Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(52)

Two minutes later I was sitting across from Willard and Ethel at their vinyl-topped kitchen table tucking into one of Ethel’s heavenly egg salad sandwiches.

What can I say? I’m impossible.

When I finally came up for air, I resumed questioning the Coxes.

“Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted to see Garth dead?”

“Me, for starters,” said Willard.

Ethel put down her sandwich, horrified. “Willard, how can you say such a thing?”

“He killed Pumpkin, didn’t he?”

“It was an accident, Willard. A tragic accident. I simply can’t believe Garth would run over a helpless little poodle on purpose.”

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Laura Levine

“Well, I can.”

At that moment, there was so much hate in his eyes, I thought he really might be the one who sabotaged the roof.

“I can’t pretend I’m sorry he’s dead,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “but I didn’t do it.”

“Anybody else on the block dislike him enough to want to see him dead?” I asked.

“There’s Mrs. Garrison next door,” Willard said. “She hated his guts ever since he reported her to the city for illegally removing a tree from the front of her house. She had to pay a big fine, and she was furious.”

“You think she might’ve loosened those tiles on the roof?”

“I doubt it.” Ethel smiled wryly. “She’s eighty-six and uses a walker.”

“How about Libby Brecker?” Willard suggested, beginning to enjoy this game of finger pointing. “She looks like a potential killer to me.”

“What an awful thing to say, Willard!”

“I’m serious,” Willard insisted. “There’s something about that woman that’s downright creepy. She’s just a little too perfect, if you know what I mean. Like one of those Stepford Wives.”

“Just because she takes pride in her house doesn’t make her a Stepford Wife.”

Ethel rolled her eyes, exasperated.

“I haven’t felt right about Libby since the day she moved in,” Willard said, ignoring his wife’s objections. “They say she’s a widow. I’d like to know what happened to her husband.”

“I’m sure he died of perfectly natural causes,” Ethel said, taking a dainty bite of a gherkin pickle.

“That’s the trouble with you, Ethel. You’re too trusting.

You believe any cock and bull story someone hands you.”

“What was Libby Brecker’s relationship like with Mr. Janken?” I asked, steering the conversation away from Ethel Cox’s personality flaws and back to the murder.

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

183

“Hated him,” said Willard.

“I’m afraid she did,” Ethel conceded. “She accused Garth of poisoning her roses. Those roses of hers were her pride and joy.”

“Why would Mr. Janken want to poison her roses?”

“Libby claims Garth was getting even with her for calling the police when one of his parties got too loud.”

“Which house is Libby’s?” I asked, eager to question this promising suspect.

“It’s the two-story Spanish across the street,” Willard said, “with the Swarovski Rudolph on the lawn out front.”

“The Swarovski Rudolph?”

“Rudolph the Reindeer’s nose is a Swarovski crystal,”

Ethel said. “Lord only knows how much it cost!”

“I tell you,” Willard said, wagging his gherkin at me, “there’s something strange about that woman.”

I thanked the Coxes for their time and their egg salad and headed back outside, contemplating the nature of life on Hysteria Lane. Who would’ve thought there’d be so much hostility lurking beneath the surface of this picture-perfect block? It made the Middle East look like a picnic in the Amish country.

I was in the middle of a war zone, all right. Trouble was, I didn’t know the good guys from the bad.

The nose on Libby Brecker’s Rudolph was indeed a red crystal, in all probability a genuine Swarovski.

I found Libby on her lawn spritzing it with Windex. She was a plump woman with bright brown eyes and hair so glossy, I could practically see my face in it.

Once again posing as an insurance investigator, I flashed her my Century National card and explained that I was looking into Garth’s death on Seymour’s behalf.

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Go ahead,” she chirped. “Ask away.”

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Laura Levine

By now she was down on her knees, buffing the runners on an elaborate wooden sleigh that was probably once owned by Currier & Ives.

I asked her if she’d seen anyone on the roof in the days before Garth’s death and like everybody else I’d spoken with, she gave me the same disappointing answer.

“Just the roofers. Who, incidentally, seemed to be doing an excellent job. I was thinking of using them myself, but after what happened to Garth, that’s not going to happen.”

Poor Seymour. I was certain most people would react the way Libby had. If word of Garth’s death got around, his business would be ruined.