One Hot Mess Read online

  The house was as cute as a Cabbage Patch Kid. Carefully framed period photographs graced the entry. The walls of the kitchen were papered with tiny rows of flowers. Geraniums bloomed in the window above the sink.

  The woman with the chestnut hair sat sprawled on a slat-back chair near the table, face blank, hand wrapped around a coffee mug.

  “You take yours black?” she asked.

  It took me a minute to catch up, but when I did I set the gun on the counter. “I don’t drink coffee,” I said.

  She glanced up as if startled from her sorrow. “Ever?”

  “Not unless it’s banned by the Diabetes Foundation.”

  The shadow of a grin crept across her haunted face. “Who sent you?”

  I pondered that for a second. “An old friend of hers asked me to look into her death.”

  “So you really didn’t know her?”

  I shook my head, and she laughed a little.

  “She always said I was too damn jealous, but she was so…” She drew a deep breath and gazed into the living room. The hardwood floor gleamed like honey. An untrimmed tree looked strangely naked against the bay window. “…so amazing. I told her I’d have to be crazy not to be jealous.”

  I don’t know why it took that long for the lightbulb to flash on, but it finally did. “So you were her…”

  She waited for me to finish the sentence. I floundered around like a beached mackerel for a couple of stupid lifetimes and finally came up with “… partner?”

  Her snort was neither ladylike nor polite. Standing up, she went to the coffeepot and refilled her mug. “God, that’s a stupid term. It sounds like we were in harness together. Kat and Queenie.” She chuckled. “Not bad names for draft horses.”

  She was babbling.

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t—” I began lamely, but she was waving it off.

  “It’s all right. No one could figure out what to call us, even if they knew. And hardly anybody knew.” She was gazing past the geraniums through the spotless window.

  “Why not?”

  “‘Cuz of Shithead.”

  “Her… ex?” I guessed.

  Taking a long plastic container from the refrigerator, she removed the cover and set it in front of me. Rows of shortbread stared back at me.

  “Who’s the friend?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry?” I said, startled from my observation of the cookies. Shortbread’s almost good enough to turn me Scottish.

  “The friend who sent you—who is it?” she asked.

  I didn’t know how much to say, but she had been kind enough to refrain from shooting me. “His name’s Miguel.”

  She took a cookie, sat back down, and nodded as she ate. “Do you think I’m psychotic?”

  “What?”

  “I’m relieved that it’s a man.” She sighed. “You’re a shrink, right? Does that make me psycho? That I still care even…” Her voice watered up. She cleared her throat.

  “I think you’ve been through a terrible shock.” When in doubt, spout gibberish.

  She nodded again, jerkily. “The neighbor found her. Should have been me. I should have been around when she was in the shop, but she was usually so careful. Wore a face mask. Kept the blade shields in place.” She winced, fighting tears.

  “Were the shields still in place?”

  She cleared her throat. “No. She must have been having trouble with the saw again. Must have thought she could fix it herself. Could…” Her voice broke. She fought for control and won. “I should have been here, but she … she didn’t want to live together. Said her daughter wouldn’t understand. But it was really because of Shithead.”

  “Her ex.” It would be nice to have one solid answer.

  She nodded.

  “Was he causing her trouble?”

  “He used to—you know, name-calling, lots of yelling. But things have been quieter lately. She said she wanted to keep it that way, for Jess. Didn’t want to cause a scandal. Like this is the Middle Ages or something.” She winced. “Kat hated confrontations.”

  While this woman had no qualms about pointing a gun at a perfectly nice, if somewhat deranged, stranger. Love’s funny.

  “How long had you and…” I paused, stumbling over the words again.

  “We were lovers,” she said.

  “Of course. Yes.” Geez, I was a trained professional. And an adult. And generally not retarded. “How long were you lovers?”

  “Six years.”

  Wow. And I thought it something of a wonder that Harlequin and I were still together after a few months.

  “I wanted to get married. Skip off to Vancouver and make it official, but she thought the announcement might show up in the paper. I told her if she loved me she’d do it. But I know she loved me.” Her brow wrinkled. “I know it.”

  Doubt showed in her eyes. I wondered, perhaps uncharitably, if she had doubted enough to kill.

  “So her relationship with her ex was pretty serene?”

  “Nothing overt, but he always resented the fact that she’d ruined his perfect life.”

  “How so?”

  “They were the ideal family. Him a”—she made quotes in the air with her fingers—”real estate tycoon. She the perfect wife, the perfect mother. Then she ups and files for divorce.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Seven years. The town was abuzz.”

  “Did you know her then?”

  “I’m from Frisco. Just moved here after Crazy Bet.”

  “Bet?”

  “My ex.”

  I nodded, wondering about Bet’s gender but managing to keep my curiosity to myself.

  The kitchen went quiet. The cookies watched me. The gun did the same.

  I screwed up my nerve. “Do you think her ex-husband was somehow involved in her death?” I asked.

