Dead Man Stalking (Barbara Marr Murder Mystery Series Book 5) Page 2

I stared at my own dull face on the video display of my phone while it rang Howard. I studied my short, thin eyelashes. Without mascara, my lackluster eyes just disappeared into my boring, pale face. And my hair—it was a disaster. Over the summer it had grown out of control like the crazy azalea bush in our front yard. After four rings, I was getting sick of looking at myself and wondered if I really wanted Howard seeing me in this hideous state. I wondered too late, however, because Howard’s unsmiling face appeared on my screen before the fifth ring. His brown hair was wet and messy, and his eyes were at half-mast. I knew that look. He was tired and the shower hadn’t helped.

  “Hi there,” he said, a smile beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Good timing. Once I get dressed we’re heading out.”

  “So, you’re still naked, huh?” I asked, swooning as his eyes seemed a deeper brown than usual. “How’s Chicago?”

  The smile vanished. “Loud. Crowded. The beds are hard and the pillows feel like they’re stuffed with marbles.”

  I didn’t respond right away. I was looking for the tweak.

  “You’re looking for the tweak, aren’t you?” he growled.

  “I am not.”

  “You really don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not exactly that I don’t trust you...”

  “She’s not as good looking in person,” Colt shouted from somewhere in the background.

  “I don’t care,” I said unconvincingly. “Really. I don’t care.”

  Howard was silent.

  “Okay, I care a tiny bit. It’s not you that I don’t trust, it’s her. She’s never been married, and she’s our age. Maybe she’s been carrying a torch for you all of these years. And there she is with that triathlete body while here I am with three-baby flappy tummy skin that won’t go away after birthing your progeny. Next thing I know, she’ll steal you away. And that won’t be enough for her. Then she’ll lure my girls away, too, by lavishing them with sports cars and yachts and front row tickets to Justin Bieber concerts. And where will I be? Lonely and destitute on the corners of Cuckold Lane and Hanky-Panky Boulevard.”

  “I’m pretty sure the word cuckold refers to a man whose wife has cheated,” Howard informed me.

  “See,” I said, “you’ve obviously given this some thought.”

  “Is this why you called?”

  “No.” I tried to hide my pout. “I called to say I love you and the air conditioning died again.”

  “Did you check the thermostat to make sure it was on?”

  I love my husband, I really do. I just told him I loved him. But there are times when I just want to haul off and punch him in the kisser. This was one of those times. “Really, Howard?”

  “I guess that you did.”

  “You guessed correctly. See that sweat dripping from my brow? It’s ninety-five degrees outside and it feels like it’s two hundred in here and that’s with all of the fans running. What do you want me to do?”

  “I think we should try another technician,” he said. “This guy obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “What if we need another unit?” I asked. “How much is that going to cost?”

  “We don’t need another unit. Tell you what, I’ll have some free time later today. I’ll call around to some places.”

  “It’s sweltering in here,” I complained. “I’d like to get someone out here today. I’ll talk to the Perkins and ask them who they used. They were having problems last summer and they loved their guy.”

  “Okay. Just keep me in the loop.”

  “Hey, Curly,” Colt said, his face popping into view behind Howard’s shoulder. “Did you find those lottery tickets yet?” He nudged Howard out of the way. “What if we’re multi-millionaires? I have a little place in Key West all picked out. Has a boat slip and everything.”

  “I didn’t find them.” I sighed loudly. “Let’s face it, what are the chances that we’re the winners? Whoever won is probably just getting their ducks in a row.”

  “Or maybe you and Howie are playing me,” Colt said playfully. “You don’t want to split the six hundred million after all, and next week I’ll come to your house only to find out you’ve cashed it in and left me in the dust while you’re living it up in my Key West house.”

  “If we did that to you, we wouldn’t be buying your Key West house, silly, we’d be buying ten islands.”

  “Ten islands?” Howard pushed his face back into view. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

  I scowled at him. “Oh, would you just go find a different hotel with decent beds, please?”

  “The girls have been texting me,” he said, changing the subject. “Sounds like they’re having a good time.”

  “I know. I plan to video chat with them next. Then I’m going to Vikki Cleveland’s house to give her our condolences about her father.”

  “Be sure you include me in those condolences,” Colt said.

  “Don’t worry,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be sure to mention your name plenty.”

  Colt had a thing for Vikki, I could tell. Unfortunately, he’d just recently failed at another relationship. After that breakup, he had announced he was taking a one-year hiatus from women. Personally, I hadn’t believed he’d make it one day, much less one year, but so far he was at two months and counting. I would have lost money on that bet. The thing was, I really thought he and Vikki Cleveland would make a great couple. Like, marriage compatible. And I was pretty sure they both had eyes for each other, despite his vow. One day soon I was getting them on a date whether Colt realized it was a date or not.

  “One year,” Colt said. “One year.”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Listen, I need to go. I want to catch the girls before they get caught up in another day of sightseeing.”

  “We need to get going too,” Howard said. “We’ll talk later. Bye.”

