Heartbreaker (Buchanan-Renard #1)

Heartbreaker (Buchanan-Renard #1) Page 22

Before he could answer her, she blurted, “Every time I go into the bedroom, he could be watching.”

He put his hand on her knee. “We want him to be watching. This is a great opportunity to push him. You and I are going to be getting hot and heavy in front of the camera.”

“Yes, I know what the plan is.”

She wasn’t getting cold feet, but she could feel her resolve slipping away. Her life had turned into one of those surreal movies where nothing was as it appeared, where everything that looked benign and innocent was only a mask hiding something sinister. Her charming little house looked inviting, but he had been inside, and there was a camera focused on her bed.

“Are you ready to go in?”

Her nod was brisk.

Nick could see her anxiety and decided to try to take her mind off the moment. As he opened his door, he said, “Holy Oaks is a pretty town, but I’d still go crazy living here. Where’s the traffic? Where’s the noise?”

She knew what he was doing. He was helping her cope. He could tell when she was getting overloaded, she realized, and that was when he lightened the conversation.

She opened her door and got out. “You like traffic and noise?”

“It’s what I’m used to,” he replied. They were looking at each other over the top of the car. “You don’t get a lot of road rage here, do you?”

“Sure we do. When the sheriff’s son, Lonnie, goes joyriding with his friends, a lot of people would love to ram his car into a gully. He’s a menace, and his father isn’t going to do anything about it.”

“The local thug, huh?”

“Yes.”

She reached back into the car to get her purse while Nick surveyed the neighborhood. There was a big oak in the front yard, almost identical in size to the oak in the neighbor’s yard on the corner. On the other side of the white, two-story house was an empty lot. At the end of the long drive was an unattached garage, which meant that when she put her car away, she had to walk to the back door. The two houses were close together, and there were trees and overgrown shrubs all along the sides—too many places for a man to hide. He also noticed there weren’t any outside lights on the house or the garage.

“A burglar’s paradise,” he remarked. “Too many concealed areas.”

“I’ve got a porch light.”

“That’s not enough.”

“There are a lot of people here who don’t ever lock their doors, even when they go to bed at night. It’s a small town and everyone feels safe.”

“Yeah, well, you’re locking your doors.”

“Yoo-hoo, Laurant. You’re home.”

Nick turned as a white-haired old lady wearing a bright purple dress with a wide lace collar opened her screen door and stepped out onto her porch. She was clutching a white lace handkerchief in her hand. She appeared to be around eighty years old and was as thin as a lightning rod.

“We had some excitement while you were away.”

“You did?” Laurant called back. She went to her neighbor’s picket fence and waited to hear what happened.

“Don’t make me shout, dear,” Bessie Jean gently chided. “Come over here and bring that young man with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She wants to know who you are,” she whispered.

Nick grabbed Laurant’s hand and whispered back, “Show time.”

“Lovey-dovey stuff ?”

“You got that right, babe.” And with that, he leaned down and lightly kissed her.

Bessie Jean Vanderman stood on her porch, taking it all in. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as she watched the smiling couple.

The picket fence ran the perimeter of the front yard. Nick let go of Laurant’s hand to open the gate. As he followed her down the cement walk and up the stairs to the porch, he noticed another elderly woman peeking out at him through the screen. It was dark inside the house and the woman’s face was cast in shadows.

“What was the excitement?” Laurant asked.

“A hooligan broke into your house.” Bessie Jean lowered her voice, as if sharing a confidence, and leaned toward Laurant. “I called the sheriff and demanded that he come right over and investigate. I don’t believe there were any arrests made. The sheriff left the hooligan inside and went running to his car. That was certainly a sight to see. He didn’t have the good manners to come and tell me what was happening. You’d best see if anything’s missing.” She straightened up and backed away to get a full view of Nick. “Now who is this handsome man standing so close to you? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him in Holy Oaks before.”

Laurant quickly made the introductions, but Bessie Jean Vanderman took her time sizing him up. This one doesn’t miss a thing, he thought, spotting the shrewdness in her clear green eyes.