  She stared through me. Tension bloomed like Canadian thistles. Her lips twisted up in a smile, her eyes narrowed. “God, I’d love to see him swing.” She said the words through gritted teeth with enough venom to make my skin crawl, but finally she drew a breath and focused on me as if just remembering I was there. “No,” she said. “It was bad luck. Just dumb, bad luck.”

  9

  He’s just a flash in the pants.

  —The Magnificent Mandy,

  whose quotes were

  sometimes more confusing

  than magnificent

  HAD RARELY SEEN more vitriol stamped on another’s face, and yet Queenie had been certain her lovers death was an accident. Why? Had Kathy had some sort of medical condition that made such an incident more likely? Or was Queenie simply unable to consider anything more heinous?

  Questions roamed around in my head as I pulled away from the big Victorian. I told myself to head home, to let it go, but I found myself, instead, at a McDonalds. A sign on the door spoke of employment opportunities and promised to build the leaders of tomorrow.

  Harley and I shared a Big Mac. I ate most of it; I’ve seen Super Size Me and try to be a responsible mom. But he was still hungry after the burger, so we decided to share a cone. “Hey,” I said to the leader of tomorrow who was slumped behind the counter. I was banking on the fact that smalltown folk would be acquainted with one another. “Do you happen to know where Kathy Baltimore lives? I ordered a chair from her a couple months ago and was hoping to pick it up today.”

  I was blindly fishing for information, but she just stared at me with all the energy of a catatonic loggerhead and shrugged. Tomorrow, I decided, was in big-ass trouble.

  I returned to my Saturn, where Harley and I continued our lunch. I ate the ice cream. He had the cone. Neither of us ate the paper wrapper.

  After our meal, we turned toward home, but I couldn’t quite force myself to leave town. Instead, I stopped at a little shop called Flower Power. I roamed amongst the greenery and fake rocks for a while, wishing my thumb wasn’t as black as a politician’s soul, until a gray-haired lady with appropriate-size hips finally ran me to ground. />
  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Ummm, yes, how much is this…” I pointed to the nearest plant but couldn’t think of a word for it.

  “That’s a dracaena,” she said.

  “That’s right,” I agreed, and nodded judiciously. “It’d look just perfect on the oak stand I ordered from Kathy Baltimore.”

  Her face froze. “I hope somebody already told you.”

  I gave her my Oscar-winning blink. “Told me what?”

  “Kathy passed away just a few days ago.”

  “No!”

  “I’m sorry. Did you know her well?”

  “Not at all. I’d just ordered the one piece from her.”

  “It was a terrible shock for everyone.”

  “How awful.”

  “It was. A terrible tragedy. She was such a lovely woman. Had a beautiful house on Parsley Street. Fixed it up herself. Filled it to brimming with geraniums and old turn-of-the-century photographs.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Well, you know she had the shop.”

  I nodded.

  “They said she fell into her saw. Just passed out and all of a sudden toppled forward.”

  “Oh God.”

  She shuddered. “It makes me just sick to think about it. Fran says there was blood everywhere.”

  “Fran?”

  “A neighbor.”

  “Don’t tell me she found her.”

  “Oh, no. Eldred Ernst found her. He lives next door to her. Said the saw had been running for a week. Probably went to complain. Eldred’s…” She shook her head. “Well… I don’t like to speak poorly of anyone.”

  “So she was dead when he found her?”

  “Oh, my, yes.”

  “When was that?”

  “Tuesday night. I didn’t find out until Wednesday morning.”

  “And the saw had been running for a week?”

  “That’s what Eldred said, but he’s such a… Well, I don’t like to bad-mouth anyone, but he once called the police because Maxie ran through his yard. Called the police. Said Maxie was a menace.”

  “And Maxie is …”

  “My schnauzer. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “So how long had the saw really been running?”

  “I can’t say” she said. “But it’s a terrible shame. A terrible shame.”

  I moved on. Everyone I met agreed it was a terrible shame, except tomorrow’s leaders, of course, who were catatonic.

  Remembering Queenie’s words about Kathy’s marriage, I looked in the housing section of the local paper. Kevin Baltimore, real estate tycoon and shithead, had four properties listed. I circled the picture of a humble little split level and drove to his office.

  It was easy as tinkling to talk his secretary into letting me meet with him.

  “Ms. Ankeny” he said, arm extended, a hundred teeth gleaming as he hurried across the floor. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He was fifty pounds overweight, as heavy in his face as he was in his belly, and smiling like a picket fence. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  If he was mourning his ex-wife, I’d have to give up my Oscar. “Mrs.,” I corrected.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s Mrs. Ankeny,” I said.

  “Ahh, so you and your husband are looking to buy in our area.”

  “Considering it,” I said.

  “Great. Well, you’ll love Edmond Park. It’s very peaceful here.”

  “That’s what we thought,” I said, “but I heard there was a murder.”

  “A murder!” He drew back, appalled.

  “I was told a woman was killed in her home just the other day.”

  He stared at me a moment, then shook his head. “You must be talking about Kathleen?”

  “I’m not sure what her name was. They said she was working in her wood shop and—”

  “No, no. That was just an accident,” he said. “She passed out, landed on her saw. It was a terrible thing. But just an accident.”

