Death of the Couch Potato's Wife: Cozy Christian Mysteries (Women Sleuth, Female Detective Suspense) Read online

  He reached into his back pocket and produced a rumpled rectangle. “Here’s my card. Give me a call if you think of anything.”

  Before I could respond, a beat up white Oldsmobile swerved into the cul-de-sac and skidded to a dramatic stop in front of the Flynns’ house. Harry McCoy stepped out. I rolled my eyes and caught Chief Romeo doing the same thing. Thirty-something Harry thrust his broad shoulders back. As he strode toward us, he tucked his khaki-colored shirt into his slim-cut matching pants. A few curls of dark hair escaped from the top of his shirt. Despite the winter breeze, Harry didn’t wear a coat. Come to think of it, had I ever seen him in a coat? He probably thought himself too macho for something as inconsequential as warmth and comfort.

  From what I’d heard—thanks to my recent involvement with the rumor mill—Harry wanted to be a part of the town’s police force, only there were no openings. So what did he do? The next best thing—he headed up the Neighborhood Watch patrol. He took his position very seriously. When my husband locked himself out of the house and tried to crawl in through a window, Harry had pulled him back outside single-handedly. It was no small task, considering Kent weighed 200 pounds.

  “I heard the siren and came right over.” Harry’s prominent chin jutted out as he gazed over the cul-de-sac, his domain. He looked at Chief Romeo. “So, what’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Harry.” Chief Romeo shook his head, chewing as he did so. He must have found that leftover green egg. “This is official police business, nothing that the Neighborhood Watch needs to be involved with.”

  “I beg to differ.” Harry spoke with slow precision. “I’m in charge of keeping this neighborhood safe. So why don’t you fill me in?”

  Chief Romeo sighed and shifted, the action causing his stomach to bounce like a water balloon. “Harry, I’m going to have to ask you to back off. You’re not a part of police investigations. How many times have we been over this?”

  Harry raised his hand in the air. “I’ve sworn to serve this community. And that’s exactly what I intend on doing. I will not let my neighbors down here in Dullington Estates.”

  I stuffed Chief Romeo’s card into my pocket and headed across the street. I’d heard enough of the conversation, and I knew I was no longer needed. I’d given my statement, and Chief Romeo would be in touch if he needed me.

  Babe waved at me enthusiastically as I walked past the squad car. The poor officer sat with shoulders slumped, as if listening to Babe exhausted him.

  I continued on home, desperate to get away from the crazy around me—which meant avoiding Donna and Tiara, despite their gossip-hungry eyes.

  I still couldn’t believe it. How could Candace be dead? How did she die? Was it an accident—did she choke on a pork rind? I certainly wouldn’t guess that based on the position in which I’d found her. She’d looked too peaceful sprawled out on the couch.

  That was it! Candace had looked too peaceful.

  Like she’d been positioned on that sofa.

  Which would mean someone killed her.

  My eyes fluttered open. I lay on my couch.

  I sprang forward, my gaze darting around for a remote and pork rinds. And Chief Romeo. And muscle-bound Harry. And crime scene tape. Anything else to tell me I’d died just like Candace.

  What I saw was my house as my neighbors would see it, if they’d found me here dead on the couch. I’d rushed out earlier, knocking over a potted plant, and dirt still stretched across the hardwood floor. Laundry sat in piles on the loveseat. And who could ignore the dust that coated every available surface? I hadn’t quite taken to house cleaning as my husband had hoped.

  “Honey, are you okay?” Kent leaned over me.

  I gasped and pressed my hand over my heart. Kent. He’d been sitting in a chair beside me. Just Kent. Not a killer.

  How was I? I seemed to be alive. But I had to get off this couch. Maybe it was the couch that killed Candace. Maybe the furniture had taken on a mind of its own and—

  No sooner had I stood than Kent propelled me back down. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I frowned. Kent didn’t understand. Had we ever understood each other, or was understanding simply an act people perfected during dating and completely abandoned after marriage? “I don’t want to die on the couch.”

