redecorating. What colors went with a nuclear winter?
“My husband is threatening a zillion lawsuits,” Alyce said. “This subdivision is crawling with lawyers. Nobody knows who to sue yet, but somebody will pay and it won’t be us.”
“I can see why Serge would be murdered, but why kill Danessa?” Josie said. “She wasn’t home. She was at her store. Has your housekeeper heard anything about that?”
“This is the best part,” Alyce said. “Mrs. Perkins says she was fixing the investigators coffee in the kitchen, and she heard that the FBI thinks Danessa may have been bumped off because she knew too much about Serge’s smuggling. Or because he was using her store to import his nuclear weapons materials. You know, hiding the contraband in the boxes of purses. Who takes a shipment of high-priced purses seriously?”
“Oh, good,” Josie said. “That’s terrific news. Because the cops think I killed her.”
There was a long silence.
“Hello?” Josie said.
“I think you’d better come out here right now and explain yourself,” Alyce said. “I’ll make brunch.”
Chapter 10
Someday Josie would understand this thing St. Louis suburban women had for brunch. The richer they were, the more elaborate the brunch.
Josie was sure if the end of the world was announced tomorrow, supermarkets would be stripped of eggs, coffee cake and fresh fruit, as suburban women fought to fix their final brunch.
Brunch had replaced chicken soup for comfort. It covered any social event from baby showers to funerals. When Josie told her best friend she was a murder suspect, Alyce’s first reaction was to prepare brunch.
Josie didn’t find salvation in scrambled eggs. What’s the natural Maplewood response to personal disaster? she wondered. We’re more city than suburb, and we’re certainly not rich. In Maplewood, we’d get drunk.
Except in recent years, Maplewood had become surprisingly trendy. The new people would take Prozac. I’d still get drunk, Josie decided. My neighborhood got fashionable, but I didn’t.
Josie felt a flicker of hope after her talk with Alyce. If Serge was selling nuclear weapons materials, Josie was off the hook. He was probably killed by a terrorist and Danessa was unlucky enough to die with him.
At the top of the hour, Josie skipped through the radio stations in her car, listening for the local news, hoping to hear something about Danessa and Serge.
Finally, an announcer said, “And on the Power Couple Murders, the medical examiner has released the cause of death. Serge Orloff died from an overdose of warfarin, commonly known as rat poison. Police found the poison in his palatial West County home.”
That was the second time the media had called the house palatial, Josie thought. It did look big.
“His business partner and longtime companion, Danessa Celedine, was found strangled at her store in Plaza Venetia.”
Josie nearly ran the car into a ditch. “Omigod, omigod, omigod,” she said.
No wonder the handsome homicide cop had raised his eyebrow when Josie said her mother would strangle her if she didn’t bring home a picture of Danessa.
“Omigod, omigod, omigod.” She must have sounded guilty as hell. Or criminally stupid. Josie felt sick to her stomach again. She rolled down the car window, just in case.
No newscast mentioned that Serge was suspected of selling nuclear arms. That story should have been all over the headlines. Didn’t the press know? Could the government hush it up for national security reasons?
Or did Alyce have it wrong? She was repeating something one housekeeper told another. Josie was sure the story grew more inaccurate with each telling. Maybe by the time it got to Alyce, crime-scene techs had morphed into government agents, plainclothes police detectives had become FBI agents and ordinary evidence vans were “weird” vehicles.
All my hope is gone, Josie thought. If Serge didn’t sell nuclear materials, then the suspicion spotlight swings
“My husband is threatening a zillion lawsuits,” Alyce said. “This subdivision is crawling with lawyers. Nobody knows who to sue yet, but somebody will pay and it won’t be us.”
“I can see why Serge would be murdered, but why kill Danessa?” Josie said. “She wasn’t home. She was at her store. Has your housekeeper heard anything about that?”
“This is the best part,” Alyce said. “Mrs. Perkins says she was fixing the investigators coffee in the kitchen, and she heard that the FBI thinks Danessa may have been bumped off because she knew too much about Serge’s smuggling. Or because he was using her store to import his nuclear weapons materials. You know, hiding the contraband in the boxes of purses. Who takes a shipment of high-priced purses seriously?”
“Oh, good,” Josie said. “That’s terrific news. Because the cops think I killed her.”
There was a long silence.
“Hello?” Josie said.
“I think you’d better come out here right now and explain yourself,” Alyce said. “I’ll make brunch.”
Chapter 10
Someday Josie would understand this thing St. Louis suburban women had for brunch. The richer they were, the more elaborate the brunch.
Josie was sure if the end of the world was announced tomorrow, supermarkets would be stripped of eggs, coffee cake and fresh fruit, as suburban women fought to fix their final brunch.
Brunch had replaced chicken soup for comfort. It covered any social event from baby showers to funerals. When Josie told her best friend she was a murder suspect, Alyce’s first reaction was to prepare brunch.
Josie didn’t find salvation in scrambled eggs. What’s the natural Maplewood response to personal disaster? she wondered. We’re more city than suburb, and we’re certainly not rich. In Maplewood, we’d get drunk.
Except in recent years, Maplewood had become surprisingly trendy. The new people would take Prozac. I’d still get drunk, Josie decided. My neighborhood got fashionable, but I didn’t.
Josie felt a flicker of hope after her talk with Alyce. If Serge was selling nuclear weapons materials, Josie was off the hook. He was probably killed by a terrorist and Danessa was unlucky enough to die with him.
At the top of the hour, Josie skipped through the radio stations in her car, listening for the local news, hoping to hear something about Danessa and Serge.
Finally, an announcer said, “And on the Power Couple Murders, the medical examiner has released the cause of death. Serge Orloff died from an overdose of warfarin, commonly known as rat poison. Police found the poison in his palatial West County home.”
That was the second time the media had called the house palatial, Josie thought. It did look big.
“His business partner and longtime companion, Danessa Celedine, was found strangled at her store in Plaza Venetia.”
Josie nearly ran the car into a ditch. “Omigod, omigod, omigod,” she said.
No wonder the handsome homicide cop had raised his eyebrow when Josie said her mother would strangle her if she didn’t bring home a picture of Danessa.
“Omigod, omigod, omigod.” She must have sounded guilty as hell. Or criminally stupid. Josie felt sick to her stomach again. She rolled down the car window, just in case.
No newscast mentioned that Serge was suspected of selling nuclear arms. That story should have been all over the headlines. Didn’t the press know? Could the government hush it up for national security reasons?
Or did Alyce have it wrong? She was repeating something one housekeeper told another. Josie was sure the story grew more inaccurate with each telling. Maybe by the time it got to Alyce, crime-scene techs had morphed into government agents, plainclothes police detectives had become FBI agents and ordinary evidence vans were “weird” vehicles.
All my hope is gone, Josie thought. If Serge didn’t sell nuclear materials, then the suspicion spotlight swings
Similar Books
