Death among the Roses: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

“Is that right?” she shot back. “Well, I’m with Gibbons Insurance, and I’ve never heard of your company.”

“Ah… we’re a small outfit, little more than a start up… really.” I forked over a business card listing my name. I’d had them printed up yesterday. A last-minute decision. The things had cost me some cash, but I thought they might lend us credibility.

The woman accepted the card, lowered her gaze, and studied it closely. I prayed the printing ink on the thing had dried since I’d had it done up yesterday.

“Again,” she said, glancing back up at me, “what do you want?”

“Don Treadway has applied for a policy with our firm. We’re here today to see if you could answer a few questions for us?”

“Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t give out information on any of my neighbors. Besides, I don’t have any to share. I keep myself almost entirely to myself.”

What a news flash, I thought. Given this woman’s sour personality I was surprised she’d so much as opened her door for us.

“Thank you, for your honesty,” I said, plastering a smile on my face. “It was kind of you to give us what time you have. We appreciate it.”

Without softening her attitude in the least, the young woman slammed the door closed in our faces.

“Yikes,” Ginger exclaimed. “I’d almost rather face Gossford than stand at attention in front of her.”

“Come on,” I said. “Maybe the next apartment will house friendlier folk.”

“Sometimes, I really resent your optimism. Can you honestly think of any reason we shouldn’t fold up our bags and for the motel now?”

“We’ve driven for five, long hours and have a reservation at a motel for the night. it would be madness to go home now.”

Ginger made some comment under her breath which I couldn’t quite catch. And I did not ask her to repeat it. But she grudgingly trudged down the hall with me to the next door, upon which I pounded out a summons which went unanswered. I repeated my effort. Again, no one responded.

“Okay,” I said, stepping back from the door. “We’ll just move along to the next one.” I knocked, and we listened. I heard someone stir within the apartment. I glanced at Ginger and nodded, confident my faith in human nature was about to be redeemed.

The door swung open. A young girl, maybe somewhere around age ten, gazed up at us. She had a round face, glasses, and pigtails, and was dressed in pink shorts with a yellow T-shirt. She looked innocent, curious, and darling.

I gave her my most motherly smile. “May we speak with one of your parents?”

She smiled back up at me. “I’m sorry. But they’re not home.”

Huh.
Didn’t her parents know there were ax murderers out in the real world? Or had they sent their daughter to the door to duck us? Either way, they should be hauled off to jail for letting this sweet thing answer a knock from a total stranger.

“Do you know a man who lives on your floor by the name of Don Treadway?”

“Sure. He’s usually coming out of his apartment when I leave for school. Lots of times I ride the elevator with him.”

“And what about your parents think of him? Do you know?”

“I know they tell him hello if they see him.”

“Will your parents be back soon?”

“I don’t think so. They went to see Aunt Molly. They could be gone for quite awhile.”

I pressed my lips tightly together. I was half ticked at myself for dragging such telling information out of girl. I knew I wouldn’t use it to harm her, but I also knew there were those in this world who might.

“So what can you tell me about Mr. Treadway. Do you like him?”

“Hey partner,” Ginger hissed in my ear, “is there no level you won’t stoop to?”

“The fellow’s okay,” the little girl said, ignoring my partner’s antics. “I don’t know if my parents like him though.”

“Really?”

Had I struck pay dirt?
I bent over to put myself more on the girl’s level, “Do you know why your parents might not care for him?”

“Not really. You see they never talk about him. Sometimes, with the other neighbors, they have a lot to say about them. But not Mr. Treadway.”

“Right,” I said, straightening while Ginger sent me an I-told-you-so smirk. “Well, thank you for your help.”

I wanted to tell the girl not to open the door to any more strangers, but thought I might frighten her for no reason. Maybe bad things never really did happen here. What did I know?

The girl gave me a brief wave and closed the door. I breathed easier when I heard the sound of a chain sliding into place. And I found myself hoping the little creature was a fast learner. Maybe, I’d frightened her into being more cautious in the future.

A little later, after banging on three more doors without any response, I wondered if everyone who lived here weren’t out running around in the day’s heavy rainfall? But at my next knock an elderly man swung wide his door. Dressed in a plaid-flannel bathrobe, he stared at me with a face consisting of red-rimmed brown eyes and an over-sized chin full of gray stubble. Studying him, I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was in return absorbing every detail about me.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

So much for being of good cheer
.

