Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(48)

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “If only he hadn’t gone up on that roof!”

Suddenly the mist in her eyes became a downpour, and she was crying her heart out.

Now I happen to be a world class cynic, but it was hard to believe the sobs racking her body were an act. For whatever reason, Cathy Janken seemed to have genuinely loved her husband.

“Can I get you something?” I asked. “Some water?”

“No, I’m okay.” She took a hankie from the pocket of her sweatpants and blotted her tears. “I’ve been like a faucet ever since the accident.

“So,” she said, forcing a smile, “how can I help you?”

I took a deep breath and began my spiel, choosing my words carefully. She seemed awfully fragile, and I didn’t want to start her crying again.

“We at Century National are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Janken, but we don’t believe our client is responsible for your husband’s death. Mr. Fiedler insists every shingle was firmly nailed down when he completed the job.”

“They certainly weren’t nailed down when Garth fell.”

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“Actually, there’s a distinct possibility your husband’s death was not an accident.”

“What?” Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Can you think of anyone on the block who might’ve wanted to see him dead?”

“No, of course not. True, Garth had his differences with some of the neighbors. He could seem tough on the outside, but he was a *cat underneath. You just had to know how to handle him.”

Something told me “handling him” involved lots of fishnet stockings and peekaboo lingerie.

“But I can’t believe anybody wanted him dead.”

“Not even Mr. Cox? I was talking to your mailman just now, and he said there was quite a bit of animosity between the two of them.”

“Willard Cox is certifiably insane!”

Her porcelain cheeks flushed pink with anger.

“Last year he accused my husband of beheading his Santa Claus! Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous? The head probably fell off in the wind. The year before that, he said Garth stole the nose off his Rudolph. He was just jealous because Garth kept beating him in the decorating contest. He even accused Garth of bribing Prudence Bascomb.”

“Prudence Bascomb?”

“President of the homeowners association. She judges the contest each year. Garth didn’t have to bribe her. Garth won because his decorations were the best!”

I wasn’t about to say so out loud, but I wasn’t convinced Garth’s decorations were the best on the block. I’d seen the prancing reindeer on Willard Cox’s lawn and they looked pretty darn impressive. I wondered if Garth had indeed been bribing the judge. I could easily imagine the barracuda in the portrait with payola up his French cuffs.

“I’m telling you,” Cathy said, as if sensing my doubts, “Willard Cox is crazy.”

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“I heard he accused your husband of purposely running over his dog.”

“Can you believe it?” Once again, her cheeks were dotted with angry pink spots. “He ran around telling everybody that Garth was a dog killer! Garth threatened to sue him for defamation of character. That finally shut him up.”

“So do you think it’s possible that Mr. Cox might have wanted your husband dead?” I asked.

She chewed on her pinky, and gave it some thought.

“I hadn’t really considered it before, but I suppose so.”

“And are you certain nobody else on the block might have wanted him … um … gone?”

“No. Nobody on this street is as crazy as Willard. The man is nutty as a fruitcake.”

She was wrong about that. It turned out that Willard Cox had some stiff competition in the nutty-as-a-fruitcake department. As I would, much to my regret, soon discover.





Chapter


! Three #

“Feliz Navidad, honeybun!”

Kandi Tobolowski, my best friend and constant dinner companion, raised her margarita in a toast. We were seated across from each other in our favorite Mexican restaurant, Paco’s Tacos, a colorful joint famous for their yummy margaritas and burritos the size of silo missiles.

I took an eager gulp of my margarita. I’d spent a fairly frustrating afternoon questioning the neighbors on Hysteria Lane about Garth Janken’s death. Willard Cox, my leading suspect, hadn’t been home when I’d rung his bell. The few neighbors who were home on a weekday afternoon were no help whatsoever. They all agreed that Garth had been an unpopular guy, but nobody had any idea who might have hated him enough to kill him, nor had they seen anyone up on the roof in the days before his death—except for Seymour’s roofers in their distinctive red Fiedler on the Roof baseball caps.

So it felt good to be here at Paco’s, mellowing out with my good buddies, Kandi and Jose Cuervo.

“You’ll never guess where Dennis and Kate and I are going for Christmas this year,” Kandi beamed excitedly.

Dennis and Kate were Kandi’s parents, a pair of avant garde freethinkers who thought it “cool” to be on a first name basis with their only child. (My parents, on the other 172

Laura Levine