I asked, suddenly realizing it was almost ten o’clock. Not that he’s ever been asleep any time I’ve called. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn he’s figured out a way to eliminate the need for sleep.
“No. Were you?”
“I wish. If I were, that would make this entire evening just a bad nightmare.” I told him about everything…my previous night’s adventure, Trent’s suspicions and Rick’s visit.
“Curious, this sudden interest in your house. It sat on the market for several months before you bought it, and you haven’t made any significant improvements since then.”
“Hey! You don’t need to be rude.”
“I’m just being factual.”
“Maybe I have buried treasure in the basement and somebody found the secret map.”
“That’s not likely.”
“Then why is my house suddenly such a hot property?”
“It’s not your landscaping.”
“For your information, the CIA called just the other day wanting to use my yard to train their jungle operatives.”
“I hope you said no. Let the CIA in, and the whole neighborhood goes downhill.”
I never know for sure when he’s kidding.
“Would you see what you can find out about the people we bought this house from, Rodney’s grandparents? Where they went from here, how they died, that sort of thing. I think their name was Murray. They seemed like really nice, normal people, but maybe they were eccentric and buried a fortune in the furnace room in the basement.”
“That’s extremely unlikely, but even if they did, how would I find out anything about it?”
“I’ll make you your very own fresh-out-of-the-oven triple chocolate chip cookies with chopped hazelnuts if you’ll find out what the heck is going on with my house.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”
I assumed he was going to hang up without saying good-bye, as he’s prone to do, and had my own receiver halfway to the phone when I heard him speaking again.
“Lock the door to your basement tonight.”
If everybody was trying to comfort and reassure me about my safety, they were all doing a pretty lousy job of it. “So you think it was a person, not a mouse, in my basement last night?”
“Probably a mouse.”
“Then why should I lock my door?”
“You want mice in your house?”
He hung up.
Like I said, I never know if he’s being serious or kidding.
I locked the basement door then set a kitchen chair under the knob. Can’t be too careful when you’re dealing with mice.
***
Paula told me the next morning that we had made the ten o’clock news. They’d featured some great pictures of the cops being interviewed with my sign in full view. The reporter had mentioned that the dead man’s final act before collapsing on the sidewalk had been to eat dessert at “a local restaurant, Death by Chocolate. Appropriate name.”
I considered the possibilities…prepare small quantities of everything and pretend all was normal or go with the flow. I chose the latter and made brownies with nuts, dark chocolate chips, semi-sweet chocolate chips and white chocolate chips then layered on thick chocolate frosting and called our special dessert of the day Killer Chocolate.
I made the right choice. We had a big crowd for breakfast and a huge crowd for lunch. Everyone wanted to know what dessert the murdered man had eaten. I finally drew a line through Killer Chocolate and wrote above it Murdered Man’s Brownies. Okay, it was a little macabre, but we sold out. It’s not my fault if people are strange. I don’t judge. I just feed them chocolate.
I arrived home around 3:00 exhausted but happy. The shop was thriving in spite of The Incident, I’d had no more night time visitors, and I was no worse off than before with regard to my divorce.
I refilled Henry’s bowl and caved in to his demands for more tuna. The can was already open and I wasn’t going to eat any of it. “Maybe we’ll have catnip tonight,” I promised, “since you don’t need to be on guard.”
The phone rang. It was Fred. “We’re going to visit the Murrays,” he said.
“At the cemetery?”
“No, at Summerdale Retirement Village.”
“They’re not dead?” I sank onto a wooden chair at my kitchen table. I shouldn’t be surprised to find no morsel of truth in anything Rick told me.
“Not even close. They’ve been on the golf course this afternoon and there’s a dance at the Village Center tonight, but they can squeeze in a couple of hours if we hurry.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I didn’t tell them their grandson died after eating at your restaurant, nor did I tell them you think there’s buried treasure in the basement. I simply told them you’d moved into the place and would like to visit with them about a couple of things.”
“And they agreed?”
“Without hesitation. They remember you and thought you were a lovely person. That’s Mrs. Murray’s word, not mine.”
Suddenly I felt a little silly. “What are we going to talk about if I can’t ask her about the pirate gold in the basement?”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t ask her. I just said I didn’t mention it. I think this is a good place to start figuring out what Rick wants with your house. I’d suggest cookies as a conversation starter.”
“For the Murrays or you?”
“All of us.” He hung up.
Fortunately I had a few chocolate chip cookies from the day before. I hoped the Murrays weren’t allergic to nuts or gluten.
***
We drove across town to Summerdale Retirement Village in Fred’s pristine white 1968 Mercedes. Although he doesn’t like to let anyone ride in his special car, he hates even more to ride in mine which is generally messy and has me for a driver. He claims my driving gives him a heart attack. He only rode with me one time, and he survived just fine, though he did crawl out and cross himself as soon as I stopped.