  “Passed out? Did she have some sort of medical condition or—”

  “No.” He was shaking his head. “Not that I know of, that is, but they think her heart stopped.”

  “How awful.”

  “A terrible tragedy.”

  I almost mouthed the words with him.

  “But, as I said, it was just an unfortunate accident. Our little town is as peaceful as Mayberry.”

  I tried a few more questions, but he kept steering the conversation back to real estate. By the time I squeaked out of there, I was considering buying a little fixer-upper near the golf course. The man could have sold dentures to crocodiles.

  My last stop before leaving town was the police station. I walked in, mind spinning.

  An officer in uniform straightened from his conversation with a woman twice his age. She was laughing as if his stellar wit was surpassed only by his good looks, and I could see why. He was pretty. Six-one in his stocking feet, he had gold-blond hair and a smile that had probably kept his mother fretful for most of sixteen years. I casually checked his left ring finger. It was notably nude.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I hope so. I was wondering if I might get a little bit of information.”

  “Regarding?”

  I considered lying. But sometimes cops take offense to creative fabrications. I’ve learned that the hard way.

  “It’s of a private nature,” I said.

  He looked interested. His secretary looked like she’d hatch an egg to know. The trip to his office was short, appropriate for the size of the entire building. His office was simple, tidy, small. A metal desk occupied the majority of the space.

  “I’m Officer Tavis.” He had traditional Celtic good looks. Sparkling eyes. Dimples. The kind you read about in those lovely smut novels where the women look orgasmic even precoital. Slap him in a truncated kilt and he could be the Highland Rogue himself. “What can I help you with, Ms….”

  Again I debated lying. But maybe I’m learning.

  “McMullen,” I said.

  “Is that Scottish?”

  “Irish.”

  He shook his head and tsked. “Ahh… I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I carry on as best I can.”

  He laughed. It was a nice sound, soothing, honest. If he had sported a wee bit of a burr in his speech, I would have taken him down right there and then. “What can I help you with, Ms. McMullen?”

  I took a deep breath and jumped. “I was hoping you could tell me about Kathleen Baltimore’s death.”

  “You a friend of hers?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  He nodded. “Want some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He poured himself a cup and sat down. “A relative?”

  “No.”

  “Then I feel compelled to inquire about your interest in her death.”

  “I’m looking into it for a friend.”

  “And your friends name?”

  I paused. Honesty is all well and good, but you don’t want to take it too far. “I think he’d rather I didn’t divulge that information at this time.”

  He didn’t comment. “Are you a private investigator, Ms. McMullen?”

  “I’m a psychologist.”

  “Really?” He canted his head and smiled a little. I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or flattered.

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you practice?”

  “L.A.”

  “Yeah? They as crazy as we like to believe?”

  I considered that a minute. “Probably.”

  He laughed. “What can I tell you?”

  The question floored me. If I had wandered into Rivera’s office asking questions about a case, he probably would have had me interrogated, handcuffed, and strip-searched by now. I opened my mouth but failed to speak.

  “We don’t have a lot to hide here in Edmond Park,” he explained, apparently unsurprised by my surprise.


  “So you don’t think she was murdered?”

  His brows raised a little, but that was the extent of his dramatics. “Do you have some reason to believe she was?”

  “Like I said, I’m just checking into it for a friend.”

  “Whose name you don’t wish to divulge.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well…” He smiled and stood up. “In the hopes of making your friend believe we’re not just a bunch of booger-flicking hicks, I’ll say this: There was no sign of a struggle. Ms. Baltimore wasn’t an Amazon, but she was fit. Took jujitsu classes from Carl Franken on Tuesdays and Thursdays. There was no blood but her own at the scene. I had it tested. No flesh under her fingernails. No spare hairs that the sweepers could find.”

  “Fingerprints?” I was grasping at straws. I had no idea what I was talking about.

  “There were other fingerprints, of course, but none that came up suspicious.”

  “Which means what? That whoever was in her workshop hadn’t been convicted of a previous crime?”

  “Hasn’t been accused. Can I ask what your friend’s interest is in Ms. Baltimore?”

  “You are an officer of the law,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s right.” He grinned. “Then you’d best tell me before I get out the thumbscrews.”

  “Thumbscrews?” I said.

  “We’re not against progress here in Edmond Park, but we don’t want to rush into anything,” he said.

  “He worked with her years ago,” I said.

  “He?”

  “As I said, I don’t think it prudent to mention his name.”

  He nodded. “But your friend’s a man.”

  “I know several,” I said.

  He laughed. “I was just curious.”

  I studied him for a second. Something told me he might not be quite as retiring as he seemed. “Because Ms. Baltimore was a lesbian?”

  He watched me a little closer. “So you know that.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Not everyone does,” he said.

  “So I’m told.”

  “By whom? Or is that classified, too?”

  “I spoke with Queenie.”

  He nodded, saying nothing.

  “Was it monogamous, do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Ask any citizen in this town, ninety-nine out of a hundred will tell you Kathy Baltimore was as straight as a T square.”

  “Are there a hundred citizens?”