The Saucy Lucy Murders (6 page)

After what seemed like a million years, the ambulance from Westonville arrived and the paramedics hustled over to have a look at Whitehead. As they hovered above him with their medical equipment, Lexie slipped outside. The sunlight was a welcome relief and she breathed deeply of the fresh morning air.

She sidestepped past poor Violet, who was sitting on the edge of a brick planter chewing her nails and crying, and went out to sit in her truck. Swallowing over and over, she finally banished her hiccoughs. Then she glanced around, noticing that several of the neighbors were up and staring out their windows or standing on their front porches rubbernecking.

Lexie recognized Axel and Janie Dimspoon, who must have been at least in their eighties, exit the house next door. Dressed in thick terry bathrobes and slippers, they came up Whitehead’s drive and
approached Lexie with questioning glances.

“What happened?” Axel queried.

“An incident,” Lexie said. “You’ll read all about it in the paper.” When they continued to look at her with prying glances, she added, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you.” She watched as they shuffled back into their homes, shaking their heads and whispering to themselves.

The community had one small newspaper called the Moose Creek Junction Chronicle. Lexie figured it wouldn’t be long before one of their reporters caught wind of trouble and came around snooping. And what a story this would be—murder in Moose Creek Junction. The second one in just a little over a year.

Otis’ sheriff’s car finally appeared, lights flashing and siren screaming, slamming over the curb and coming to a halt on Whitehead’s lawn.

Lexie rolled her eyes. That man just had to make a dramatic entrance. He was so ridiculously proud of his position as town sheriff, Lexie wondered if he wore his tin star in bed. Probably rolled over on it and cut himself all the time. Maybe that’s why he was so crabby.

Otis heaved himself from the car and slapped his hat on his head. His pig-like jowels working furiously as he barked at his skinny deputy, Cleve Harris, to call for back up from Westonville. Westonville was about fifty miles away, but it was much larger than Moose Creek Junction and had a decent
sized police force that was a bit more accustomed to the occasional murder.

Otis scowled at Whitehead’s house, then over at Lexie and pointed accusingly at her. “You,” he ordered. “Don’t go anywhere.” He disappeared inside Whitehead’s house with Harris trotting obediently after him.

The police backup from Westonville arrived a short while after that and hurried into Whitehead’s house as well. Lexie tried not to think of what was going on. It was unreal. Like a television program or a movie.

Lucy pulled up in her blue Ford sedan and got out. She shuffled quickly toward Lexie in her sensible brown loafers, her print housedress flapping. “Are you all right, baby sister?”

“Of course. I find bodies all the time in my line of work.”

“Don’t joke. This is not funny,” Lucy scolded.

“I don’t think it’s one bit funny, either. But this is making me crazy. Do you realize Whitehead is the second man you’ve introduced me to who has wound up dead?

“Oh, my.” Lucy’s face flushed and she began to fan herself madly. “Hot flash, you know. Happens when I’m upset.”

“I thought it was just menopause.”

Lucy pulled out a hankie and mopped her perspiration-dotted brow. “I am
not
going through menopause. I have got years before that happens.
Many, many
years.”

“Right,” Lexie said.

“What happened? Did you and Henry have a fight? Did he make advances toward you?”

“He tried.”

“Well for Pete’s sake! You didn’t have to off him.”

“Lucy, I did not kill Whitehead. I forgot my purse last night after I left him at his house. This morning I came by to pick up the darn thing and I found Whitehead dead.”

“This is not good, baby sister.”

“No kidding it’s not good. Do you think Otis is capable of handling another murder investigation?”

“I don’t know. He got pretty upset when Hugh was shot.”

“Well, if he botches this investigation, you might be visiting me at the women’s correctional center down in Chamber City. Do you think you’ll still be able to fix me up on dates then?”

A clanking noise drew their attention and Lexie saw the paramedics rolling Whitehead’s sheeted body over to the ambulance. They hefted him up, shut the double doors and drove away.

