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Book 4 in DEATH BY CHOCOLATE series
from USA Today Bestselling Author, Sally Berneathy
A phone call at two a.m. is never good news. But there’s bad news
and then there’s strange news. Lindsay’s two a.m. call is a plea for
help. There’s a woman in Fred’s closet and he can’t get her out.
Their new neighbor, Sophie Fleming, has taken up sleepwalking,
straight into Fred’s house and his bedroom closet. She’s having
nightmares about the brutal stabbing of a little girl named Carolyn. But
Carolyn was her imaginary childhood friend.
Lindsay, Fred, Trent, Paula and Henry must solve a twenty-year old
murder with no bodies, no DNA and no proof the victims ever existed.
How can someone who never lived be murdered? Why is Sophie seeing it
happen in Fred's bedroom? Why is she hiding in his closet? Will his
clothes even fit her?
Chapter
One
Kansas City in
August. People vacation in hell because it’s cooler there.
The air
conditioning in my Death by Chocolate kitchen shot craps just before
noon on a 102/90 day…a hundred and two degrees, ninety percent
humidity. My shop is actually in Pleasant Grove, a suburb of Kansas
City, but it’s all the same in terms of weather.
By the time I
got home that afternoon my T-shirt, shorts and face were streaked
with sweat and chocolate, and my ponytail was a mass of red frizz.
The thought of
meeting somebody I’d never met before ranked way down on my wish
list, somewhere between sitting in a sauna for an hour while wearing
a fur coat and going on a date with my ex-husband.
So when I saw
Fred, my next-door neighbor, standing on the porch of the formerly
vacant house across the street, talking to a woman, I hesitated, torn
between nosiness and a desire to rush into my house, strip off my
clothes and stand in the shower until the cold water ran out.
The house across
the street had been vacant for years except for assorted rodents and
roaches and Paula’s ex-husband who briefly hid in the attic to spy
on her. But I guess that last part’s redundant. He qualifies for
either of the first two categories.
A couple of
months ago workmen suddenly converged on the three-story structure
and launched into an extensive renovation. The jungle of trees,
bushes and weeds became a sedate lawn. They painted the house a blue
gray color, then the fish scale siding white and the gingerbread trim
maroon. The house used to remind me of an elegant, aging dowager
who’d seen better days. After the redo, it looked like a regal
Victorian lady in her best ball gown.
And Fred, who
was half hermit, half nerd and half mystery man (yes, I know that
equals one and a half, which is a perfect description of Fred) was
standing on the front porch of that house, talking to a beautiful
woman, probably the new owner.
For a fleeting
instant I considered giving in to curiosity, dashing over and
insinuating myself into the conversation in a friendly,
welcome-to-the-neighborhood sort of way. But then a gust of oven-hot
wind blew a stray wisp of hair onto my cheek where it stuck in the
sweat and chocolate. I took that as a sign.
I ducked my head
and kept walking from my doddering garage toward my slightly more
stable house. There’s a time for curiosity and a time for hiding.
Hair stuck to the cheek is a time for hiding.
I had my foot on
the first step of my front porch when I heard Fred call my name. I
won’t say he has eyes in the back of his head because that would be
silly. His hair would get in the way. But he does have a way of
seeing everything going on around him.
I peeled the bit
of hair from the sweat on my face, tucked it into my pony tail,
squared my shoulders and walked across the street, down the brand new
sidewalk and up to the brand new wraparound porch with pristine white
columns.
Fred’s white
hair, like the white columns, was immaculate as was everything else
about him. He wasn’t even perspiring. The afternoon sun glinted off
the lenses of his black framed glasses as he turned to me. I
preferred his old wire frames but he listened to my opinion about as
often as my cat did. “Lindsay Powell, this is our new neighbor,
Sophie Fleming.”
Sophie smiled,
teeth white and sparkling against olive skin, and extended a slender,
well-manicured hand. She was beautiful, even up close. She had
flawless skin and a smooth curtain of long dark hair with no sign of
frizz even in the heat and humidity. Although she’d obviously been
unpacking, her beige shirt and khaki shorts looked fresh and barely
rumpled. Standing next to Sophie, I felt even grungier than I had a
few minutes ago.
I accepted her
hand. Cool and dry. Of course it was. “Welcome to the
neighborhood.” I smiled, hoping I didn’t have spinach stuck in my
teeth. I hadn’t eaten any spinach that day, but Sophie’s
perfection made me worry anyway. “Place looks great.”
“Thank you.”
She glanced back at the house. “This has been a labor of love. My
parents and I lived here when I was a little girl. Part of our rent
was to fix the place up. My dad was good at that. He did quite a bit
of work before…” She hesitated for a brief instant, and it seemed
a cloud passed between the sun and her face. Of course it didn’t.
Not in August. “Before we moved to Nebraska,” she continued. “It
broke my heart to find it had become so rundown.”
