Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(47)

“Mr. Cox?”

He pointed across the street to a mock Tudor house with an elaborate display of animated reindeer out front.

“Willard Cox. He and Garth were always at each other’s throats. Especially this time of year, over the Christmas decorations.”

“They fought over Christmas decorations?”

“It’s nuts, I know. But the neighborhood association gives out an award for the best decorations, and the competition gets pretty fierce. Folks around here will do anything to win.

You know what Garth’s dying words to his wife were? Not ‘I love you’ or ‘Hold me close.’ No, his dying words were, ‘Call in a decorator and finish the roof!’ Which is exactly what she did as soon as the police let her.

“Anyhow, Garth always won the contest and it drove 166

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Willard crazy. Before Garth and his wife moved here, Willard used to take home the prize every year. He was constantly accusing Garth of stealing his ideas and sabotaging his displays. Last year he claimed Garth beheaded his Santa Claus.

Things really blew up a few months ago when Garth ran over Pumpkin.”

“Pumpkin?”

“Willard’s dog. Willard and his wife used to keep Pumpkin out in the front yard. She barked a lot and Garth was always complaining about her. One day Pumpkin got loose from the yard while Garth was backing out of his driveway, and he ran her over. He claimed it was an accident, but Willard was convinced he did it on purpose. That’s when I thought he was gonna kill him.”

Wow, this guy was a fount of information, Wolf Blitzer with a mailbag.

But the fount was about to run dry.

“Hey,” he said, checking his watch, “I’ve really got to go now.”

“Just one more question.” I trotted after him as he started up the street. “You ever see anybody up on the roof in the days before Mr. Janken’s death?”

“Nope. Nobody but the roofers.”

Sad to say, it was an answer I was to hear over and over again in the days to come.

I thanked him for his time, and headed back to Candyland to speak with the bereaved widow.

Cathy Janken was a real-life version of the sugarplum fairy on her roof—a delicate blonde with porcelain cheeks and enormous blue eyes. She came to the door in a pastel pink sweat suit the same color as the flocking on her roof, her platinum hair caught up in a wispy ponytail.

I gazed at her enviously. Sure, her husband had just died.

But on the plus side, the woman actually managed to look skinny in a pink sweat suit. If I dared to wrap my body in THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

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pink velour, I’d bear an unsettling resemblance to the Michelin man.

“Mrs. Janken?” I asked, trying to figure out if her ashen pallor was a result of grief or sunblock.

“Yes,” she said, blinking out into the bright sunshine.

“Can I help you?”

Something told me she might not want to talk to me if she knew I was a private eye, not when she was in the midst of suing my client for several million dollars. So I’d decided to try another tactic.

“I’d like to speak with you about your husband’s unfortunate demise,” I said in my most professional voice. “I’m an insurance investigator with Century National.”

I flashed her my auto insurance card which I’d cleverly had laminated on my way to McDonald’s. It’s amazing how laminating things makes them look official.

“You representing Seymour Fiedler?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

Doubt clouded her baby blues. “I don’t know if I should be talking with you. What with the lawsuit and all.”

“I’m afraid you have to, Mrs. Janken. California state law.

Plaintiff in a wrongful death suit must give a deposition to the defendant’s insurance representative.”

A law I’d just made up on the spot. But she didn’t know that. At least I hoped she didn’t.

“Okay,” she sighed. “C’mon in.”

Bingo. She bought it!

She ushered me into her living room, a fussy space done in peachy silks and velvets.

Above the fireplace was a framed portrait of Cathy and a fleshy man with dark, slicked-back hair, a feral grin, and a predatory gleam in his eyes that even the artist couldn’t quite camouflage. Presumably, the late Garth Janken. I could easily picture this barracuda fighting tooth and nail to win the Christmas decorating contest.

Cathy perched her wee bottom on a silk moiré sofa, and I 168

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took a seat across from her on a dollhouse-sized armchair. I teetered on it cautiously, hoping I wouldn’t break the darn thing, whose arms were as fragile as twigs.

Resting on a coffee table between us was a cut glass bowl of candy canes.

I happen to have a particular fondness for candy canes, along with just about anything else containing the ingredient sugar, but no way was I going to have one, not after that burger I’d just scarfed down.

“Help yourself,” Cathy said, gesturing to the bowl.

Somehow I managed to say no.

“Garth loved those things.” At the mention of her husband’s name, her eyes misted over with tears. “I always told him they’d ruin his teeth, but he couldn’t resist. ‘Just one,’ he used to say. ‘It’s not going to kill me.’