Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(73)

“Sure. We keep ’em for six months.”

“You think I could take a look at them?”

“Sorry,” he said, with a lugubrious shake of his head, “I’m not allowed to divulge personal information about our customers.”

Now before I write another syllable, you’ve got to promise that what happened next stays between us. Don’t go ratting on me to Century National, okay?

In spite of the stern warning I’d received from Elizabeth Drake, I whipped out my Century National insurance card and gave one last performance as Jaine Austen, Insurance Investigator. (I swear, Elizabeth, if you’re reading this, I’ll never do it again!)

“You’re really investigating a murder?” Francis asked, his eyes bugging with excitement.

“Yes,” I nodded solemnly. “And I need to see those books.”

Lucky for me, Francis was a gullible soul, and minutes later I was sitting behind the counter poring through a thick looseleaf binder of Cap Shack back orders.

It wasn’t long before I came across what I’d been hoping to find—a work sheet for a red Fiedler on the Roof cap.

All along I assumed someone had stolen one of Seymour’s caps to sabotage Garth’s roof. But I was wrong. Someone had the cap specially made to order. Someone who later planned to take advantage of Willard Cox’s very public feud with Garth and frame him for the murder.

Eagerly, I checked out the customer’s name.

Claudia Jamison.

It had to be a pseudonym. Oh, well. What did I expect?

That the killer would use her real name?

But at least now I knew it was a woman.

The question was—which woman? Cathy, the cheating THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

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wife? Prudence, the ex-stripper? Or Libby, the Stepford homemaker?

Unfortunately, “Claudia” had paid for the cap in cash, so there was no way to track her down through a credit card.

“Do you remember this woman?” I asked Francis, showing him the work order. “Claudia Jamison?”

I had a feeling this guy had trouble remembering his own name, but it was worth a shot.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “You know how many customers we get in here?”

Not many from the looks of it, but I wasn’t about to contradict him.

“Wait a minute. Here’s my supervisor. Maybe he’ll remember.”

I looked up to see Francis’s “supervisor,” a beanpole of a kid who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

“Hey, Denzel,” Francis said to his boss. “This lady’s an insurance investigator. She’s investigating a murder.”

“Cool.” Denzel smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces.

“Do you remember this order, Denzel?” I asked, showing him the work sheet. “For a Fiedler on the Roof baseball cap?”

His eyes lit up with what looked like actual intelligence.

“As a matter of fact, I do. We made a mistake on it, and had to do it over again. The first time we wrote Fiddler on the Roof.

“Actually,” he said, pointing to the red cap in the window, “that’s our mistake over there.”

I gave myself a mental pat on the back. That’s what I’d thought had happened.

“Do you remember the lady who ordered it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Really?” I felt like kissing him, braces and all. “What did she look like?”

“She was a tiny lady, wearing a pastel sweat suit.”

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Laura Levine

Ta-da. Puzzle solved. At last I knew who’d climbed up Garth’s roof.

Not tall, statuesque Prudence. Or plump, stumpy Libby.

Neither one of them was remotely tiny. But Cathy, a delicate doll of a woman, fit the description to a “T.” And she had a pastel sweat suit; she’d been wearing one the day I first came to visit.

What’s more, her initials were C. J. As in Claudia Jamison.

Yes, folks. It looked like I’d just found myself a killer.





Chapter


! Twelve #

It had been ages since I’d scarfed down that corn dog at lunch, and by the time I got home, I was starving.

And I wasn’t the only one. Prozac looked up from her perch on top of the TV and greeted me with a hostile stare.

Where the heck have you been? I’m fainting with hunger.

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” I said, dumping my Christmas gifts on the sofa. “There are cats in Asia who could live for a week on one of your snacks.”

Just move it, okay?

After feeding Prozac a gourmet dinner of Luscious Liver Tidbits and grabbing a fistful of pretzels for myself, I put in a call to Lt. DiMartelli, eager to tell him about Claudia Jamison aka Cathy Janken. But he wasn’t there, so I left a message, begging him to pretty please get back to me as soon as possible.

I figured I’d wait for his call soaking in the tub with a glass of wine and a pepperoni pizza. But when I checked my phone messages, all plans for a catered bath went flying out the window.

Hey, Jaine. Tyler Girard’s voice came on the machine. I’m calling to remind you tonight’s the night of the L.A. Girlfriends Christmas party. Hope you haven’t forgotten.

Acck! I sure had.