We knew all that
already, of course, thanks to Fred’s prowess on the Internet. Well,
we knew she and her family moved to Nebraska when she was five. We
didn’t know why that cloud came over her face when she talked about
it. Assuming there really was a cloud. Maybe I was just looking for
some slight imperfection in my new neighbor so I wouldn’t have to
hate her.
“We’re very
glad you’ve returned.” Fred smiled.
Dirty old man.
“Yes, we are.”
I really was. I liked her instinctively in spite of her being
gorgeous and having straight hair and enough money to restore the
house to showplace condition and not sweating in the heat.
“As soon as I
get everything unpacked and set up, I’d love to have both of you
over for dinner and a tour of the place, if you’d like.”
“We’d like!
Fred will bring wine because he’s a connoisseur and I’ll bring
dessert because I’m chocolatier.”
She beamed.
“Wonderful.”
“Since you’re
still in the process of all that unpacking, why don’t you come to
my house on Saturday night for a cookout? You can meet another of
your neighbors, Paula, and my boyfriend, Trent.”
She beamed even
more brightly. “I’d love to. What can I bring?”
“Just
yourself. Moving into a new house qualifies you for a pass.”
Fred and I left
her to continue her unpacking.
“Do you think
you should have checked with Paula before committing her to Saturday
night?” Fred asked as we strolled across the street. “Maybe she
has plans.”
“Are you
kidding? Paula’s only plans for Saturday nights are to stay home
and watch Toy Story with Zach for the hundredth time.”
“You didn’t
ask me if I had plans.”
“Do you?”
“None I can’t
change for a chance to have dessert at your place.”
I grinned.
“Right answer.”
“I think
Sophie was grateful for the invitation.”
“Probably. New
in town, doesn’t know anybody yet. She may not be so grateful once
she gets to know us.”
“She seems
nice,” he said.
“You like
her.”
He frowned. “Of
course I like her. She’s done nothing to merit my dislike. I even
like you in spite of the number of things you’ve done to merit my
dislike.”
I scowled at
him. “Name one thing I’ve done that my chocolate doesn’t
compensate for.”
“Did you bring
home anything?”
“Chocolate
chip cookies. Your favorite.”
“I’m making
spaghetti with homemade pasta and garlic bread. It should be ready in
about two hours.”
“I’ll be
there with chocolate on and sweat off.”
I went to my
house and Fred went to his.
King Henry, the
cat who adopted me shortly after I moved in, ran to greet me as soon
as I opened the front door. He rubbed against my leg and looked up
with big blue eyes. He didn’t care if I was stinky and sweaty. Fred
loves me for my chocolate and Henry loves me for my can opener. It’s
good to be loved.
*~*~*
I slept really
soundly that night. Meeting Sophie and knowing she was living in what
used to be a creepy old house somehow made the neighborhood feel
safer. Being in an air conditioned bedroom after the heated kitchen
probably helped too.
When the sound
of Wild Bull Rider pulled me from a deep sleep, I sat bolt
upright in bed, heart pounding, and grabbed for my phone. Wild
Bull Rider is Fred’s ringtone. I don’t know that he’s ever
ridden any wild bulls, but I don’t know that he hasn’t. One thing
I did know, he never called after ten o’clock at night or before
nine in the morning. My clock clearly said two a.m. No good news ever
comes at two in the morning.
A thousand
horrible possibilities flitted through my mind in the second it took
to accept the call.
Aliens had come
to take Fred back to his home planet and he was calling to say
good-bye.
A burglar had
broken into his house, stolen his phone and was pocket-dialing me.
Fred had
awakened with a sudden craving for brownies.
Ridiculous, of
course, but nothing compared to the reality.
“Lindsay, I
need you to come over here.” His voice was firm, his words precise,
but I detected an edge of panic.
“Are you all
right? Are you hurt? Have you fallen and can’t get up?” Fred
wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old either. He’d always seemed
ageless and invulnerable. The thought that he might be hurt and need
my help clenched my heart into a cold, painful knot.
“Do you
remember Sophie Fleming, the woman who moved into the house across
the street?”
“Did you call
me at two a.m. just to test my memory? Yes, I remember her. Brunette
with hair down to her butt and no perspiration on her brow. Did I
pass the test? Can I go back to sleep now?”
“No. I told
you I need you here. Sophie Fleming won’t come out of my closet.”
It’s often
difficult to tell if Fred’s being funny or serious. His expression
and tone rarely change. I couldn’t see his expression at that
moment, and his tone was calm but with just a hint of desperation. I
decided to play it straight.
“Why is Sophie
Fleming in your closet?”
“If I knew the
answer to that question, I wouldn’t be calling you.”
“Which closet
is she in?” I didn’t suppose it made a lot of difference, but I
was trying to get a picture of what the heck was going on at Fred’s
house.
“My bedroom
closet.”
“Is this some
kind of kinky sex thing?”
“Lindsay, if
you ever again want me to help you break into somebody’s house or
hack into a website illegally or get a speeding ticket erased from
the system, you need to stop asking stupid questions and get over
here. Now.” He hung up.