  “You’re not going to die on the couch, honey.”

  I stared into my husband’s teddy-bear brown eyes. I loved those eyes. They were what first attracted me to him my sophomore year at Northwestern. His oval face had gotten fuller with age. I liked the change. He was too skinny when we got married. The fitness nut had run cross-country for our college and maintained his slim build, up until recently. Now he just looked normal.

  “Then where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where will I die?”

  “You’re not going to die. You’re just traumatized. Babe caught me on the front walk and told me all about it. Give it time.” He sat down in a ladder-back chair beside me. A football game cheered in the distance. The announcer proclaimed a touchdown.

  “Yes!” I heard my loving husband say.

  Glad he was so concerned about me that he couldn’t enjoy the game.

  Kent was mesmerized by the tube. He used to stare at me like that. Six years of marriage later, things had changed. It wasn’t that we were unhappy. We were just—comfortable, I supposed.

  “Kent?”

  He turned toward me and picked up my hand with both of his. I pulled myself up slightly and rubbed my eyes, trying to recall the chain of events that had played out. They flashed back, all too vividly. Still, I found myself asking, “What happened?”

  “Candace is dead, honey.”

  I bit back a sarcastic really? “I know. What happened to me?”

  He patted my hand. “You just had a little panic attack. It’s not unusual after something like you saw.”

  How long had I been out of commission? Were there any developments since then? “Have you heard anything about her? About what happened?”

  He shook his head, and I noticed he needed a haircut. His brown hair touched the top of his ears. “No, sweetie. I don’t think the police know anything yet.”

  “How about Babe? Is she okay?”

  “Last I heard, she was trying to organize a press conference in her front lawn. Chief Romeo put the kibosh on that. Besides, Charlie Henderson would have been the only person there to ask questions.” Charlie was the editor and reporter of the Boring Times.

  What a contrast. In my former life, I’d worked in public relations. I’d been close to being named partner when Kent decided we should move. Kent said I should take it easy here before looking for another job—like there were any.

  My smile only lasted a minute. I squeezed my eyes shut as flashes from today went off in my head. I tried to get the images out of my mind. I couldn’t. I still saw Candace. I smelled the rotting trash needing to be taken out. I heard Oprah blaring in the background. I grasped Kent’s hand more firmly.

  “I found her.” My throat burned as I said the words. Why had I let Babe talk me into going into that house? How much counseling would it take for me to recover from this?

  “I know. It’s going to take time for all of us to process what happened.” He stroked my hair. “Especially you.”

  I sank back into the couch. I’d never get over the image of her dead body lying there with the remote and pork rinds.

  Nor would I get over the image of my husband watching football in the midst of my trauma.

  Chapter 3

  “Jerry Flynn here. I’m also known around town as the Couch King. Come and see my furniture showcase.” Dressed in tights, a tunic, an oversized crown, and a robe trimmed with faux fur, Jerry sprawled back onto his throne—a couch. “At the Couch King, we give all of our customers the royal treatment.”

  That commercial seemed to come on every fifteen minutes during the hours between breakfast and lunch. Jerry couldn’t get enough of himself.

  Speaking o
f the royal treatment, I had an unwanted visit to make in thirty minutes. At 11:00, to be exact. Hillary Kaye had summoned me by phone. Hillary was the president of the Homeowners’Association, and to say she ruled the neighborhood with an iron first would be an understatement. People feared standing up to the woman, afraid she’d slap a fine on them for some kind of infringement. Rumor had it that she even had the power to foreclose on a home if she saw fit.

  So how would I get to her house today? Walk across Dullington Estates? Take the car in case a fast getaway proved needful? Nah. I would walk to her place. Sure, the weather remained frigid outside, but since moving to suburbia, I’d quickly learned that driving everywhere packed on the pounds. My hips proved it.

  I’d walked everywhere in Chicago, and I liked it that way.

  I sighed and clicked the TV off. Yes, Jerry preferred to be known around town as the Couch King, but everyone really called him the Couch Potato King. His contribution to his fledgling business was spending the entire budget on low-grade commercials. The rest of his time he stayed in his office and watched TV. Believe me, Candace had told me all about it— numerous times.