  I began to frown, thinking that was going to be it, no expression of love or missing me. I almost yelled, but he redeemed himself.

  Those soft, dark chocolate eyes appeared back on the screen. He smiled at me. “I love you too, by the way. And I miss you.”

  My heart melted. “I miss you too.”

  “And do me one favor,” he added.

  “What?”

  “Don’t go snooping around that homicide scene at Rustic Woods Shopping Center.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “He’s been so worried about you,” Colt shouted from the background again, “that he downloaded a police scanner app on his phone. How crazy is that?”

  After a chat with the girls, my mother, and Mama Marr, I showered, fed the cats and the dog, paid three bills, and checked our business line voicemail for calls from potential clients.

  By the time I was finished, I’d sweated enough to warrant another shower, but wiped myself down with a wet cloth instead. I headed to Rustic Woods Shopping Center for a sandwich wrap tray from the grocery store. Maybe I’d get lucky and someone would be around to fill me in on that homicide. I knew the drill. There’d still be plenty of cops and plainclothes detectives around. Chances were I’d know at least one or two of them.

  As I pulled into the west entrance of the shopping center, I spied a familiar face. Not a cop, but crime reporter Guy Mertz, whom I’d come to know during a film screening the year before. Guy was infamous for his overly dramatic news reports of local crimes, but I liked him. He’d helped me out of some sticky situations more than once.

  Right now, it looked like he was preparing a live news report not far from the News Channel 10 truck.

  I jumped out of my van and scooted between onlookers until I reached the news crew.

  “Guy!” I called out.

  He looked up and smiled when he caught sight of me. He waved me over while wiping sw
eat from his brow with a cloth. “Barb! How did I know I’d see you here?” He pulled off his signature fedora and his sport coat, handed them to his assistant, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Holy mother of Hades, it’s hot out here.”

  “So who is it, Guy?” I asked. “Do we know yet?”

  “We?” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “You mean, do I know yet?”

  “You’re going to hold back on me? That’s not like you.”

  “I’m tired of this crime beat.” He mopped his brow again. “It’s depressing, all this murder and mayhem. I’m trying to convince my producer to let me do some local celebrity interviews.” He winked at me. “Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

  The man was working me. But for what, I had no idea. “What are you after, Guy?”

  He grinned a Wile E. Coyote grin. “Introduce me to Vikki Cleveland.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “How do you know that I know Vikki Cleveland?”

  The question was rhetorical. It didn’t take a rocket surgeon to connect the dots: Colt must have told his son, Clarence, who worked with Guy at Channel 10. The only problem was, we were supposed to keep our celebrity client list mum.

  “Why quibble over insignificant details like who told who what,” Guy said. “Help me out here, and I’ll tell you who the dead man is.”

  “So it’s a man?”

  “Vikki Cleveland...”

  “I’ll talk to her and see if she’s open to an introduction. It’s the best you’re going to get out of me.”

  He wiped his forehead with the cloth again. “You’re getting this before the rest of the metro viewing area. I go live with it in ten minutes. You know a man by the name of Ronald Chang?”

  “Mr. Chang?” I cried. “Sweet Mr. Chang? I was his number one VIP customer.” My heart hurt. “He owns Hunan Rustic Woods. Is that where they found him?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Face down on the floor, sizeable kitchen knife in his back,” Guy said sadly.

  Chapter Three

  I liked Vikki Cleveland. She and Meryl Streep were close personal friends. Well, not close exactly. She once sat a row behind her in a theater at a Hollywood premiere. She saw Meryl’s back. So they aren’t exactly friends, but she’s been closer to my idol than I’ve ever been and being a bestselling author, she stands a better chance of meeting her in the future.

  That’s not the only reason I liked Vikki. She’s a nice person too. I got to know her when she hired Baron and Marr Investigations for a background check. She and I bonded over our love of Cary Grant movies, but we’d only just finished the job so truthfully, I didn’t know much more about her than that.

  With my deli platter in one hand, I rang her doorbell with the other. Vikki lived in a house on the coveted shores of Lake Muir. Her new housekeeper, Rosetta, answered. I knew Rosetta but Rosetta didn’t know me. We’d done the background check before Vikki hired her. In fact, one of the former employers that I interviewed was Mr. Chang. I doubted she’d heard the news yet. I certainly wasn’t going to say anything now. It wasn’t appropriate.

  “Yes? May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m here to see Ms. Cleveland,” I said. “Barbara Marr. Is she in?”

  “One moment, please.” She swung the door closed and I waited, taking the time to admire the hostas along the front walk. The deep cover of shade provided by the many large mature trees in her front yard was a blessing in this heat.

  After a brief time, the door opened again and Vikki appeared with a backpack in her arms. Her blond hair was piled up in a messy bun on top of her head. She was about my height and her fair skin was flawless; not a pimple, not a mole. And darned if she didn’t have enviably thick and luscious eyelashes. I didn’t know her age, but guessed she was in her late thirties or early forties.

