Killer Transaction (Cindy York Mysteries Book 1) Page 5

  Helen York's a sophisticated, attractive woman in her late sixties or early seventies. We aren't sure of her exact age since she constantly avoids the question. Even Greg admitted he isn't positive. Once, when the twins questioned her, she said she was fifty-five. I'm pretty sure that's impossible since Greg's forty-five.

  Helen had retired from the state a few years ago. She'd worked as a secretary for the Attorney General's office for over thirty years. She gets by nicely on a decent pension, and a life insurance policy her late husband left her, but is quite possibly the cheapest woman alive.

  On the rare occasions that we go out to eat with her, Helen will throw sugar packets into her purse when she thinks no one's looking. She'll ask for extra crackers and toss those in too. She told the kids she gives them to the birds in her backyard. I swear I thought I saw her pocket a spoon once. She has money but doesn't like to spend it.

  Greg's a bit brainwashed when it comes to his mother.

  "She only wants to help, Cin. She was really worried about you when I talked to her this morning."

  Sure she was. Worried I might live.

  I leaned on Greg's arm as we walked toward the house. "She's worried about you and the kids. She's never liked me. You know she didn't want you to marry me. She threatened to not come to the wedding."

  He squeezed my hand. "She didn't mean it. And she was there, remember?"

  "Oh, how I remember. All decked out in her best black dress."

  "She just wanted to wear the same color as Dad and me."

  I stared at my husband in disbelief as he unlocked the front door. Was he kidding? For such a smart man, that was a pretty dumb thing for Greg to say.

  We stepped into the entranceway. I kicked my shoes off and padded through the living room in my thick, woolen socks. No sign of Helen chatting away on the phone, clucking her tongue at the disgrace I'd brought to her family. She wasn't watching the midday news on the television either, trying to discover if the world knew what a dreadful person her boy had married. The only audible sound came from the wall clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

  "Mom?" Greg called out.

  There was no answer.

  I grimaced. "She's probably upstairs snooping through my things. She wants to make sure I'm not cheating on you. Then again, she'd probably like that because you'd have grounds to divorce me."

  Greg chuckled. "Will you stop?" He walked into the kitchen with me following closely at his heels. "Mom?"

  There was Helen on her knees, her head buried deep in my oven.

  "Mom!" Greg ran to her side. "What are you doing?"

  I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. I knew exactly what she was doing.

  Helen removed herself from the gas oven. She calmly put down the sponge she was holding and stood, stripping her arms of yellow, plastic gloves. She smiled with adoration at her only son. "Calm down, Gregory. What do you think I was doing?"

  Greg had the decency to look embarrassed. "Um, I thought—"

  She laughed. "Relax, darling. I would never do something like that. I have too much to live for. That nasty oven of yours needed a good scrubbing. It's a shame there's no one to keep things nice around here for you."

  I cleared my throat loudly.

  Helen barely glanced in my direction. "Oh, hello, Cindy."

  I bit my lower lip hard in an effort to keep a nasty retort from falling out of my mouth. "Helen, I really appreciate your help, but I cleaned that oven last week."

  My mother-in-law continued on as if she hadn't heard me and directed her next comment to Greg. "You should hire a housekeeper. I shudder at the thought of my grandchildren eating concoctions from that filthy oven."

  Greg looked tired. "Mom, Cindy's right. The oven's not dirty. She does an awesome job taking care of the house and the kids."

  My knight in shining armor to the rescue.

  My mother-in-law sniffed. "Well, it's not like she has much else to do all day."

  Count to ten. Nope, it didn't quite work. "What does that mean?"

  Greg put a comforting arm around my shoulders. "I'm going to put Cindy to bed. I'll be back down in a little while. Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee before you go home?"

  Helen shook her head. "No, thank you, darling. I'll have one when I get home. Would you like to come join me? My coffee pot is clean."

  I sucked in some air.

  Greg chose to ignore her last remark. "I don't want to leave Cindy alone."

  Helen's smile faded. "Of course."