“And what is it you do, Mr. Buchanan?”

“I’m with the FBI, ma’am.”

Bessie Jean’s hand flew to her throat. She appeared startled for about two seconds, then recovered. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’d like to see your badge, young man.”

Nick produced his identification and handed it to her. She gave the badge only a cursory glance before handing it back.

“You took your sweet time.”

“Excuse me?”

The criticism was there in her brisk tone when she responded, “Sister and I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Nick didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about, and he could tell from Laurant’s puzzled expression that she didn’t have a clue either.

Bessie Jean pulled the screen door open. “I don’t see any reason to waste any more time. Come on inside and you can get started investigating.”

“What exactly is it that you want me to investigate?” he asked as he followed Laurant.

Bessie Jean’s sister was waiting for them. Laurant again made the introductions. Viola took off her glasses and tucked them in the pocket of her apron as she came forward to shake his hand. She was shorter, rounder, and a much softer version of her sister.

“We waited and waited,” she said. She patted Nick’s hand before she let go. “I’d almost given up on you, but Bessie Jean never lost faith. She was just certain her letter was misplaced, and that’s why she wrote another one.”

“It’s not like the FBI to drag their feet,” Bessie Jean said. “That’s why I knew my letter must have been lost in the mail. I wrote a second letter then, and when I still didn’t hear—”

“She wrote to the director himself,” Viola explained.

Bessie Jean led the way into the living room. It was cool and dark and smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. One of them had been doing some baking, and his stomach rumbled in response. He was hungrier than he’d realized.

Dinner would have to wait. It took his eyes a second to adjust to the darkness, then Viola opened the front window curtains, and he was squinting again. The room was cluttered with antiques. Directly ahead of him was the fireplace. The mantel was lined with candles, and above was a huge oil painting of a gray-haired dog sitting on a burgundy cushion. The animal appeared to be cross-eyed.

Bessie Jean ushered Nick and Laurant to the Victorian sofa, then removed the needlepoint pillow from the wicker rocker and sat down, crossing one ankle over the other as she’d been trained to do by her mother. Her posture was so stiff, she could have balanced a couple of encyclopedias on her head.

“Get your pad out, dear,” she ordered.

Nick barely heard her. His attention had been arrested by all the photos cluttering the tables and the walls. The subject was the same in every one of the silver frames—the dog—a schnauzer he guessed, or maybe a mixed breed.

Laurant touched his arm to get his attention and said, “Bessie Jean and Viola wrote to the FBI for help in solving a mystery.”

“Not a mystery, dear,” Viola corrected. “We know exactly what happened.” She was sitting in a big floral print easy chair and was busy repinning the doily on one of the arms.

“Yes, we know what happened,” Bessie Jean agreed with a nod.

“Why don’t you give him the particulars, Sister.”

“He doesn’t have his pad and pen out yet.”

Viola got up and went into the dining room while Nick patted his pockets, looking for a pad he knew he didn’t have. It was in the car with his folders.

The sister came back with a pink notebook about the size of a pocket calculator and a pink pen with a purple feather sticking out from the end.

“You may use this,” she said.

“Thank you. Now tell me what this is all about?”

“The director was remiss in not telling you what your assignment was,” Bessie Jean said. “You’re here to investigate a murder.”

“Excuse me?”

Bessie Jean patiently repeated her announcement. Viola nodded. “Someone murdered Daddy.”

“Daddy was a family pet,” Laurant explained with a nod toward the oil painting looming over them.

“Daddy was named after our daddy, the colonel,” Viola added.

To his credit, Nick didn’t smile. “I see.”

“We demand justice,” Viola told him

Bessie Jean was frowning at Nick. “Young man, I don’t mean to criticize . . .”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I’ve just never heard of a law officer not having a pad and pen. That gun clipped to your belt is loaded, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is.”

Bessie Jean was satisfied. Having a gun was important in her opinion because, once he caught the culprit, he might very well have to shoot him.

