Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 01 - Death by Chocolate by Sally Berneathy Page B
Authors: Sally Berneathy
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rips and no evidence of sharp animal teeth. If Rick hadn’t done it, who had…and why?
Chapter Eight
I went straight home from work and changed into pantyhose, white blouse, black skirt and blazer for my visit to Lester Mackey’s apartment building. I had some sort of illusion that I should look official, a female version of the Men in Black . I actually looked more like I was going to a funeral, which was what I’d bought the outfit for in the first place, but it was all I had that even remotely qualified as official looking.
When I rang Fred’s door bell, I was loaded for bear, as it were, prepared to do battle if he tried to back out of going. As soon as he opened the door, I began a hurried account of the murdered teddy bear.
When I stopped to take a breath, he asked if I knew what I might be getting into. I lied and said I did.
He stepped outside and I noticed he was wearing a dark suit, too. I hadn’t even realized he owned one. Probably bought his for funerals, too. Whose funerals? Who did he know besides Paula and me?
“We’re taking my car,” he said adamantly, indicating his 1968 mint-condition Mercedes. White and gleaming like a toothpaste ad, it sat in his driveway, ready to roll. “Your driving sends me into cardiac arrest,” he explained.
That was fine with me. Not only would this be my first ride in his pampered vehicle, but if we’d taken my Celica, I’d have had to clean out my front seat for him to sit there. That task would take a while and possibly uncover Coke cans dating back to my high school years.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t let him get off that easy. “You don’t need to worry about riding with me in the future,” I assured him. “I bought a special set of electric paddles that plug into the cigarette lighter so I’ll be able to restart your heart.”
“ Unnecessary. Your car’s so messy, I’d have to take a tranquilizer before I could even stand to get in.”
He’d believe the electric paddles story before he’d believe I’d planned to clean out my car, so I let it go.
His car in the driveway told me he’d had no plans to protest our mission. Other than coming out to be polished and taken to the grocery store, that vehicle pretty much lived in the garage so the paint wouldn’t fade and birds couldn’t poop on it or trees drop their leaves on it or squirrels scratch the finish with their claws or flies leave their footprints.
Anyway, Fred’s easy acquiescence made it obvious that he grasped the seriousness of the situation with Paula and Lester Mackey. That meant it was really serious.
Man, did I ever lie when I told him I knew what I was getting into.
He opened the passenger door. Courteous or just making sure I didn’t smudge the handle?
“I don’t suppose you found out exactly where this apartment building is,” I asked as I slid onto the cool leather seat.
“Yes, I did.” He went around to the driver’s side and got in.
Yeah, things were serious.
“How’d you find out?” I asked as we drove down the street at precisely the speed limit.
“Do I ask you for your secret recipes?”
“I’d give them to you if you did.”
“A secret’s not a secret if you tell.”
I interpreted that to mean, no matter how big a blabber-mouth I might be, he wasn’t going to reciprocate.
Sycamore Street was in an area no older than our neighborhood —possibly a few years newer, in fact—but it hadn’t aged as graciously. The homes and small apartment buildings hovered between picturesque and run-down.
Fred pulled over in front of a red brick building in the middle of the block, and we looked at each other.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Sure,” I lied again. “Uh, do you think we ought to discuss how we’re going to handle this? What we’re going to say to the manager?”
“Follow my lead.”
If anybody else had told me that, I’d have protested long and loud, but I figured Fred must have every syllable carefully planned out , and I
Chapter Eight
I went straight home from work and changed into pantyhose, white blouse, black skirt and blazer for my visit to Lester Mackey’s apartment building. I had some sort of illusion that I should look official, a female version of the Men in Black . I actually looked more like I was going to a funeral, which was what I’d bought the outfit for in the first place, but it was all I had that even remotely qualified as official looking.
When I rang Fred’s door bell, I was loaded for bear, as it were, prepared to do battle if he tried to back out of going. As soon as he opened the door, I began a hurried account of the murdered teddy bear.
When I stopped to take a breath, he asked if I knew what I might be getting into. I lied and said I did.
He stepped outside and I noticed he was wearing a dark suit, too. I hadn’t even realized he owned one. Probably bought his for funerals, too. Whose funerals? Who did he know besides Paula and me?
“We’re taking my car,” he said adamantly, indicating his 1968 mint-condition Mercedes. White and gleaming like a toothpaste ad, it sat in his driveway, ready to roll. “Your driving sends me into cardiac arrest,” he explained.
That was fine with me. Not only would this be my first ride in his pampered vehicle, but if we’d taken my Celica, I’d have had to clean out my front seat for him to sit there. That task would take a while and possibly uncover Coke cans dating back to my high school years.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t let him get off that easy. “You don’t need to worry about riding with me in the future,” I assured him. “I bought a special set of electric paddles that plug into the cigarette lighter so I’ll be able to restart your heart.”
“ Unnecessary. Your car’s so messy, I’d have to take a tranquilizer before I could even stand to get in.”
He’d believe the electric paddles story before he’d believe I’d planned to clean out my car, so I let it go.
His car in the driveway told me he’d had no plans to protest our mission. Other than coming out to be polished and taken to the grocery store, that vehicle pretty much lived in the garage so the paint wouldn’t fade and birds couldn’t poop on it or trees drop their leaves on it or squirrels scratch the finish with their claws or flies leave their footprints.
Anyway, Fred’s easy acquiescence made it obvious that he grasped the seriousness of the situation with Paula and Lester Mackey. That meant it was really serious.
Man, did I ever lie when I told him I knew what I was getting into.
He opened the passenger door. Courteous or just making sure I didn’t smudge the handle?
“I don’t suppose you found out exactly where this apartment building is,” I asked as I slid onto the cool leather seat.
“Yes, I did.” He went around to the driver’s side and got in.
Yeah, things were serious.
“How’d you find out?” I asked as we drove down the street at precisely the speed limit.
“Do I ask you for your secret recipes?”
“I’d give them to you if you did.”
“A secret’s not a secret if you tell.”
I interpreted that to mean, no matter how big a blabber-mouth I might be, he wasn’t going to reciprocate.
Sycamore Street was in an area no older than our neighborhood —possibly a few years newer, in fact—but it hadn’t aged as graciously. The homes and small apartment buildings hovered between picturesque and run-down.
Fred pulled over in front of a red brick building in the middle of the block, and we looked at each other.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Sure,” I lied again. “Uh, do you think we ought to discuss how we’re going to handle this? What we’re going to say to the manager?”
“Follow my lead.”
If anybody else had told me that, I’d have protested long and loud, but I figured Fred must have every syllable carefully planned out , and I