Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 02 - Murder, Lies & Chocolate Read online

  Murder, Lies and Chocolate

  Copyright ©2012 Sally Berneathy.

  http://www.sallyberneathy.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental (except Fred and King Henry).

  Original cover art by fellow author and friend, Bob Moats, http://murdernovels.com

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  Real life Fred with the author

  Real life King Henry

  Chapter One

  “Are you out of your freaking mind? No, you cannot have my house.” I spoke the words through gritted teeth to keep myself from shouting since it was noon and my small restaurant, Death by Chocolate, was packed. I didn’t want my customers to hear me screaming at my almost-ex-husband. Might ruin their appetite for dessert. I had no doubt Rick deliberately chose that setting so I wouldn’t yell at him.

  “Lindsay, you’d have to be crazy to pass up a deal like this.” Rick leaned across the counter and gave me his most engaging, most insincere real estate salesman smile. “You’ll get almost twice what that old place is worth, and I’ll sign the divorce papers the minute you sign the Contract for Sale.”

  Rick knew how to work me. He’d convinced me to marry him in the first place and now he’d delayed our divorce for almost a year. Every time I got a court date, he got a continuance. I really, really wanted him to sign those papers and I certainly could have used the extra money, but I’ve learned not to trust a Rick bearing gifts. He was up to something. Had he discovered my house had oil under the basement? Was the railroad scheduled to come through? I was pretty sure those things only happened in old movies, but I was equally sure this deal would have some money in it for Rick, more than was in it for me.

  “Do you not see that I’m busy right now? Go away.” I turned to the man who’d taken a seat on the stool next to where Rick stood. “What can I get for you, sir? Our special today is a ham sandwich and a piece of Sinful Chocolate Cake.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Rick said. “I’m meeting my client here. Throw a little business your way. We’ll be at that table in the corner in case you change your mind. Give it some thought.” He smiled and winked as he walked across the room.

  Had I really once thought that smile was sexy?

  Paula Roberts, my best friend and co-worker, was waiting tables while I took care of the counter. That meant she’d have to deal with him. Not that I wished Rick on her, but better her than me. At least he was a good tipper, especially when he was with a client. The old impress.

  For the next hour I focused on serving sandwiches and chocolate goodies and tried to ignore Rick. I did notice that an older male joined him. Probably really was a real client. I’d expected him to bring in his latest bimbo. Excuse me…I mean, his latest girlfriend.

  The man was likely the client who wanted to buy my house since he and Rick kept looking at me.

  When Rick and I split up he moved his bimbo-of-the-month, Muffy, into the big home we once shared, and I moved into one of our small rental properties in the Kansas City suburb of Pleasant Grove. I wasn’t happy about it at the time, but I’d since become quite fond of that house. It has character and personality as well as great neighbors. Paula and her son, Zach, live on one side with my OCD computer nerd friend, Fred Sommers, on the other.

  True, with as much money as Rick was offering, I could buy the vacant house across the street and fix it up, thus retaining my neighbors. That was just one of the many reasons I didn’t trust the whole deal. Why would anybody offer that much more than the house was worth? I did not for one minute believe Rick’s story that his client’s grandparents had lived in the house and he wanted it for sentimental value. What a crock.

  The lunch crowd began to thin, and I noticed Rick and his client still sitting at the corner table. Across the room Paula cleared the dirty dishes off the table next to them and exchanged a raised-eyebrow look with me. I repressed a sigh as I handed the last lady at the bar a to-go bag with half a dozen gluten-free chocolate chip cookies. Rick was obviously planning to wait until everybody was gone then ambush me. He didn’t like not getting his way. That’s why our divorce was still pending. He didn’t want it, and if he didn’t want something, he’d figure a way to stop that something from happening.

  A few months before he had kicked Muffy out and decided he wanted me back in. By that time I’d recovered from the temporary insanity that had induced me to marry him in the first place and got a cat instead. That cat loves my house. Make that, our house. King Henry took ownership the day he moved in.

  The last customer left the counter. Besides Rick and his buddy, only one other table remained occupied. An older man and a younger woman sat there, nibbling on their cookies, talking softly and laughing. Probably married but not to each other.

  Paula took her load of dishes to the kitchen then returned to where I stood behind the cash register. After her evil ex-husband was sent to prison last fall, she quit coloring her blonde hair brown and came out of hiding, but she still wore her self-appointed uniform of long sleeves and ankle-length skirts to hide the scars he’d left. I’d worn the same uniform for a while to make her feel comfortable but had recently gone back to jeans and white shirts. I’d tripped on those long skirts too many times.

  “They didn’t order anything except desert, and Rick gave me a twenty dollar tip,” she said. “Watch your back.”

  “He wants my house.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “He made you take that house so he could keep the big one!”

  “Shhh. Here they come.”

  “I’ll just step into the kitchen and eavesdrop.” Paula vanished into the back room.

  “Lindsay, I’d like you to meet Rodney Bradford.”

  The tall man with gray hair, acne-scarred skin and dark eyes wore a business suit, but he didn’t look like a business person…more like a member of the mob cleaned up for trial. He gave me a big smile and extended a large hand across the counter. “Good to meet you, Lindsay.”