  "So the twins and Darcy got off to school okay? They didn't give you any trouble?" Greg asked.

  "Oh, no. They were perfect angels. I made them the most wonderful lunches with all their favorite foods. And don't worry, I made sure they were nutritious. I brought some food over from my house since I wasn't sure I'd find anything edible here."

  I clenched my fists at my sides. Ignore her, just ignore her.

  "That's great, Mom. Did they eat breakfast for you?"

  Helen untied the spotless, white apron from around her waist. "Of course they ate breakfast. I made the twins pancakes and sausages, while Darcy and I had lovely fruit plates. They were all so grateful not to have cold cereal for once."

  That was the last straw. "Helen, my children do not have cold cereal every morning. If they do, it's by their choice."

  "Why certainly, dear." Helen feigned a cough. "Of course, Stevie told me he didn't have any breakfast yesterday—the poor baby. And he's so thin."

  I pursed my lips. "Did Stevie happen to tell you the reason he didn't have breakfast? He decided to play with the puppy, against my orders, until the bus was outside honking for him. I really don't think—"

  Greg ran a hand through his hair. "Hey, Mom, it was really nice of you to come over on such short notice."

  "Oh, anytime. I love babysitting my grandchildren." Helen reached inside her purse and handed Greg an envelope. "For you, sweetheart."

  "What's this?"

  "I'm so sorry I missed your birthday last week. I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten about it."

  Greg ripped open the envelope. "I wasn't worried about it. And you did call me, remember?"

  "Yes, darling, but if I hadn't been out of town, I could have made you a birthday cake. I know how much you love chocolate cake." She gave his cheek an affectionate pat while I looked away, embarrassed for my husband.

  "Cindy made me a chocolate cake. It was delicious."

  Helen narrowed her eyes at me. "Yes, I'll bet it was."

  Greg opened the ninety-nine cent American Greetings card, smiled at the caption, and removed twenty-five dollars from the inside pocket. He gave Helen a quick peck on the cheek. "I don't need anything, Mom. You should keep this for yourself."

  Helen waved him away. "Nothing's too good for my baby."

  Twenty-five dollars was indeed a generous gift from Mrs. Cheap-o. Don't get me wrong. Helen's very good to the kids when it comes to birthdays and Christmas, and that's what really counts. I'm the outcast. Last year she gave me a bottle of perfume for Christmas. It wouldn't have been so bad, except for the fact it was re-gifted. The reason I knew it was re-gifted is because I gave her the same bottle for her birthday about ten years ago. I will say she does do a lovely job with gift wrapping though.

  Greg handed the cash back to his mother. "I don't like taking your money."

  "Don't be silly. You're the one who needs it." Helen refused to look at me as she hunted for her car keys in her mammoth-sized purse. I briefly wondered if my grandmother's silverware might be in there. "When Cindy gets a real job, you won't need to work so hard."

  Ouch. I winced.

  Greg caught my reaction and winked reassuringly at me. "Thanks again, Mom. We really appreciate it."

  "Remember, I'm only a phone call away. You know how much I love spending time with those little darlings. Oh, wait, I almost forgot." Helen walked into the living room, and we followed, mystified, as she picked up a sheet of paper by the phone.

  "What is it?" I
asked.

  She handed the paper to me and managed to avoid making eye contact. "A reporter from the local paper called. They'd like to ask you a few questions about your coworker. Before you get hauled off to jail, that is."

  Greg's face turned red. "Mom! You know Cindy had nothing to do with the murder."

  "Oh, of course not."

  I'd finally had enough. I struggled to keep my voice polite but firm. "Thank you for taking care of our children. Next time I'll be calling a babysitter."

  Helen whirled around to give me the evil eye. "Well, that's gratitude! What's going to happen when they put you in prison? Will you call a babysitter then?"

  Greg stepped between us. "Mom, stop it. Cindy isn't going to prison."

  She tossed her head. "That's not what I heard. Your neighbor Susan was over this morning. The whole town is talking about what you did to that poor woman."