  If Jerry was the Couch Potato King, his wife then became known as the Couch Potato’s Wife. Of course, no one said that to her face. But believe me, things got around here in Boring, Indiana.

  Poor Candace.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the way she’d been left dead.

  Three days had passed since I found her. For as long as I could remember, I haven’t even been able to look at bodies at funerals or viewings. The thought of stumbling upon a freshly- dead one still caused me to go cold. And the thought never strayed far from my mind. It always popped up at the worst times—actually, all the time.

  Candace had been a force to be reckoned with. I hadn’t completely figured her out, but there was something about her I liked. Once I got past her constant complaining, her negative demeanor, and overly-assertive personality, I saw Candace as someone who’d resigned herself to a life she didn’t want. I’d been rooting for her to find a slice of happiness again. Maybe if she could, I could too.

  I guess that wouldn’t be happening. Maybe on either count?

  Something banged in the distance. Someone was at the door. I left the living room window and pulled open the front door. There was Babe, wearing a Kiss Me, I’m Irish T-shirt that showed off the fat rolls at her stomach. A wide grin stretched across her glossy, pink lips.

  “Hey, chickaroonie.” She barged inside my house, and I could smell Philosophy, her favorite perfume. Hers and millions of twenty-somethings. “What’s up with you? Haven’t talked to you in a few days, so I wanted to get the nine-one-one. You know, gab, shoot the breeze, catch up a bit.”

  Four-one-one. It’s four-one-one, Babe.

  I followed her with my gaze, wondering how she managed to get inside so effortlessly like that. I gave up and closed the door behind me. “Nothing new here. And you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m knitting.”

  “Knitting? That doesn’t sound like you.” It actually sounded like an activity someone her age would participate in. She always stayed far away from those things.

  “What’s old is new.” She stopped at the doorway to my living room, placed a fist at her hips, and did a little shimmy that made me realize she’d been watching Shakira videos again. “Did you hear the latest?”

  “The latest?”

  “On Candace.”

  “No, I sure haven’t.” My pulse pounded at my ears. Boy, did I want to hear the latest. And Babe was just the person to tell me. She never disappointed.

  “She was poisoned.”

  I touched my throat, feeling as if I’d just swallowed arsenic. “Poisoned? Are you sure?”

  “That’s what Romeo told Annie, who told Emma Jean, who told me. Annie and Romeo used to date, you see. He would like to date her again, so he tells her things he’s mum about to other people in an effort to win her over. It’ll never happen.”

  I leaned against the wall by my front door, unsure if I could move at the moment. “Tell me more.”

  “Annie just doesn’t think that Romeo’s her type—”

  “About the murder, Babe.”

  “Oh. Well, they tested the pork rinds. Apparently, someone put ground up sleeping pills on them. Then they smothered Candace with something. She died peacefully, they said.”

  “So it was murder.”

  “Of course.”

  Of course. What else could it be here in the most peaceful little town in the Midwest? I swallowed the sarcasm. “Do they have suspects?”

  “The husband is always a suspect.”

  Jerry. Could he have killed his wife? Sure, he was lazy. But a killer? Honestly, he was too lazy to think up a plan for murdering his wife. Maybe if the crime had been sloppy, he could be guilty. But something that would require careful planning, like poisoning pork rinds? No way. “I’m surprised he’s not back from South Carolina yet.”

  “No one can find him.”

  I straightened. “No one can find him?”

  “I guess Romeo called the resort where he was supposed to be staying, but they said he never showed up.”

  A million scenarios raced through my mind. Had someone killed Jerry as well? Was his body just waiting to be discovered somewhere? Would I be the one to trip over it too? I crossed my arms over my chest. How could this happen in safe little Boring, Indiana? In Chicago, I’d expect it. But not here.

  “So, you wanna go do Zumba with me?” Babe grabbed her leg and attempted to pull it toward her chest. She nearly toppled over instead. I quickly grabbed her arm to steady her. She straightened with a “harrumph.”