I smiled sweetly. “Information on one of your neighbors,” I said.

“Which one?”

“Don Treadway.”

“Him,” he harrumphed. “He’s not home. Never is on a weekend.”

I thought of Treadway’s serious pursuit of Cordelia each week in Cloverton since Gary’s death. Mr. Bathrobe apparently knew his stuff when it came to my target. “That’s interesting,” I responded. “Do you know how long Treadway’s been making these little weekend jaunts?”

“That would depend on who wants to know.”

I introduced myself and Ginger. “We’re with Allied Insurance.” I gave him the song and dance about checking on Treadway’s application and handed him my business card.

He accepted the little cream-colored object and slid it into a pocket of his old robe. “Would you care to come in?”

I stood there mute for a moment, wondering what he was hiding beneath his ratty old bathrobe. Then. I reminded myself that there were two of us and only one of him. I smiled. No matter what this man’s intentions were, I realized that Ginger and I could overpower the man in two seconds flat. And I’d just taken a step toward the doorway when I heard the elevator door ding open behind us.

The elderly man’s gaze slid to the end of the hall.

“Officer?” he said, waving a thickly veined hand at whomever was exiting the elevator. “Can I help you.”

“Yes,” a male voice answered. “I’m responding to a nuisance complaint about two women who are apparently bothering folks in this hallway.” Ginger and I turned to study this intruder, only to find he wore a navy-blue uniform, a bright, shiny police badge, and an ominously large gun.

My knees turned to water. “Officer,” I mumbled.

He leveled his gaze at Ginger and me. “Would you two mind following me to the police station, please?”

“Are we under arrest?” I managed to squeeze out with what little air remained in my lungs.

“I just need to talk to you. That’s all, ma’am,” he explained. “As I’m sure you know, there’s no soliciting allowed inside of this building.”

Oh, swell.

“
T
old you so,” Ginger snapped about an hour later as we wended our way down a small corridor toward the police station exit. We’d been told we were free to go. But it’d been a narrow thing. Worse yet, our freedom had required intervention on our behalf by Alan Larkin, who’d vouched for us.

I knew Larkin would never let me live this one down. But his was the only name I dared give the officer to prove we weren’t escaped cons – or worse. I only hope he hadn’t pretended he had our names logged in his little black book. It would be just like my dear snitch.

Now, I took my frustrations out on my partner in crime as she trudged along beside me. “Would you please get a grip?” I said. “We’re not in a jail cell. What more do you want?”

“Some lunch would be nice.”

Given what we’d been through, I couldn’t believe Ginger was hungry. This paragon of dietary self-control wanted to wolf down food? I sighed. Watching her eat might beat listening to her whine. “What are you in the mood for?” I asked.

“A public hanging. Preferably with you as the featured event.”

“Other than that? What would your choice of food be?”

“Mexican would be good.”

I gave Ginger an internal salute. The nearest Mexican restaurant close to home was forty miles to the east. Of course, Dad couldn’t eat spicy food, so Mexican dishes at home were not a done thing.

Knowing that cops took food seriously, I asked the desk sergeant on the way out the door of the station for the name of their best local Mexican restaurant.

“Armando’s,” the bald, uniformed man called out after us, smiling widely.

Armando’s?
The place sounded more French or Italian than Mexican to me. But trusting cops to take good care of their guts, Ginger and I decided to track the place down.

To me Armando’s also sounded like a classy place. So when we stumbled across the eatery and found it to be little more than a dive
—
the kind of restaurant one expects some makeover expert to step into and clean up 
—
I thought we’d happened on the wrong place. But the hour was late and Ginger was eyeing me like I’d been basted with barbecue sauce.

“I’m game if you are,” I said from giving the restaurant another once-over from behind the steering wheel of the Fiesta.

Ginger passenger door handle and shoved the door open, “I’ll beat you inside.”

We found the interior of the restaurant was to be no more inviting than the exterior, but I spotted two cops at a corner table and assumed we’d arrived at the correct place. Ginger eyed them nervously and looked ready to retreat out the door.