As other uniformed officers looped yellow crime scene tape around Whitehead’s house, Otis and another man Lexie didn’t recognize walked toward her truck.

Otis introduced his wife and sister-in-law to Detective Gabriel Stevenson. He’d recently moved to Westonville and had just started work with their
police department.

A solidly built male, Stevenson wore jeans, a worn black leather jacket, and a black Stetson. He had a neatly trimmed brown mustache and beard sprinkled with gray and a healthy tan complexion. The badge attached to his belt had a frightening legal glint to it.

Lexie and Lucy told Stevenson, “Hello,” at the same time.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ladies,” Stevenson responded in a deep, rumbling voice as he shook their hands. He removed his hat and ran his hair through wavy brown hair shot with gray.

“How well did you know Henry Whitehead?” Stevenson asked Lexie, his hazel eyes piercing.

“I only met him yesterday. We went to the carnival with some friends of his last night.” Lexie couldn’t help but check Stevenson out a little closer, noting that he was pleasant to the eye. There weren’t many men as good looking as him in Moose Creek Junction. His looks made him a tad intriguing, although still frightening. He was the law, after all.

Stevenson scribbled in a notebook, then sized Lexie up again, his gaze questioning. “What time did you return?”

“I dropped him off here at about 9 p.m. Then I went home.”

“Can anyone vouch for your story?”

Lexie nodded. “My daughter, Eva.”

He jotted down something else, and Lexie
noticed Otis had produced a notebook and took notes every time Stevenson did.
Monkey see, monkey do.

“Do you know of any enemies Whitehead might have had?” Stevenson leaned against Lexie’s truck and crossed his long legs. “Someone who would be capable of murder?”

“Again, I barely knew the man. He did say his ex-wife, Violet, that’s her over there sitting on the planter, was creepy. And then something weird happened on my way home from his house.”

“Yes?”

“This car rear-ended me at the stop light, then took off.”

“Why didn’t you call me and report that?” Otis wet the tip of his pencil and kept it poised above his note pad. His jowls worked up and down as he chewed on what Lexie knew was most likely tobacco.

“I didn’t have a license plate or a vehicle description. It was too dark.”

Stevenson cleared his throat. “Ms. Lightfoot, I understand you’re divorced. You and your ex-husband having any trouble?”

“Dan lives in California. I haven’t heard from him in six months, and neither has my daughter.”

“Is he a violent man?” Stevenson’s brows raised. “Does he have a temper?”

Lexie went cold. “What are you implying?”

The detective shrugged. “Could be he’s the jealous type. I have to ask.”

“He’s remarried …” Lexie trailed off, as if that answered Stevenson’s question. There was a dark part of her life with Dan she chose to keep dead and buried. She didn’t want to talk about it, especially not with the inquisitive and handsome detective from Westonville.

Stevenson wrote more notes and so did Otis.

“Stay around town, Ms. Lightfoot,” Stevenson warned. “I don’t really consider you a serious suspect. But I may need to question you again.”

“Oh, I’ll cancel my flight to London right away,” Lexie returned.

Stevenson gave her a dark gaze. He obviously did not appreciate her attempt at humor.

“Let me know what the boys in your crime lab have to say, Stevenson.” Otis puffed out his beefy chest, making his sheriff’s badge glint in the sun. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for any local leads.”

“You do that.” Stevenson took long strides over to Violet Whitehead, who was still weeping and blowing her nose in a crumbling tissue, and began talking to her.

“Whooeeee.” Otis rubbed his fleshy neck. “Leave it to my sister-in-law to find trouble wherever she goes. This is the second man who’s died after dating you. Any man in his right mind would think twice about sporting you around.”

“Believe me, I never wanted this,” Lexie muttered. “To heck with my purse. I should have stayed home this morning.”

“We’d still need to question you, Lex,” Otis said. “You were the last person who saw Henry White-head alive.”

Lexie shook her head. “Lucky me.”

