Midnight Mysteries: Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Authors Page 6

  “I’m so glad,” he whispered back, and held on to her hand in turn. “But next year, consider coming as Rapunzel for real, okay?”

  And as he looked at her sitting there in that ridiculous cat suit, with her cute little boy on her lap, he honestly didn’t know when he’d ever felt this way about a woman. He just wished Penny hadn’t come around the corner right then with her killer stare. He let go of Lucinda’s hand to follow his sous chef to the kitchen, and by the time he came back to the main room, almost all the guests had gone, including his next-door neighbors. The lights were back on, and the clean-up crew was sweeping up.

  He picked up Rudy’s ghoul mask from under the table and looked at it, smiling.

  “Guess you’ll be making a special delivery to return that mask to your special guests,” a venomous voice said in his ear. He knew it was Penny before he whirled around.

  “My neighbor just buried her husband and I was helping her cheer up her little boy on Halloween. The first Halloween he’s had without a daddy. Not that I need to explain anything to my staff.”

  His look must have brooked no nonsense, because she backed up a step. He sighed and relented.

  “It’s been a long night, you did a great job, and I’m going home.” He tucked the mask in his oversized, pirate-pants pocket and turned his back on her. Honestly, he didn’t know who aggravated him more lately, his sous chef or his wife. But never mind, because the idea of delivering Rudy’s mask to his mom was actually a really good one. After all, Rudy would need it for Friday night trick-or-treat tomorrow.

  And when he pulled into his driveway and saw Lucinda’s living room light was still on, it was a no-brainer to knock quietly on her door and hold out the mask when she opened it, her arms full of the fuzzy cat suit she must have just removed.

  “Oh, thank you! Rudy’s already sound asleep. We had missed his mask but I told him I’d call the restaurant in the morning.”

  She made no move to take the mask but instead tossed the cat suit onto a chair in the entryway. She was wearing a skimpy black leotard and tights and was barefoot, her hair loose and streaming down her back. “And now I hope you’ll come in for a nightcap.”

  Jackson couldn’t take his eyes off her, and all of a sudden he didn’t care what Penny or Sherri or any of the neighbors or, in fact, anyone at all, thought. “Trick-or-treat,” he whispered as she closed the front door behind them.

  * * *

  IT WAS ALMOST two months later when Jackson found himself once again standing in front of the kitchen window preparing a chef’s salad for himself. He wasn’t making any for Sherri, who had opted for a burger takeout meal. He could hear her rustling the wrappers of the stinky, garbage food in the living room, even over the volume of the television. He could smell it too. Smelled like fat. He shuddered.

  Jackson enjoyed going through the actions of cleaning and preparing the gorgeous hothouse produce. He found the repetitive, predictable motions soothing, which was a good thing since he had a lot on his mind.

  On the one hand, he was secretly thrilled that in seven months or so he was going to be having the child he’d always wanted. On the flip side, he’d spent some sleepless nights wondering how to tell Sherri he’d knocked up his neighbor at Halloween and wanted out of their marriage.

  He wondered how she’d take it if he just walked into the living room and said it that way. “Sherri, it’s over. I’ve knocked up Lucinda and I’m moving next door.”

  He wielded the carrot scraper expertly and decided three years of marriage—even if two of them had basically been loveless—required more tact and, yes, at least some semblance of compassion.

  But oh, a baby. A baby all his own, with lovely, sweet Lucinda. He closed his eyes and allowed excitement to well up inside him. He was so in love with her, with the baby, and with little Rudy, too. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was and how fast everything had changed. He was sorry he had to hurt Sherri but, to be honest, not too sorry. She had known he wanted a family more than anything when she married him. She hadn’t kept up her part of the bargain. She’d move on, maybe find someone else who liked television and take-out burgers and sweatpants and didn’t want kids.

  Shoot, he’d even give her the house (and the television) free and clear if she wanted it. Anything to make it easier to call it quits, and fast. She made enough money and her parents would be there for her. She’d be fine, just fine, he reassured himself.