“Listen,” I said, “nobody in here knows about our
Thelma and Louise
act except that cop that hauled us off to the station. Relax.”

Ginger nodded but didn’t look entirely convinced.

“Come on,” I said, leading the way to a small table. It was covered with oilcloth, which I hadn’t seen done for years. But the odors drifting from the kitchen made my knees weak. “This okay?” I asked, seating myself with my back to the kitchen.

“Fine.”

The waiter who delivered our water looked Italian, but the dishes listed in menus he handed us were one-hundred percent Mexican.

“Paella,” I exclaimed, glancing up at my friend. “They have paella.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Ginger responded without displaying any interest at all.

We placed our orders. Ginger’s was laced with starches and fats. Obviously, she’d endured a challenging day.

The waiter hustled off with our orders, and I settled back into my seat. Meanwhile Ginger nibbled nervously on a fingernail. “Who do you think turned us in to the cops?”

I rested my elbows on the table. “My guess would be it was the ice lady we talked to in that first apartment. What a snob. And what a tragedy. When the cops turned up, the old man was just about to deliver the dirt to us on Treadway.”

“Really? You think that’s the biggest loss of this trip?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have any idea how close we came to chomping down on bologna sandwiches in a jail cell and not enjoying your precious paella in this stellar dining establishment?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I do. And believe me, I’m not going to forget this day soon.” Ginger stared at me earnestly, her face laced with concern. “Do you think Larkin will spread this story all over town?”

She’d been standing beside me when the officer asked us for a reference to contact. There’d been no way to hide from her the name of my snitch.

I released a deep breath. “I doubt it. Despite all his male preening, at heart, Larkin’s a decent guy.”

“Then we’re lucky the stood up for us. That’s all I’ve got to say. From here on out, this weekend will never be mentioned again. You hear me?”

“I do.”

Needless to say, our plans from there underwent a slight revision. After the lunch, which was excellent, we drove directly to the shopping mall, where I found it difficult to focus on all the fabulous wares. That night, we explored other dining options from a long list of restaurants. Then we tumbled into bed early. The next morning, we rose, dressed, and climbed into my car to head home before the sun even broke the horizon.

***

It was on the drive home that I decided direct action was needed. All this stealth wasn’t working out. I decided tomorrow, after I’d recovered from the stress of this hellish trip, I’d call Treadway up and schedule a little chat. We could get together the next time he came to town.

I glanced over at Ginger. I couldn’t decide if she needed to be in on this latest adventure. She was already sore enough with what I’d put her through yesterday. I figured if I mentioned this plan, she might tattle on me to Larkin. Then where would I be?

Plus I didn’t want to lose her. She’d proved effective in our current efforts several times. I might be a determined person, but I wasn’t a fool. Ginger was an asset, who offset my many weaknesses. Ultimately, I decided to feel her out about my latest scheme.

She sat in the passenger seat, her head back, her eyes closed.

“Ginger,” I said.

“Go away.”

“I want to run an idea past you.”

“Go away.”

I tried another tack. “What do you think we should do next?”

“Retire.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

I spent a quiet moment watching the greening fields flash past my Fiesta’s windows. The day was sunny. The Interstate traffic heavy. Cars and busses and speeding trucks rushed past me. All of were us scurrying, determined to reach our destinations as quickly as we could.

A family in a dark sedan roared past. A little boy in the back seat gazed out at me. He had freckles and large, earnest, brown eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than six or seven. But with a smile, he proceeded to give me a one-finger salute at as the family car darted ahead.

Where do kids pick up these tricks today? I wondered. My generation didn’t even know the meaning of that gesture. Not when we were the age of this kid. Okay, I thought, maybe Larkin did. But that dude was in a class all by himself.

At the thought of Larkin, I fought back a sigh. I figured I had one of his lectures coming, and I doubted he’d take his time about delivering it. It was entirely possible that I’d find him standing on my doorstep when I returned home.

Dang.
I didn’t deserve this. I was the good guy here.

My passenger stirred in her seat.

“Ginger,” I said.

“Mmm?” she purred.

“What would you think of our talking to Treadway when he comes down next weekend?”

She shifted away from me toward the passenger window. “Knock yourself out. Me? I’m trying to sleep.”