  I took his hand automatically. It was thick, hard and callused. He didn’t grip too tightly, didn’t hang on too long, didn’t do anything wrong, but something about him creeped me out. Maybe just because he was hanging with Rick. Or maybe it was something to do with the darkness that seemed to expand out from those eyes and surround the man.

  Nah, that was silly. Probably just because he was hanging with Rick.

  “Can we talk outside?” Bradford asked, his gaze shifting nervously around the restaurant, looking at the couple in the corner as if they might be spies.

  “No,” I said. “The acoustics are just fine in here. Feel free to speak.”

  “Lindsay.” Rick spoke my name as if it was a threat, but then he gave a big salesman smile. “Please?”

  I considered the situat
ion. Stand there and argue with a man whose ears were tuned to hear only his own words or go outside with the two of them, then run back inside and lock the door. “Fine.” I took a fortifying sip of my current Coke, set it on the counter and headed for the front door.

  Outside I led them away from the door but still in the shade of my awning. It was a hot day. I stopped in front of the sign painted on my window, positioning myself directly beneath the words Death by and obscuring most of the word Chocolate. I figured that would make a nice picture, though Bradford was probably too dense to get it and Rick was too self-consumed.

  “Rodney is interested in purchasing that little house you’re living in, the one you and I own,” Rick said, ramping up the wattage on his smile.

  Jerk. Reminding me the house was still community property, that we were still legally—no, I can’t say the “m” word when it relates to Rick. We were still legally bound.

  I smiled with the same degree of sincerity as he did. That would be…none. “You mean my home? I’m not interested in selling.”

  “It would mean a whole lot to me,” Rodney said. “My grandparents used to live there. That house has got sentimental value.” He paused, blinked and seemed confused for a second. Was this guy sick? His tanned skin did look kind of pallid. He swallowed, recovered and continued. “I used to visit them when I was a boy. Some of the best memories of my life. Now they’re—” He lowered his gaze, and this time his pause was deliberate. Con job. I’d seen Rick do it too many times not to recognize it. “They’re in heaven, and I’d just like to be able to go to that old house, sleep in my old room, sit on the porch like we used to and remember the good times.”

  I was sorry to hear the nice elderly couple Rick and I bought the house from was dead. They’d seemed healthy, looking forward to life in a retirement village. “The house across the street is for sale. You could buy it, get a pair of binoculars and sit on the porch every day looking at my house.”

  “Lindsay!” Rick exclaimed.

  Beads of sweat broke out on Rodney’s forehead. The temperature was in the 80s, but the shade was cool. Was my refusal freaking him out that bad? “I’ve got a little money,” he said. His voice suddenly sounded creaky. “I’ll pay you more than you’d get anywhere else just so I can have my dear old grandmother’s house.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not for sale. If you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to leave Paula with all the cleanup.”

  I took a step toward the door.

  Rodney cleared his throat. “Could I have a glass of water?”

  A stalling tactic. I sighed. “Sure.”

  I went inside.

  Paula had come back from the kitchen to stand beside the door. “Don’t sell him your house.”

  “Don’t worry.” I poured a glass of ice water and went back out, planning to hand it to the man then run inside while he was drinking.

  He raised his head to look at me. His skin was really pale and his eyes had a shiny cast to them. Maybe this was more than frustration at being thwarted. My cookies had nuts. I hoped he wasn’t allergic. If he went into anaphylactic shock and died, it wouldn’t be good publicity for the diner.

  He reached a hand toward the glass, his eyes rolled up in his head, he groaned and slowly crumpled to the sidewalk.

  “Did you bring a drunk man into my restaurant?” I demanded of Rick, hoping that’s what it was. I didn’t need my place to be quarantined for an outbreak of malaria or shut down because my cookies made somebody sick.

  Rick sank to the ground beside the man. Paula rushed out. The couple at the corner table stood and looked through the window. I held onto the glass of water as if it was a glass of Coke and prayed for a verdict of too many beers.

  “Call 911!” Rick shouted.

  I set the water on the sidewalk, fumbled in the pocket of my jeans for my cell phone and punched in the three ominous numbers.

  Paula rose, her face pale, her expression solemn. “Lindsay, he’s dead.”

  The couple exploded through the door and hauled butt out of there. They didn’t want to be seen on the ten o’clock news.

  This was worse than getting sick. Heart attack? Nut allergies? Please, not poisoned chocolate again! “You don’t know that he’s dead,” I snapped. “You thought your husband was dead just because you shot him, but he was still alive.”

  Rick stood. He’d lost his salesman’s smile. Damn. That did not bode well.

  Someone answered my phone call. “911. What is your emergency?”

  I swallowed and spoke into the phone. “I think I just killed a man. I mean…my cookies killed a man. I mean—”

  “He had the brownie,” Paula interrupted.

  I didn’t correct the 911 lady. Cookies or brownies, a man had just died after eating my dessert. Even if it was a good old-fashioned heart attack, death and desserts just don’t go well together.

  Chapter Two

  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 her, was safely behind prison bars. Mostly I was hanging 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 vise-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.

  “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 c
onversation 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, and he was eating chocolate with him. 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 red 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 irresponsible 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.