  He arranged carrot slices on a bed of romaine and radishes and decided to put off telling her one more day. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night he’d tell her for sure. Tonight he’d call Lucinda after Sherri was asleep and go over with her, once more, the best way to tell his wife about the two of them.

  He and Lucinda had talked about it, every scenario they could think of, in the recent afternoons he’d been able to steal away from work and spend in her arms. He couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk to her. It was like he’d known her forever. And she felt the same way.

  He held a cucumber up in a mock toast toward Lucinda’s house next door. “Here’s to you, kid,” he said under his breath. “We’ll always have Halloween.” His own silliness made him grin, but the smile faded quickly.

  The neighbors would gossip, and that would be the worst part. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too hard on little Rudy at school.

  Worst case scenario, they’d simply sell up and move to another city. He could have a restaurant anywhere. She could raise their kids anywhere. Rudy had a great personality and would make new friends. Maybe they’d even go somewhere warmer. There was snow in the forecast again, which would make it hard to get to the restaurant tomorrow.

  He smiled to himself, wondering if Rudy and the new baby would like to play on beach sand instead of having snowball fights. And then felt his heart beat faster as he thought of how Lucinda might look in a bikini when she had time to get her figure back after the baby.

  He reached for a red bell pepper and began chopping, letting his mind run wild with all the possibilities of living with his new family and having every single thing he ever wanted.

  * * *

  JACKSON STEPPED INSIDE his own front door, stomped his feet to thaw them, and called for his wife. It was now or never to tell Sherri it was over. After the dressing down he’d gotten from Lucinda on the phone this morning he knew he’d better make a move—or else. Lucinda wanted him good and separated from Sherri before she began to show with the pregnancy, and she’d read him the riot act. “You handle this today, Jackson—or I will! And I mean it!”

  He shuddered, remembering the way she’d shrieked at him over the line. He was glad it was winter and she most likely didn’t have any windows open. Otherwise, the whole neighborhood would know by now Chef had a bun in the oven with the pretty next-door neighbor.

  “Sherri!” He waited, but she didn’t call back to him. It was too quiet and he realized why: The television was off. Now, that was just odd.

  He shut the front door and walked through the living room and straight ahead into the kitchen, intending to put his briefcase down. Maybe Sherri was taking a nap upstairs.

  He was thinking so hard about what he was going to say to her and how she would respond that he almost tripped over her slippered foot. “Sherri! God! No!” He dropped to his feet, dragged her out from where she lay partially under the kitchen table, and gaped in horror at the slit across her throat. He saw the trail of blood smeared along the linoleum where he’d pulled the body. The blood must have pooled underneath her. He heard the clock ticking. In what felt like slow motion, he reached for her throat, felt for a pulse, pulled his hands away. They were covered with blood but he hardly noticed. She was so cold.

  He choked, rocked back and forth, reached to brush her stringy blond hair back from her still, white face. “Sherri! My God, who could have done such a thing?”

  His tears blinded him. It seemed like there was blood everywhere. Then he saw a bright, shiny glint under a long strand of her hair. He reached for it and pulled o
ut a sharp, tiny screwdriver, about three inches long. He knew what it was; it was the piece from the eyeglass repair kit he’d been using at the kitchen table last night to fix his reading glasses. The flathead blade was tiny, yet sharp. A good inch of metal protruded from the plastic base designed to slide neatly into a thin, portable, hollow tube about four inches long that held screws, nuts, and other tiny, glasses-sized fix-it pieces.

  At least, it slid neatly into the tube when it wasn’t covered with blood. He held it up to the light, and was horror struck as he saw how easily someone could have used it to penetrate Sherri’s throat and slide it all the way across her neck. He stood up and saw all the rest of the eyeglass-repair kit pieces scattered across the kitchen table. He wondered if Sherri had struggled, had seen what was coming, had known. Maybe she’d fallen, knocked herself out or something. It didn’t look like there had been much of a struggle and most of the blood seemed to be underneath her body.