There I had it, Ginger’s official answer. If I wanted to deal with Treadway, I was on my own.

***

Ginger and I returned home before lunch. I dropped her off at her house and then continued on to mine. Upon entering, I found a note on the kitchen counter. Dad was at the office. Taffy was in her little bed next to the back door. I decided I’d shower and nap and spent the rest of my day trying not to think about Larkin.

Now, dinner was over. The dishes had been put away. Dad was settled in his favorite chair. The competitor’s newspaper grasped tightly in his paws.

Then, the phone rang. I must have jumped four inches up out of my chair. “I’ll get it,” I said. Just from the sound of the ring, I knew the call had to be from Larkin. Obviously I was either turning psychic or paranoid.

“Yo,” I said into the mouthpiece, opting for a strong beginning to what I suspected was going to be a nasty conversation.

Dad glanced my way with his eyebrows raised high in disapproval.

Larkin spoke up, his voice deep and firm. “Is this the ditzy woman I kept from going to jail yesterday?”

“Speaking,” I said, “although I think your characterization of exactly what occurred is highly unfair.”

“How about soliciting, then? With a very probable likelihood of an attempt at breaking and entering if I know you two.”

“I don’t think I’d characterize our intentions in quite those terms.”

“Meet me at our place in exactly twenty minutes, or I’m coming to your house and dragging you out the front door by your hair.”

“If you insist,” I said evenly, “although I can’t see why I should. I already get the gist of your what you’re going to tell me.”

“Just be there.” The sound of Larkin slamming his phone down echoed through the

line.

Oh, boy.

As I ended the connection, Dad looked more than a little confused.

I felt obligated to feed him some kind of a line. “I have to go see Ginger.”

“What, again? I thought you two spent the weekend in Chicago. What gives?”

I ignored the question and eased the front door closed behind me. I had a home here that I wanted to return to. I couldn’t do that if I told Dad one more lie.

The drive took me a little less than twenty minutes but felt hours long. I couldn’t imagine what Larkin would have to tell me that he hadn’t already threatened me with over the phone.

As usual, I found his car tucked behind the shed. I opened the door and slid in beside him. The radio was muted. The setting sun shone into our eyes. I blinked and turned my head to look at him.

“Do you appreciate me at all?” Larkin asked.

“Huh?” This wasn’t the tack I’d expected him to take.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “I’m your friend, or at least I try to be. I’ve proved it to you over and over. And how do you repay me?”

Between Larkin and Dad, I didn’t stand a chance. “What is this?”

“Do you remember in grade school? That day the bully was threatening to beat you up? Who saved you neck? Who came storming in to tell the twerp if he harmed one hair on your head, I’d have his hide?”

“You did.”

“And did you thank me?”

I stared off into the distance, trying to recall the day in detail. “I’m sure I must have.”

“No, you didn’t. When it comes to me, you’re a snob. You don’t really see me.”

“Nonsense. I treat all of my informants the same.”

“Yes, you do. You call us informants and keep us at arm’s distance. That way you avoid becoming emotionally entangled with us.”

I glared at the man. “I beg your pardon. How dare you presume to know what I do or why I do it?”

Larkin leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I can do that, you see, because I think I’m just as good as you are. Oh, sure. My father doesn’t own the newspaper. I don’t live in a grand, white house or dine on fancy food. I don’t run with the city’s movers and shakers. And I won’t know if I can become sheriff until I stand for election. Still, deep down, I have faith that I’m just as worthy of respect as you are.”

Man. Oh. Man. I never knew I could feel so small.

A
fter a restless night, I had to drag myself to work the next day. The sun was shining, the birds singing. Thoughts of baking on a blanket under the warmth of a brilliant sun lured me into dreams of playing hookey. But, despite my longings, I headed for the newspaper office.

I tried and failed to suppress a yawn as I stepped through the office door. I’d slept little last night. Larkin’s words kept replaying themselves in my mind. Not that I was offended by his blunt remarks. Rather, I was upset with the truths his statement revealed to me. I told myself it was okay. I could change. I’d be more humble with people from here on out. But I knew how difficult a shift in attitude can be.

Sighing now, I slid my chair out from my desk and sat. Glancing up at the clock I saw it was a little before eight.