“Have the local authorities looked into the matter?” Nick asked.

“Not a matter, dear. It was murder,” Viola corrected.

“We called Sheriff L.A. right away, but he won’t do anything to help us find the criminal,” Bessie Jean explained.

Viola, wishing to be helpful, interjected, “That’s Lard Ass, dear. Now write it down.”

Nick couldn’t decide which was more jarring—a pet named Daddy or a sweet old lady using the words lard ass.

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”

Bessie Jean gave her sister a relieved glance and then began. “We believe Daddy was poisoned, but we can’t be absolutely certain. We kept him chained to the big oak in the front yard off and on during the day and sometimes into the evening on bingo night so he could take in the fresh air.”

“We have a fence, but Daddy could jump it, so we had to use the chain,” Viola explained. “Are you writing that down, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Daddy was in the best of health,” Bessie Jean told him.

“He was only ten and in his prime,” Viola supplied.

“His water bowl was completely turned over,” Bessie Jean said as she rocked back and forth, fanning herself with her handkerchief.

“And Daddy could never have managed to turn that bowl over, because it was weighted down so he couldn’t.”

Bessie Jean nodded again. “That’s right. Daddy was clever, but he couldn’t get his nose under that bowl.”

“Someone had to have turned the bowl over,” Viola said emphatically.

“We think poison was added to his water, and then after poor Daddy took a big drink, the culprit got rid of the evidence.”

“We know how he got rid of it too,” Viola announced. “He threw the poisoned water into my impatiens,” Viola said. “He killed my beautiful flowers. They were in glorious bloom one day and shriveled up and brown the next. They looked like someone had poured acid on them.”

A bell started ringing in the back of the house. Viola struggled to get out of the chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get my buns out of the oven. Could I get you anything while I’m up?”

“No, thank you,” Laurant said.

Nick was busy writing on his pad. He looked up and said, “I could use a glass of water.”

“We often take a gin and tonic in an evening,” Viola said. “It’s quite refreshing on such hot humid days. Would you like one?”

“Water will do,” he answered.

“He’s on duty, Sister. He can’t drink.”

Nick didn’t contradict her. He finished making a note to himself and then asked, “Did the dog bark at strangers?”

“Oh my, yes,” Bessie Jean answered. “He was a wonderful watch-dog. He was quite persnickety about letting strangers get near the house. He barked at everyone. Why, he took exception to anyone who walked down the street.”

The topic of the dog was obviously still distressing to Bessie Jean. As she talked about him, she gradually increased the pace of her rocking. Nick half expected her to fling herself out of the chair.

“There are some strangers in town now, working up at the abbey. Three men moved into the old Morrison house across the street and are renting it while they’re here,” she said. “And two more moved in with the Nicholsons at the other end of the block.”

“Daddy wasn’t partial to any of them,” Viola interjected from the dining room. She carried a glass of ice water across the room to the coffee table and set it on a napkin she pulled from her pocket.

Nick was rapidly getting the idea that Daddy wasn’t partial to anyone.

“Those Catholics are always in such a rush,” Bessie Jean remarked. She had obviously forgotten that Laurant was Catholic and that her brother was a priest. “They’re an impatient lot if you ask me. They want to get the renovations completed on the abbey so it will be ready for the open house during the July Fourth celebration.”

“It’s the abbey’s anniversary celebration as well,” Viola said.

Bessie Jean realized they were getting away from the investigation. “We had the doctor put Daddy in the freezer so you could oversee the autopsy. Are you getting all this down on your pad?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am,” Nick assured her. “Please go on.”

“Just yesterday I received a bill from the doctor for cremation services. I was thunderstruck, and I called him up right away. I was certain there had been a mistake.”

“The dog was cremated?”

Bessie Jean dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief and then began to fan herself again. “Yes, he was. The doctor told me that my nephew had called him and told him we’d changed our minds and to go ahead and cremate poor Daddy.”