  He sat back down again, right beside all the blood, and took Sherri’s left hand, the one with the engagement ring and wedding band on it. Such promise, three years ago. How could it go so wrong? What would he tell Sherri’s mother and father, and her colleagues? His mind raced. “Who could do this to you, Sherri?” he asked his wife aloud.

  None of their friends were mad at Sherri as far as he knew. Could she have angered someone at work? His sous chef’s jealous face flashed into his mind. Could Penny have…? No, she had been at work with him all day. And then Lucinda’s words rang through his head, clear as if she was standing beside him. “You handle this today or I will!” And he knew. Right then and there, without a doubt in the world, he knew. She’d sounded absolutely crazed when they spoke, then she’d hung up on him. He could see her, marching over here, all upset. Sherri would have offered her coffee here in the kitchen, tried to get her to calm down, wanted to know what could be so bad.

  My God. Lucinda. The baby. Rudy.

  There was no time to lose. His staff knew when he had left the restaurant and he hadn’t stopped at the hothouse tonight. He’d have to call the police and they’d look into the timing of everything. Sherri had obviously been dead for a while. They could figure out when, right? Thank God he’d been at the restaurant all day, visible to his staff, training a new employee in the kitchen. But he knew what the police would think. Wasn’t it almost always the husband who committed the crime? Or—he gulped—the husband’s lover?

  Nothing must happen to the baby. Nothing must happen to Lucinda.

  His tears stopped and he breathed deeply, thinking. He stood up and walked over to the sink. He turned on the faucet, washed his hands, reached for the Dawn, scrubbed again, then started scrubbing the little metal and plastic screwdriver he was holding. He scrubbed the bottle of dishwashing soap for good measure, then flipped on the Insinkerator. He scrubbed and scrubbed, then dried his hands and the blade with a dish towel sitting on the counter.

  He felt like he needed to hide the screwdriver. In a cabinet, maybe? Inside the coffee? Frantically, and perhaps purely out of instinct, he tore open the refrigerator door. Was there somewhere in here he could hide the little knifelike blade where no one would see it? He snatched at the produce drawer. Perhaps inside the lettuce leaves—no, it might fall out. Maybe up underneath the lip of the drawer. No. It might not stay put and he’d need to find some Super Glue. Where else?

  His gaze fell on a carrot. A single big, beautiful, oversized hothouse carrot, with the leafy part still attached to the top. He grabbed it, spreading the leaves apart and looking inside them the way he would the hair on somebody’s head, looking for their scalp. Grasping the carrot firmly with his left hand, he neatly and deftly inserted the sharp little screwdriver blade into the center of the root vegetable and pushed it down into the carrot as far as it would go.

  He held his breath, but the carrot didn’t split. He couldn’t even see the top of the end of the blade. He spread the carrot’s “hair” back over its larger end and shoved it deep into the drawer, underneath the lettuce but on top of the fresh radishes and cucumbers.

  He slammed the refrigerator door, went back to the sink to wash any signs of vegetables off his hands, then dried again and reached for his iPhone to dial 911.

  He gritted his teeth and his hands shook. He waited through an endless series of rings and when the dispatcher asked what division he needed, he asked for police. “I don’t think an ambulance would do any good,” he said to the emotionless voice on the other end of the line. “My wife is dead. There’s blood everywhere. She’s gone.” His voice broke. “She’s gone.”

  He hung up on the operator, got out a mop, filled the sink with soapy water, and began systematically mopping his way backward from the front door to the body, though he didn’t see any obvious tracks or blood spatter. He even mopped the bottom of his shoes. He’d simply tell the police it was his nature to clean; being a chef required cleanliness, and he hadn’t known what he was doing. He’d let them find him mopping when they arrived. He’d go speechless, pretending to be in shock, then finally start jabbering about what a mess it was in his nice, clean kitchen.

  No doubt this would get him a free trip to the hospital and a psychiatric evaluation, but it would save him the trouble of worrying too much whether his story made sense. It was simple, really, he’d tell them. He came home, found his wife, tried to wake her up, called someone, then apparently he’d gone into shock and started cleaning. He’d say he didn’t remember any of it clearly. He knew they’d search the house, look for a weapon. He could only hope he’d erased or smeared any trace evidence Lucinda might have left behind this morning. With any luck, none of the nosier neighbors had seen her come or go either.

