Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,28
do is get close. To get information.”
Another look at the dress, and Eve made up her mind. I wasn’t sure if that meant buy or don’t buy, so I waited patiently to find out while she got dressed again. “You know you’ve got a couple problems,” she said as we walked out of the dressing room and back through the store. “When you ran into those women at the playground, you told me that you told them that you had kids.”
“And I do.”
When she looked at me in wonder, I had to laugh. The explanation was easy enough. “Fiona.”
“Oh, Jim’s cousin!” Eve’s eyes lit up. “Fiona has eight kids. I get it. You’re going to send Fiona to McLean to pretend she’s you.”
I bit my tongue. At least until I was sure I could speak without being too critical. “I stopped in and talked to Fiona this morning. She was frazzled. As usual. And who can blame her? Just the prospect of getting three of the kids out of her hair for a couple hours made her light up like a Christmas tree.”
When Eve is thinking very hard, her forehead furrows. If she knew it, she’d be appalled. That might explain why she tries never to think very hard. She set the tie-dyed dress on the counter, opened her purse, and pulled out her American Express. “So three of Fiona’s kids are going to go to McLean and they’re going to . . .” It was too much. She gave up with a shrug. “I don’t see how they’re going to find out anything about Vickie. Those friends of hers, they’re not going to talk about their murdered buddy with kids.”
About this time, my tongue was corrugated. I waited until Eve paid and the pleasant clerk packed the dress up in a shiny black shopping bag with the name of the boutique emblazoned on the side.
“I’m not going to send the girls in my place,” I said, leading the way out of the store. “They’re going to come with me.”
“Because . . .” Inspiration hit, and Eve’s blue eyes gleamed. “You’re going to pretend they’re your daughters!”
Now that we were on the same page, it was far easier to explain. “Lucy, Emma, and Doris have dance class after school on Thursdays, so I can’t take them. It’s probably just as well. They’re the oldest and it would be harder to pull the wool over someone’s eyes with three girls along who know enough about honesty—and dishonesty—to have the scruples to spill the beans.” We stepped out onto the sidewalk and headed toward where Eve had parked her car.
“I’m going to take Gloria, Wendy, and Rosemary, instead. They’re close enough in age to keep each other busy while I do what I have to do, and young enough—I hope—to believe me when I tell them I’m playing a kind of joke on some people and need them to pretend I’m their mom.”
Little did I know just how prophetic that statement would turn out to be. Later that afternoon, no sooner had I pulled out of Fi and Richard’s driveway than the girls started acting exactly like they do when their mother is in charge. In other words, they teased, punched, had a screaming contest, and generally carried on all the way to McLean.
By the time we got to the soccer fields behind the Spring Hill Recreation Center, I was grateful that I had my case to think about. I’d do it, too, as soon as my brain settled down and my ears stopped ringing. With that in mind, I told the girls they could go over to the nearby play area and turned my attention to the crowd of moms and dads watching the Tigers out on the field. Celia, Glynis, and Beth were there, just as I expected them to be, and I put on my game face (the one I hoped would make it look like I was surprised to run into them again) and headed in their direction.
Am I psychic? Au contraire, as our friend the former Jacques Lavoie would say. In fact, it wasn’t extrasensory powers or good luck I had to thank for this encounter. It was good ol’ detective work, computers, and a little psychology. See, I may not know the difference between a saucepot and a frying pan, but I’m pretty savvy when it comes to Googling my way around the Internet. That’s where I found the Tigers soccer schedule. And the psychology? Well,