  "Cindy didn't do anything. She only found the woman. Tiffany was already dead," Greg explained.

  Helen's nostrils flared. "So she says! I knew you shouldn't have married her! I tried to warn you—"

  I gently pushed Greg aside so that I could put my face next to Helen's. "If I did happen to go to prison, I wouldn't want you taking care of my children. I can imagine the stories you'd tell them about me."

  She spread her hands wide. "Maybe they're not stories. I hope they lock you up and throw away the key! My son could have done so much better—"

  Greg's mouth tightened into a fine line. "Mom, you are way out of line. Please leave. Now."

  Helen and I stared at him in amazement. Greg had never ordered his mother out of our house before. I immediately stepped away from both of them. Helen's lower lip started to tremble, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. She darted between us to the front door and threw it open, sobbing as she ran to her car.

  Greg went outside and called after her in vain. The tires squealed on the pavement, and her vehicle roared off. I hadn't thought the woman could move so fast.

  Greg sighed and shut the door noiselessly.

  I sank down on the couch, not quite sure what to expect. Had I forced my husband into this? I'd finally snapped after putting up with Helen's snide remarks for seventeen years. I still couldn't forget how she'd gone around to the guests at our wedding—telling everyone I must be knocked up because why else would Greg marry me?

  Greg sat down at my side. He stared at the floor, not saying anything.

  I couldn't bear the silence any longer. "Greg, I'm sorry. I should have just gone upstairs to bed." I always tried to avoid confrontations with my mother-in-law, but today I had failed miserably.

  He didn't answer.

  "Will you please say something?"

  Greg forced a smile. "She had it coming. I'm the one who's sorry. Mom was wrong to say those things to you, and I should have set her straight years ago. She's been so lonesome since Dad died. Sometimes she doesn't think before she speaks. I'll call her later to make sure she's okay."

  My heart ached as I examined my husband's somber face. I didn't even bother to mention the fact that his mother had been saying those things long before Greg's father had passed away. Suddenly it seemed unimportant. "Maybe I should call her and apologize, too."

  He placed a hand on my knee. "No, you were right. She can't go around talking to you like that. You're my wife and the mother of her grandchildren. She has to respect you when she comes into our house. I'm going to tell her that too." He shook his head with regret.

  "Are you sure? I don't mind—"

  Greg silenced me with a kiss and gently lifted me to my feet. "Come on, sweetheart. You need to get some rest."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Being a lady of leisure for an afternoon turned out to be exactly what I needed. As I lay in bed, sipping my herbal tea and watching The Young and the Restless, I wondered how long it had been since I'd had a day to relax like this. It must have been over a year since I'd last seen the show, while being laid up with the flu, yet I could still follow the storyline. Ah, the beauty of soap operas. One day might drag on for months in their fiction-filled land. It was the total opposite of my life, which seemed to be changing at a dramatic rate.

  The pounding in my head had finally subsided. I stretched and yawned, relieved not to have to think about anything important for a while. Sweetie, our cat, lay next to me, purring away contentedly. As I reached down to pet her silky, white coat, I thought about how loyal animals were in comparison to people. They asked for nothing but love.

  There was a knock on my door. Greg stuck his head in, and Sweetie leaped off our bed and ran into the hallway. So much for that theory.

  "You have company." Greg ushered Jacques in, nodded to him, and blew me a kiss. "I'll be back in less than an hour, before the twins get home." He quickly shut the door.

  "That husband of yours isn't very personable." Jacques, an attractive man in his early forties with a muscular build, shook his head. He walked over to my nightstand and placed a dozen red roses in a pink, plastic vase on the top. "I brought these for you, my dear. I thought for sure Gregory would have filled your room with flowers after all you've been through."

  "Oh, they're beautiful. How sweet." I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him.

  He returned my embrace and tucked the blanket back around me. "You could have done better, Cin."