Fred’s more
than capable of dragging one or more people out of his closet and
tossing them on their butt in the street, but a beautiful woman
apparently had him completely freaked out. This was the closest I’d
ever known him to get to all-out panic mode.
I swung my feet
out of bed and onto the hardwood floor. Henry, sleeping off a catnip
binge on the foot of my bed, lifted his head, opened one blue eye and
gave a questioning meow but was back asleep before I could answer.
Good thing. I didn’t relish trying to explain something to him that
I didn’t understand.
I sleep in an
old T-shirt Rick threw out because it was faded and ratty. The years
hadn’t improved its condition, but it was big and comfortable and
would do for a night time visit. I grabbed a pair of shorts and
pulled them on then hurried downstairs, making a quick detour through
the kitchen to grab a Coke and a plastic container of chocolate chip
cookies. I needed the Coke, and it sounded like Fred might need the
cookies.
Every blade of
grass in Fred’s yard is always three inches long and the flowers
never have wilted blooms. As I crossed it, I looked for the elves I’m
sure do his yard work in the middle of the night. I caught a glimpse
of someone skulking in a car parked in front of my house, but it
couldn’t be an elf because everybody knows there’s no such thing
as elves in the Kansas City area. It gets too cold in the winter.
Probably just my
scuzzy ex-husband stalking me. He does that when he’s in between
bimbos.
The car was
parked in the shadows of the big trees that line our street.
Nevertheless I was pretty sure the elf’s hair was blond. Definitely
Rick though the car wasn’t familiar. A mid-size white sedan. Not
his style but it could belong to a new bimbo. I considered going over
to confront and yell at him, but Fred’s crisis was more important
than a moment’s pleasure.
Fred met me at
his front door. His hair was mussed, his glasses were slightly askew,
and he wore white cotton pajamas that were unwrinkled despite the
hour. He looked more like he’d come from a Karate workout than the
bedroom.
“Please tell
me you didn’t iron those pajamas,” I said by way of greeting.
He glared at me.
Yes, Fred actually glared. That was a lot of emotion for him to
display. Then his gaze dropped to my hands. “Are those cookies for
me?”
I handed him the
container.
“Thank you.”
He turned and I followed him into his immaculate home.
His house is
like his yard, always immaculate. His hardwood floors are shiny, and
no speck of dust mars his furniture. Elves again. They come to clean
in the middle of the night and then dump his dust in my house.
“Do you want
to tell me how Sophie Fleming got into your bedroom closet in the
first place?” I asked as we started up the stairs.
“She walked in
there. Actually, it was closer to a run. Speed walk, to be specific.”
He strode onto
the landing and down the hall toward his bedroom, his hurried strides
longer than usual. Fred was as stressed as I’d ever seen him.
Things were getting a little freaky.
I got another
shock when I entered his bedroom. The bed was unmade. Sure, the
average person wouldn’t make his bed when he got up in the middle
of the night to try to lure a strange woman out of his closet, but
Fred wasn’t the average person. Anyway, he had those elves.
He strode to the
open closet door and I followed.
The closet was
large for an old house. On one side, shirts were grouped by color,
fabric and long sleeves versus short sleeves. On the other side,
slacks and jackets were arranged the same way. He had a shoe rack
that held polished shoes and a tie rack with ties, sorted by color.
Sophie huddled
in one corner at the very back. She sat with her face between her
knees, a dark curtain of hair flowing over her arms which wrapped
protectively around her head. A silky white gown spread around her.
A beautiful
woman in a nightgown hiding in the bedroom closet of a man in
pajamas. If it had been anybody but Fred—
“Sophie?” I
spoke softly.
She flinched and
tightened her arms around her head.
I turned to
Fred. “How did she get in your house? I feel certain you had the
door locked.”
He straightened
his glasses. “At 1:33 a.m. my security system told me someone was
on my front porch. I went to investigate and saw her trying to get
in. I opened the door and asked if I could be of assistance. She
walked past me, straight up the stairs and into my bedroom closet. I
believe she’s sleepwalking, but I can’t seem to wake her or
persuade her to come out.” He removed a cookie from the container
and bit into it. His hand shook slightly. I was glad I had brought
the cookies. He definitely needed a fix.
I took the
container from him. Maybe Sophie would respond to a cookie. Chocolate
has restorative powers.
I handed Fred my
Coke and moved into the closet, pushed Fred’s pants aside and knelt
next to her. “Sophie, it’s Lindsay. I’m your neighbor. Remember
me? Chocolatier?”
She shivered but
didn’t look up.
“Would you
like a chocolate chip cookie? I made them myself.”
Nothing.
There’s
something very wrong with anyone who turns down one of my cookies.
I touched her
arm.
Her head flew up
and she shoved my hand away. Her eyes were wide and filled with
terror. “Carolyn! No!”
I had a bad
feeling it was going to take more than a few cookies to help that
woman.
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