Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(68)

232

Laura Levine

But nobody answered the door, and satisfied that the coast was clear, I crept around the side of the house, testing for open windows.

Everything was sealed tighter than a Beverly Hills facelift.

And suddenly I was overcome with doubts. What if none of the windows were open and I had to force open one of the doors? I’d brought along my professional Breaking and Entering Tool (a shish kebab skewer I’d grabbed at the last minute), but really, I had no idea how to force open a door. I had a hard enough time getting the wrapping off a CD. What made me think I’d be able to hack my way past a dead bolt?

And even if I did, what if Cathy had an alarm system? True, there weren’t any security signs out front, but what if she had one?

Just when I was about to slink back to the Corolla in defeat, I spotted a small window above a jasmine bush at the back of the house. The bush was camouflaging the window, but on closer inspection, I saw that it was open.

Thank heavens. I wouldn’t have to force any doors and set off any alarms.

I scurried to the window and tossed my empty Christmas package under the jasmine bush. Then I hoisted myself up to the ledge, which was no easy feat with those prickly jasmine branches scratching my fanny.

Shoving my upper body in the room, I saw that it was a guest bathroom. What a lucky break that Cathy had left the window open.

And that’s when my luck came to a screeching halt. The upper half of my body sailed through the window without incident, but sad to say, my lower half did not have such an easy time of it. Somewhere in the dreaded hip/tush zone, I’d come to a standstill. Yes, like 99 percent of all the bathing suits I’ve ever tried on in my life, the window frame was too small for me. My hips simply wouldn’t squeeze through.

In defense of my hips, I should tell you that the window THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

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was pretty darn small. That’s probably why Cathy had left it open in the first place. Clearly she wasn’t expecting any anorexic cat burglars. I should’ve realized I might not have squeezed through, but I hadn’t, and it was too late now. I’d just have to climb down and give up this stupid breaking and entering plan.

I started to push myself back out of the window. But, to my horror, I couldn’t budge.

Oh, crud. I was stuck.

What a nightmare. Eventually one of the neighbors was bound to notice a tush hanging out of Cathy Janken’s house.

Why the heck had I scarfed down all those chicken wings last night? Not to mention breakfast—and lunch—this morning.

And that last handful of fries. What if those last few fries had wedged me in for good?

By now I was in an advanced state of panic. Any minute now the cops would come and arrest me! My name would be splashed all over the papers. I could see the headlines: FANNY

BANDIT FOILED IN REAR ENTRY!

Just when I was cursing the day I ever heard of Seymour Fielder and Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, I noticed a jar of hand lotion on the bathroom counter. Could I possibly use that as a lubricant and grease my way loose? It was a long shot, but worth a try. I reached for the lotion, but it was just out of my grasp. Grinding my teeth in frustration, I tried once more.

And then a miracle happened. Somehow, in stretching my muscles, I must’ve loosened up that fraction of an inch I’d needed to set myself free. Because suddenly I found myself popping through Cathy’s window like a human champagne cork.

I slid onto her imported tile counter, gasping for air, and clinging to a towel rack for dear life.

Me and my hips had made it, after all.



234

Laura Levine

Plucking jasmine blossoms off my rear, I set out in search of Garth’s home office. After everything I’d just been through, I sure hoped he had one. I found what I was looking for at the front of the house, across from the living room: A masculine library cum office, with built-in bookcases, leather furniture and hunting prints galore. Very British Lord of the Manor.

But what caught my eye was the cherrywood desk by the window, complete with laptop and hand-tooled leather desk accessories.

Wasting no time, I scooted over to it and began rifling through the drawers.

The top drawer contained the usual assortment of rubber bands and paperclips, as well as a bottle of Viagra and a lifetime membership card from The Hair Club For Men.

I now knew that the impressive mane of hair I’d seen in Garth’s portrait wasn’t his own, and that he’d needed a little help in the dipsy doodle department. All very interesting, but no help whatsoever in my search for incriminating evidence against Peter Roberts.

I hoped I’d have better luck with the two deep file drawers on either side of the desk. The first one contained nothing but some old computer manuals and a pair of gym socks. And the other was locked.

Oh, well. I’d just have to break out my trusty shish kebab skewer and bust the lock open.

But, as I was about to discover, shish kebab skewers are totally useless when it comes to breaking a lock. After a frustrating ten-minute struggle, I gave up on the skewer and finally managed to pry the drawer open with Garth’s Mark Cross letter opener.

Much to my relief, I saw that it was filled with files.

I quickly started rifling through them. First, under the P’s for Peter. Then the R’s for Roberts.

Nothing.

Then I remembered what Sylvia overheard Garth saying to Peter: I know what you did back in Ohio.