  “Since when are you doing Zumba?” That would explain her earlier shimmy, I supposed.

  “Since Karen Jones one street over started offering classes at her house.” Babe leaned closer. “But don’t tell Hillary. I’m sure it’s a violation of the Homeowners’ Association somehow.”

  “Speaking of Hillary,” I glanced at my watch. “She called and asked if I could meet with her today. Something about doing damage control in the neighborhood after Candace—you know.” The image appeared again, and I shook my head to dislodge it.

  Babe walked toward the door, jabbing me with her knuckles as she passed. That woman had strength for her age. “Okay, chickaroonie. Take care of yourself.”

  And as quickly as Babe had appeared, she was gone.

  I only had twenty minutes before meeting Hillary, so I’d better get going. Hillary despised tardiness. At our monthly Homeowners’ Association meetings, she locked the door precisely when the meeting started so no latecomers could get in.

  Yet, she wanted more people to participate.

  The woman had her opinions, for sure. Her methods, well, those were another story. She and Candace could have had a tight competition over who held the “Most Despised” title in the neighborhood.

  I wrapped a colorful scarf around my neck, pulled a stocking cap over my hair, and shut the door behind me.

  The last time I’d seen Hillary had been at one of the Homeowners’ Association meetings. I went only because I had nothing better to do than torture myself. Very few things qualified as worse than sitting through a meeting detailing all the many rules of the neighborhood. The best part—we paid a monthly fee for someone else to tell us how we could keep up our house. No basketball hoops out front, no changing the oil on our property, no above-ground pools in the backyard. Excessive, if you asked me. But you signed a contract when you moved into the neighborhood, vowing you’d obey the rules and regulations. Of course, it was only after you moved in that you realized exactly what all the rules were. By then, you’d signed your life away and it was too late. They had you.

  Not even fifteen minutes later, I walked up the sidewalk to Hillary’s perfectly manicured property. Even in the winter the lawn appeared green and lush. The flowerbeds still had a touch of color to them. The bushes were neat and trimmed. How did she do it? She had
three kids to keep her busy. I couldn’t keep up my lawn and I didn’t even have a dog.

  Hillary greeted me at the door with her normal plastic smile and icy blue eyes. “You’re punctual. Good. We have a lot to discuss.”

  The slim blonde ushered me inside her ultra-clean house. Her home reminded me of Hillary—not beautiful, but neat and attractive with everything in order. She walked briskly to the camel-back couch and perched on the cushion’s edge. With precision, she draped her hands over her knees and looked at me like I was her first-round draft pick.

  Did I just use a football analogy? I’d better be careful, or I’d be tempted to join Kent in watching guys dressed in tights chase a ball across the field.

  “I’m really worried about how Candace’s death will affect everyone in Dullington Estates. I’m hoping you have ideas on how we can be proactive and head off a disaster.”

  I lowered myself into a chair across from her, feeling as tense as Hillary looked.

  “Disaster?” Was I missing something? Had For Sale signs appeared up and down the street overnight? Were middle-class white collar workers suddenly forming street gangs?

  Her gaze was so sharp that prickles shivered up my arms. “A murder in the neighborhood is the worst thing that could happen here. I try to see to it that everyone in the association is safe, that we don’t succumb to the lures of other neighborhoods that are riddled with crime and bad lawn ornaments.”

  “Of course.” I resisted a smirk.

  “So, how can we assure people that they’re safe? Do you have any ideas?”

  I shifted in my seat and tried to find the right words. “Are people safe? I mean, a killer is out there somewhere. We don’t want to give people false security.”

  Hillary twitched like I’d just thrown ice water on her face. “Of course they’re safe. This wasn’t the work of a psycho killer who picks random victims.”

  I cleared my throat, realizing I needed to tread carefully. I had to draw on all of my experience with office politics and dealing with difficult people. Basically, I had to become plastic also. “Am I missing something? I mean, how do you know that for sure? You have to be pretty psycho to kill someone.”