“You gals can head home now.” Otis pointed a pudgy finger at Lexie. “And you, stay the hell away from those hack reporters. Don’t say a damn thing. Got it?”

Lexie nodded.

Once Otis had stomped over to join Stevenson in questioning Violet, Lucy released a giant breath. “Thank goodness. He wasn’t as angry as I thought he would be.”

“I’m sorry I spoiled his Sunday funnies.”

Lucy ignored Lexie’s last snide comment, which was just as well.

“He’s a very nice looking man,” Lucy said.

Lexie frowned. “Who?”

“Detective Stevenson. I wonder if he’s married? I didn’t see a wedding ring.”

“Lucy Parnell, don’t you ever stop meddling?” Lexie folded her arms across her chest. “I am not interested in Detective Stevenson.
Capisce?
Do not try to start your matchmaking again.”

“Honestly, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“No, I would not. All I want to do right now is go home. I just want to be with my daughter. And no more of you fixer-upper dates. Got it?”

“You’re just upset, dear. Who wouldn’t be?” Lucy smiled. “I’m still going to find out if Detective
Stevenson is married.”

“Knock yourself out.” Lexie climbed into her truck, revved up the engine and rattled home.

After Lexie told Eva about Whitehead’s murder, the rest of the day went by in a blur. Except for the phone call from Barnard Savage, a ruthless reporter for the
Moose Creek Junction Chronicle.
He hammered Lexie with questions about Henry Whitehead and her relationship with him, and then brought up Hugh. Lexie said, “No comment,” several times, and finally hung up.

Savage was a pure nuisance. She could see him now wearing his press hat and rumpled suit, notebook, and ever present stubby pencil he constantly wet with the tip of his tongue. Once he was onto a good story, he was like a chronic cold you couldn’t shake.

She kept thinking about poor Henry on a slab in the Westonville morgue. Café customers came and went, but her mind barely registered the fact. All she could think about was who would have wanted Whitehead dead, and why?

Then she got to thinking about the car that had rammed her truck at the light. Who had been driving? Had they run into her on purpose? And did it have anything to do with Whitehead’s murder?

Then there was Dan. Last she’d heard, he was still married to Davina and living in California. He
wouldn’t have returned to Moose Creek Junction to cause trouble for her, would he? Was he stalking her? A shiver danced up her spine.

All of the sudden, she realized what a mess she was in. Just like Otis had said. Good Lord, what if the police decided all the evidence pointed to her as the killer? What would she do then?

Better get a good attorney.

With what, she wondered. She had a little bit of money in savings, but not enough to pay for an expensive trial lawyer to save her neck from the gallows. Then again, maybe she could pay him or her with homemade bread and free meals at
The Saucy Lucy Café
for the rest of his or her life.

Don’t borrow trouble,
she heard her mother’s firm counsel.

Good advice, of course. No one had said anything about charging Lexie with murder. Just further questioning. That made her relax.

Still, Whitehead’s untimely death bothered her. She couldn’t help but feel somehow responsible, though she had no idea why. She also couldn’t shake the disturbing idea of wearing orange jumpsuits and visiting with Eva and Lucy through thick Plexiglas.

That night Lexie went to bed early. Her dreams were fitful and she tossed and turned, unable to sleep a wink. By two a.m. her bed looked like a battlefield.

Dragging herself out of bed, she showered, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, shoved her tousled
hair into a headband and padded downstairs in her ragged slippers to the kitchen. Once her coffee had begun to brew, she balanced her checkbook and paid bills. That done, she swept the kitchen floor, then got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed it with a vengeance, even though it was spic and span after the dishwasher escapade.

As soon as the sun came up, she went outside and began hoeing what was left of her garden. The second she started hacking at the dusty weeds, she knew she was going to be sorry. Her poor old, nearing-middle-age muscles, were surely going to let her have it once she was done taking out her troubles on the good earth. But what the heck? Maybe she’d be in so much pain she could keep her mind off the murder.