  It was a lot of ifs but it was all he knew to do to give the mother of his new baby the chance to get away with it. Right or wrong? Well, it was a no-brainer, but he figured he could worry about morality later as well.

  He heard the sirens and a minute later two EMTs opened the front door and ran inside.

  “Watch out for the wet floor!” he called to them sharply. He kept mopping while they came to a stop and looked at one another.

  “You okay, sir?” the younger man asked him.

  “My kitchen is such a mess.” Jackson stood and pushed his hair off his now sweating forehead. “But won’t you come in?” His voice, to his own ears, sounded much too calm. Exactly like a bereaved husband in complete shock ought to sound.

  The EMTs walked right around him and went into the kitchen, where he heard them going into action.

  He mopped and mopped, waiting, until one of them came to him, took the mop gently from his hands, and pushed him into Sherri’s favorite recliner. Recoiling, he tried to get up, but the well-intentioned, neatly uniformed man held him down. “Just relax, sir. We’ll take over the clean-up from here.”

  Jackson relaxed, leaned back, and smiled at the man. “Oh, will you? How nice to have help.”

  He read nothing but sympathy in the man’s face before he leaned back and closed his eyes.

  He detached; he may have dozed. All Jackson knew was when he opened his eyes again his gaze was met by a pair of bloodshot, mud-colored eyes in a pale, unshaven face, and he knew one thing: The middle-aged man kneeling in front of him wasn’t buying it, not for one minute.

  The face backed up and the entire figure of a slim, balding man in a rumpled gray suit stood up and took shape. Jackson felt a card being pressed into his hand.

  “Are you Jackson Bell?”

  Jackson didn’t trust himself to speak, and simply nodded.

  “Detective Robert Martin at your service, Mr. Bell. Now, do you want to tell me who might have done this to your wife? Especially since”—he made a wide, sweeping motion with his right arm—“you’ve done such a nice job cleaning up the crime scene?”

  Jackson met the detective’s gaze. “It really happened, didn’t it. Sherri’s really gone.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bell. It really happened. And don’t think for one minute that just because you
could snow a couple of rookie EMTs you can fool me or my staff.”

  “She’s gone,” Jackson said. Then he said it again, louder. She’s gone.”

  The detective rolled his eyes so hard Jackson could have sworn he heard the sound of marbles scooting around in the man’s head.

  No matter. Jackson hoped he’d bought enough time for Lucinda to clear things up at her end. Burn her clothes maybe. Shower. God, what else? He’d done his best to clean up any blood spatter. But the detectives in those forensic shows were always finding the tiniest blood droplets and fibers to prove how the crime was committed.

  He could only hope he’d done enough. He didn’t dare call the future mother of his child to talk to her about it. The cops would make the connection soon enough.

  * * *

  JACKSON STOPPED BY the house after work to get a few warm sweaters to take next door. It had snowed again and grown colder afterward. He stopped in the kitchen for a glass of water and noticed a few small, wet footprints. Not too hard to identify the culprit; he saw the Halloween ghoul mask on the kitchen table too and laughed aloud—that crazy kid was still wearing it around—and noticed the lid on the cookie tin wasn’t quite on all the way. He grinned to himself. He must have forgotten to lock the door and Rudy had come inside and helped himself to a cookie or three. A cookie sounded pretty good to him, too, all of a sudden, and he reached for the container. It had been a while since he baked, given the circumstances, but the organic oatmeal cookies still tasted fresh and good.

  It was great to have an appetite again, too. Just under two weeks since he’d found Sherri’s body and he was just starting to feel halfway back to normal.

  Lucinda had been cool as the proverbial cucumber, showing up at his door the next day along with a legion of neighborhood women bearing casseroles, desserts, and platters of fried chicken, once the police had removed the crime scene tape after processing and searching Jackson’s house, and once the endless sessions of cat-and-mouse questions directed at him as a person of interest were over.