  Jacques wasn't often wrong, but this was one of those times. He's that rare type of friend who'll do anything for you and won't sugarcoat a situation. He always tells me the truth, no matter how hard it is to hear. Once I asked him if I looked fat in a certain pair of designer jeans. Jacques assured me no, the jeans didn't make me look fat, but I did look as if I'd put on five pounds recently. I went home and weighed myself. As usual, he was right.

  "No, I could never do any better. Greg is amazing." It was the truth. "You don't know him well enough." I cleared my throat. "It was nice of you to come by."

  "Yes, it was." Jacques grinned. His large, green eyes were warm under the designer Prada bifocals he wore. He's blind as a bat without them and can't wear contacts because of an allergic reaction. I always tell him he looks sexier with glasses, and he never tires of hearing it. "How's the head?"

  "Still attached."

  "Thankfully." He kissed my forehead. "Ed sends his love. He's sorry he couldn't get away, but the restaurant's been swamped lately. The flowers are from both of us."

  I sniffed at them in rapture. "Please thank him for me. I haven't seen him in ages."

  Jacques pulled a chair up to my bedside. "Yeah, join the club. We're both workaholics these days. I can't remember when I saw him last either." He peered closely at me. "Are you okay, love? I've been worried about you. I can't believe you found her—like that."

  I shuddered, remembering. "It was awful."

  He reached for my hand. "It must have brought back some terrible memories for you."

  Jacques knew about Paul. I stared at the grave look on his face, and my lower lip started to tremble.

  He spread his arms open wide. "It's okay, honey. You don't have to be so brave all the time. Go ahead. Let it out."

  As if waiting for the permission, I instantly dissolved into tears before him. Jacques wrapped me in his strong arms and patted my back while I sobbed.

  "I'm sorry." I wept into his shoulder. "You'd think after twenty some years I'd be over it."

  He squeezed my hand. "You're never going to get over it. That's just a fact of life." He handed me his handkerchief, and I leaned back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted.

  "What would I do without you?"

  "I am pretty awesome," Jacques admitted. "Hey, I was wondering—"

  "What?"

  He hesitated. "I hate to upset you any further, but I was curious if there were any signs that Tiffany might have struggled with her killer?"

  "I don't know. She was covered in blood, and she'd been shot—several times. How would I know if she'd struggled? Please, I don't want to think about it anymore."

 
; "Yeah, gross." Jacques sounded so much like one of the twins, I fought a sudden impulse to laugh. "Did it look like a forced entry?"

  I observed him suspiciously. "What's with all the questions? Are you a wannabe policeman now?"

  "Well, really! I'm only trying to help you, dear." A tone of injury filled his voice.

  I sighed heavily. "I know you are, and I appreciate it. Sorry. This has been a rough day, and it's barely half over yet. For starters, I've already had a fight with my mother-in-law."

  Jacques sucked in a sharp breath. "You? What happened? Did you break her broomstick?"

  I grinned but continued on. "Also, the police came to my room this morning to finish questioning me. Greg talked to them, but I have a feeling they'll be back. And they have the message I left on Tiffany's phone, more or less threatening to kill her. To top it all off, a reporter had the nerve to call for an interview this morning. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Whoa, back up a second. You threatened Tiffany?"

  I nodded, then stopped. "I guess. Well, not really. No. I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

  Jacques scratched his thick, blond hair thoughtfully. "Exactly how did it sound?"

  "Remember the listing appointment I had yesterday?"

  "Oh sure. The little old lady who lived on—wait, was it Sparrow Drive?" Jacques asked.

  I reached for my cup of tea on the nightstand. "Close. Partridge Lane. Mrs. Agnes Hunter."

  "That's right. Damn birds. Yeah, I was there when you told Donna."

  I took a long sip of my drink. "Which was a huge mistake. She must have told Tiffany because when I got over to the house yesterday, Mrs. Hunter had already signed with her."

  Jacques wrinkled his nose. "I know you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but that chick had no morals at all. A complete disgrace to the business."

  "Anyhow, I was angry and left a message for her saying she'd better call me back unless she wanted to die—die young." I watched Jacques intently for his reaction.

  "I see. Great timing on your part." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Well, it all makes sense now."