Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(61)

“Willard’s in jail!” she cried.

“They arrested him?”

She nodded miserably. “He got into a fight with one of the police officers and threatened to ‘punch his lights out.’ Now they’re holding him without bail.”

She sank into a kitchen chair, dazed.

“Oh, Willard,” she moaned, “what have you done now?”

Then she turn to me and said: “Do you know how to write a check, Jaine?”

I nodded, confused. Where the heck had that come from?

“Willard told me to pay the gas bill.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know how to write a check. Can you believe that? I’m seventy-two years old, and I don’t know how to write a check.”

She put her head on the table and burst out sobbing.

“Oh, God. What am I going to do without him?”

I jumped up and wrapped my arms around her.

“Don’t worry, Ethel. They can’t keep him there for long if he’s innocent.”

She looked up at me, her eyes wild with panic.

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And in that moment I knew that, even worse than the fear of coping by herself, Ethel was afraid her husband might have really killed Garth Janken.

After teaching Ethel the fine art of check writing, I left her with a hug and a promise to keep in touch, and headed out into the bright sunshine, convinced that somebody had planted that roofer’s cap in Willard’s toolbox. I simply couldn’t believe he’d be foolish enough to leave it there himself.

My money, as you know, was on Libby Brecker. But I had no proof she was the killer. I wasn’t even certain that the flocking I saw on her rug came from Garth’s roof, or that it was indeed flocking.

I had no idea where to turn next. My interviews with the residents of Hysteria Lane had been a bust, yielding no leads whatsoever. No juicy gossip about Decorating Wars or poisoned roses. Just some tepid complaints about Garth hosting loud parties, turning away trick or treaters at Halloween, and being—in the words of eighty-six-year-old Mrs. Garrison—“an old grouchpuss.”

It was one of those moments when a lesser detective would have given up hope and drowned her frustrations in Ben & Jerry’s. But not me. I wasn’t about to waste valuable detecting time driving around in search of ice cream. No, sir. I drowned my frustrations in an Almond Joy I found buried at the bottom of my purse.

Actually, the rush of sugar was just what I needed. Standing there, inhaling my candy bar, I remembered that there was someone I still hadn’t questioned—Prudence Bascomb, president of the local homeowners association. The lady Willard had accused of taking bribes from Garth.

Old Mrs. Garrison had pointed out her house to me, but so far I hadn’t been able to catch her at home.

Licking chocolate from my fingers, I crossed over to Prudence’s impressive white colonial.

Interesting, I noted, that her only Christmas decoration 212

Laura Levine

was a simple wreath on the door. Perhaps as judge of the decorating contest, she’d decided to put herself above the fray.

I rang her bell, but there was no answer. I was just turning back down the path when I saw the mailman coming up the street.

“Hey, there!” he waved, the sun glinting off the hair on his well-muscled forearms. I still couldn’t get over the difference between this guy and my mail carrier, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Frankenstein’s aide-de-camp, Igor.

I guess everything gets more attractive when you live north of Wilshire.

“How’s your investigation coming along?”

“Slowly,” I sighed. “This is where Prudence Bascomb lives, right?”

“Yep,” he said, coming up the path with her mail. “But she’s never home during the day. She’s an attorney.” He deposited the letters in her slot with brisk efficiency. “Has her own law office. In Century City, I think.”

“Thanks. I’ll try reaching her there.”

“No problem,” he said, hustling off on his rounds.

I whipped out my cell phone and got the phone number for Prudence Bascomb, Esquire, then called her office to set up an appointment.

“Her first available slot is two weeks from Monday,” her secretary informed me curtly.

The Law Biz was clearly booming for Prudence.

“I was hoping for something a bit sooner. Like today.”

“Are you kidding?” she said, as shocked as if I’d just asked her for a loan. “That’s out of the question.”

“Just tell Ms. Bascomb I want to talk to her about Garth Janken’s death.”

“Hold on,” she commanded. For the next few seconds I was treated to the soothing strains of classical music, and then Ms. Congeniality came back on the line.

“Can you be here in twenty minutes?”

I could, and I was.





Chapter


! Eight #

Prudence Bascomb got up to greet me, a tall, cool redhead in a designer suit that cost more than a Kia.

To call her fortieth floor corner office “impressive” would be like calling the Grand Canyon “large.” Furnished with sleek modern furniture straight out of a decorator’s showroom and carpeting so plush I could hardly see my Reeboks, it was an executive’s dream come true.