“You drive too slow,” I told him, just to keep things even. “It makes me crazy.”
“I’m going exactly the speed limit.”
“That’s pretty much what I said.”
The grounds of Summerdale were green and well-tended with lots of trees and open areas around the one-story tidy beige buildings trimmed in white. Fred drove without hesitation through the winding streets of the complex to Building 14, Unit C. I think somewhere in his past he had a GPS chip implanted in his brain, though I’m sure he reprogrammed it to delete that annoying recalculating woman.
Unit C was small but bright and immaculate, and Mr. and Mrs. Murray were just as I remembered them. She was short with snow white hair curling gently around a pink-cheeked, cheerful face. He was taller than she though not a lot and had twinkling blue eyes behind thick glasses and a full head of the same white hair as his wife. I suppose age is the great equalizer of hair color.
We shook hands all around.
“Can I get you something to drink? I just made a fresh pot of coffee and a pitcher of iced tea.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d love a glass of tea, and Fred would like coffee. I brought you some cookies.”
“Why, thank you! Did you ever open that chocolate bakery you were talking about?”
Nothing wrong with her memory.
“I did.” I started to mention the name of my place but didn’t want to open the conversation with the fact that her grandson died at my restaurant.
“Good for you. I’ll be right back with those drinks.”
“Have a seat,” Mr. Murray invited.
Fred and I sat on the muted mauve sofa, and Mr. Murray took one of the matching chairs. The room had a feeling of serenity, or maybe it was just the occupants of the room. I could see no resemblance between the Murrays and Rodney Bradford. He must have taken after his father’s side of the family.
“You’re not the same young man we met before,” Murray said, studying Fred through the thick lenses of his glasses.
“No, this is my neighbor. You met my ex-husband, Rick.”
Murray arched a shaggy white eyebrow. “Ex? Good decision. I didn’t much like that guy. Seemed sneaky.”
I laughed. “You’re perceptive. He is sneaky.”
Mrs. Murray returned from the kitchen with a tray holding a plate with the cookies, three cups of coffee and one Coke. She set the tray on the coffee table and smiled at me. “I remembered you liked Coca-Cola so I brought one instead of iced tea. I can change it if you’d like.”
“No, Coke is great. Thank you.” Definitely no senility happening there.
She handed her husband a cup of coffee and a cookie then settled in the other armchair with her own drink and snack.
“So you’re living in our old house,” she said. “Oh, my, this cookie is delicious! You need to tell me where your bakery is so I can come there. Isn’t this the best cookie you’ve ever eaten, Harold?”
“Good, but not better than yours, sweet-pea.” He grinned and winked at me.
Cathy rolled her eyes, but she smiled.
“Yes,” I said, wanting to avoid the subject of the name of my restaurant as long as possible, “I’m living in your old house, and I just love it.”
“She’s divorcing that sneaky guy,” Harold supplied.
“Good. I like this one much better.”
“Oh, no, Fred’s not…he’s my friend, my neighbor. You lived next door to him for about a year.”
“Of course! You’re the one with the closed curtains.”
“I am. I don’t go outside often.”
“You should. You’re much too pale. Sunshine’s good for you. Harold and I go bicycling and play golf, and in the winter we go to Texas for a few months.”
“Chasing the sunshine,” Harold said. “Feels good on these old bones.”
A moment of silence ensued. The proprieties had been observed. It was time to get down to the reason for our visit.
“Did you have a key for that big padlock on the coal chute door?” I asked.
“Why, yes, I’m sure we did. We put that lock on when we moved in. We were worried someone could come inside that way. Didn’t we give you that key with the others when we closed on the house?”
“I’m sure you did. Rick didn’t pass it on to me, but that’s okay. I have no need to unlock it. Haven’t had any coal deliveries in a while.”
Harold and Cathy both laughed but looked a little puzzled at the turn the conversation had taken.
Fred set his cup on the coffee table. He had a look about him that said he was going to say something momentous. “We were very sorry to hear about your grandson.”
The loudest silence I ever heard filled every inch of that cheerful little room.
Cathy looked at Harold.
Harold looked at Cathy.
They appeared to be upset but not grief-stricken.
“How did you hear about our grandson?” Cathy asked quietly.
I clutched my Coke tightly. “I’m so sorry! He was killed outside my restaurant.”
The Murrays exchanged looks again.
“George isn’t dead,” Harold said.
“George? Who’s George? I’m talking about Rodney.”
“Who’s Rodney?”
We all sat and looked at each other for a few long moments.
“Could your grandson have been using an assumed name?” Fred asked.
Cathy shifted in her chair, looked at her hands in her lap, then finally lifted her chin. “Our grandson used a lot of assumed names, but now he only has a name and number. He’s in prison and will be for another eight years. Well, maybe less with good behavior, and he is a good boy.”