Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(69)

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

235

I looked under the O’s. And sure enough, there it was: A file labeled OHIO.

Inside I found a single piece of paper: a reprint of a newspaper clipping from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, dating back twenty years, about the arrest of Peter Robert Simmons, 19, for grand theft auto.

You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Peter Roberts and Peter Robert Simmons were one and the same. Young Peter had no doubt gone straight, dropped the Simmons from his name, and become a successful attorney.

And he would’ve gone on suing people happily ever after if Garth hadn’t dug up his criminal past and threatened to rat on him to the bar association.

All of which meant Peter Roberts had a perfect motive for murder.

That clipping had just catapulted him to the Number One spot on my suspect list. I debated about whether I should take it with me and hand deliver it to the cops, but I decided against it. Removing it from the house without a warrant would probably be tampering with state’s evidence. I’d just have to leave it there, and tell the cops about it later.

I was putting it back in the drawer when I saw a familiar name on one of the files. In my earlier haste to find Peter’s name, I hadn’t noticed it. But now it popped out like a neon sign. Right behind PLUMBING EXPENSES, I saw a folder labeled PRUDENCE.

I reached for it eagerly, and pulled out an 8 x10 photo of a gorgeous redhead, posed against a velvet backdrop, wearing nothing but a smile and a Gstring. Down at the bottom of the picture, it said: Brandy Alexander, Stripper Extraordinaire.

I’d never seen that naked body before, but the face was unmistakable. It was Prudence Bascomb. A lot younger and a lot trashier. But it was Prudence, all right.

Holy Moses. Garth hadn’t been bribing Prudence to win the Christmas decorating contest. He’d been blackmailing 236

Laura Levine

her. For all I knew, he was putting the squeeze on her for money, too.

What a mother lode of evidence I’d just uncovered. Between digging up dirt on Peter and Prudence, Garth had been one busy little extortioner.

Thrilled with my discoveries, I returned Prudence’s file to the drawer and headed back out to the foyer. I just hoped Cathy wouldn’t notice the mangled lock on the desk.

I was about to slip out the front door, when I glanced into the living room and saw the bowl of candy canes that had been there the day I first visited Cathy.

Gosh, they looked good.

Oh, for crying out loud. What was I thinking? Hadn’t I just gone through the humiliation of having my hips wedged in a bathroom window? I couldn’t possibly allow myself to feed them one more empty calorie! Absolutely not. No way.

No how.

As if.

Two seconds later I was sprinting into the living room, reaching for one of the little suckers.

Just as I was about to grab it, I heard the front door open.

“Come on in,” I heard Cathy saying.

Damn it! Cathy was home, and she had someone with her.

I looked around for a place to hide. Not a closet or armoire in sight. So I made a mad dash for the sofa and crouched down behind it.

Please don’t let them come into the living room, I prayed.

Let them go to the kitchen or the dining room. Anywhere but the living room.

“Come on into the living room,” Cathy said.

Argggh.

“I can’t stay long, babe,” I heard a man reply as they walked into the room. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

Whoa, Nellie. There was a man in the house and he was calling Cathy “babe.” Something told me this wasn’t a condolence call.

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“C’mon, Jimmy,” Cathy cooed. “Work can wait. And besides, didn’t you have a present you wanted to give me?”

“So I did, dollface. So I did.”

Before I knew it, Cathy and this Jimmy guy were on the sofa, going at it like two crazed rabbits. Clothes started flying—lace bra, thong undies, a pair of boxer shorts. Finally, a man’s blue denim shirt sailed over the back of the sofa and landed at my feet. And not just any blue denim shirt. I blinked in amazement when I saw a US Postal Service logo on the front.

Yikes. It looked like Cathy Janken was having an affair with the hunky neighborhood mailman!

I’ll spare you the details of what happened next.

Let’s just say I’m surprised they didn’t set fire to the sofa cushions.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Cathy sighed when it was over. “We’re going to be so happy together. You’ll never have to lift another mail pouch for as long as you live. I’ve got more than enough money for both of us. Garth left me a very wealthy woman.”

“You know I don’t care about money,” Jimmy protested feebly.

Yeah, right. Just like I didn’t care about pepperoni pizza.

“I really gotta get back to work now, babe,” he sighed. “I still got mail to deliver.”

Acck. The moment I’d been dreading. Any second now, he was going to reach behind the sofa to pick up his shirt and discover me cowering there.

I thought about making a run for the door, but was too terrified to move.

“Don’t go,” Cathy pleaded. “Not yet. How about a nice hot bath for two?”

Yes! Yes! Please take a bath! You both need one after the gymnastics you’ve just been through!