  She smiled when she saw me. “Barb, it’s nice to see you.”

  “I brought you a deli platter. I would have cooked a lasagna, but our air conditioning is out so I didn’t want to turn on the oven. It still comes from the heart.”

  “I told you not to,” she said.

  “It’s what I do. And I lied. I can’t cook a lasagna to save my life. I always bring sandwich trays.”

  She laughed. “Come in, come in. Get out of that sticky heat.” She opened the door wider.

  “Oh my gosh, air conditioning.” I gave a blissful sigh. “It feels great.” I stepped in further to soak up the cool air. “Colt sends his condolences as well. How are you holding up?”

  “Really, I’m fine,” she said. “Cecil and I didn’t have the best relationship. It’s sad to say, but we weren’t that close.”

  “He was your father. You must be a little upset.”

  She nodded. “At first. But there were arrangements and such that I had to make. That did keep my mind occupied and helped me get through the worst of it.”

  “Well now you don’t have to worry about grocery shopping for a few days.”

  “Rosetta,” she said, “can you put this in the refrigerator?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I told you to call me Vikki.” She shook her head at Rosetta.

  “Yes, Miss Vikki.”

  “She’s working out?” I asked when Rosetta was out of earshot.

  “I think so. She’s sweet. She was late today, which isn’t really starting things out on the right foot, but she said her car battery died, so I can’t be too mad.”

  “Those things happen.”

  She nodded. “True.”

  “Are you planning a trip?” I pointed to the backpack in her arms.

  “Yes, actually, but not with this.” She patted it. “These are my father’s only known belongings.”

  “That’s it? A backpack? Was it with him when...” I hesitated at finishing that sentence. Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to go the way Cecil Cleveland had departed.

  “When he was hit by the bus? Yes. The police took it into possession at the scene. They returned it a couple of hours ago.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I was just getting ready to look. I’ve been so busy, it’s the first chance I’ve had.”

  I followed her to the dining room where she unzipped the stained and worn pack, dumping the contents onto her table. Apparently, her father’s belongings consisted of a baseball cap, a pink towel, a nearly threadbare cloth wallet, a bulging manila envelope, a few movie ticket stubs, a pack of gum, two pennies, three nickels, and a roll of quarters.

  “This is it?” I asked. “Was he homeless?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You really weren’t close, were you? You’re right, that is sad.”

  “He was...an odd man. That’s probably the best way to put it. The last time we talked, he was renting a room from some woman.”

  “Where?”

  “A house in the Forest Dream subdivision. That’s all I know.”

  “Wow.” My own father was my rock when I was growing up. Sweet, kind, always involved. I couldn’t imagine not even knowing where he lived when he died.

  “Are you doing anything tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Just paperwork, why?”

  “Do you feel like attending a viewing?”

  “You’re having a viewing?”

  She rolled her eyes. “He made me promise years ago that when he died, I’d have a viewing so all of his friends could come say goodbye.”

  “He has a lot of friends?”

  She shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out.”

  “How about family? You’ll have family there, won’t you?”

  “I’m his family. That’s it. His last ex-wife, Delilah, is sort of like family. To me anyway.” She pointed to a picture on the wall behind her. Vikki was posed, smiling, with another blond woman. Both stood on the ban
k of the lake. They actually resembled one another closely enough that they could be mother and daughter instead of stepmother and stepdaughter. A smaller framed photograph above it caught my attention as well. A much younger Vikki and a man that had to be her father. They had the exact same eyes and smile.

  “She hated him,” Vikki said about her stepmother. “All of his ex-wives do. But she and I stayed friends. She’s out of town right now, so she can’t be there.”

  “All of his ex-wives?” I asked. “How many did he have?”

  “Five.”

  She turned back to the table and stared at the items on the table. My attention was drawn to the envelope. I was curious about the contents. What was an odd, maybe-homeless man doing with a bulging manila envelope? It certainly wasn’t likely to be his last will and testament if the backpack was all he owned.

  “Do you know what’s in there?” I asked.

  She sighed. “His manuscript probably.”

  “A book?”

  She nodded.

  “He was a writer too?”

  She scoffed. “He wrote a book, but I’m not sure he was really a writer.”

  “Can I look?”

  “Be my guest. It was Cecil’s latest scheme to make millions of dollars and fund the revolution.”

  I pulled a thick stack of papers out of the envelope with a laugh.

  “What revolution?”

  “Don’t get me started. He was a conspiracy theorist. Anti-government. Said that politicians were owned by corporations and the people were slaves to both. Yada, yada, yada.”

  “Hey, you’re a yada, yada girl, too? I knew I liked you for a reason.”

  “That and my questionable connection to Meryl Streep.” She laughed. “So you’ll come?”

  “You still promise to introduce me to MS when you meet her?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  I looked at the top page of the manuscript in my hands. Dead Man Stalking, A novel by Cecil Cleveland. That was too bizarre. I had a half written—okay one-tenth written—screenplay sitting in the bottom of my desk drawer at home with that same title. I loved the twist on the movie title.