Eclairs and Executions Read online

  Table Of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Recipes…

  Letter to the Reader

  Plateful of Murder

  Killer Cannoli

  Bake Me a Murder

  Acknowledgements

  Éclairs & Executions

  The Terrified Detective: Book Four

  Carole Fowkes

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Carole Fowkes

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design: Kathleen Baldwin

  Copy Edited by Nancy Bauer, Joanne Moore

  Formatting by Ink Lion Books

  Release Date: January 2018

  This book and parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise-without prior written permission of the author and publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Chapter One

  “What’s wrong with working for Gino again, Claire?” My father, Frank DeNardo, popped a grape into his mouth as if to emphasize the question. I should have known this would be the topic when he invited me over to his house and my aunt happened to drop by.

  At least Aunt Lena, a fabulous baker who owns Cannoli’s, one of the best bakeries on Cleveland’s West Side, brought some of her frosted caramel brownies to ease into the discussion. I grabbed one before answering. At 5’2’’and 108 pounds, I hardly needed the extra calories. What I needed was a moment to think.

  My father was talking about Gino Francini, his second cousin and my former employer, who had left me his floundering private investigation business when he retired to Miami. Good thing, because a Master’s Degree in Mass Communications wasn’t the most promising career path.

  Aunt Lena, my late mother’s sister, chimed in. “Your father’s right. It’ll be safer and he won’t have to worry about you.” She cut one of the brownies in half and took a bite from the bigger piece. “Granted, you won’t see Brian as much. At least not professionally.” She winked at me. “I’ll bet he comes around anyway.” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her pinkie. “Then Ed can concentrate on his career.”

  Ed is a full time security guard and my part time muscle. After one of my particularly nasty cases, he also became Aunt Lena’s main squeeze.

  I ignored her comment about Brian, meaning Detective Brian Corrigan, Cleveland PD, my currently on-again relationship. “You’re both right. It would be safer. You know, though, I’d make even less money, if that’s possible.”

  Aunt Lena clucked. “Maybe you would have more money as an investigator, and for what? So we could use it for your funeral after some thug kills you?” She cut the remaining brownie half in half again and took a piece.

  My father swallowed another grape. “Your aunt has a point. No parent wants his kid to die before him. Work at your aunt’s place if you don’t want to work for Gino.”

  That gave me an idea. One I was not about to discuss. It needed time to develop, just as I did when all the other girls my age looked like women and I still had the figure of a cucumber. “We can talk about this later. Right now I’ve got to meet a new client.”

  My aunt opened her mouth to say something else. She stopped when I held up my hand. “This one will be non-violent and resolved before Gino gets here. An author hired me to interview a critic.” With any luck on my side, I would have the unbelievable fee of $10,000 in my pocket too.

  My aunt’s eyes sparkled with curiosity mixed with excitement. “A writer? Who? Is he famous?”

  “He’s a she. I’ll tell you all about her when I have more time.” The author was Iola Taylor, prolific writer of erotica. Given her subject matter, it was better not to tell Aunt Lena.

  “Two seconds to tell me who she is. Is she famous?”

  “I have to leave now. I repeat. You can ask me about her later.” I kissed both my aunt and father goodbye.

  My dad couldn’t resist having the last word. “We’re not done talking about your working for Gino.”

  “Love you both.” I hurried out before we were off and running with more discussion.

  Anyway, that was yesterday and I had all evening to think about Gino’s homecoming. On this day I needed to concentrate on George Herbert Dixon, since he was the reason Iola Taylor hired me. She wanted to know if Dixon had some career-destroying information on her, as he claimed he did. If so, my job was to get it back and find out his source. That meant my first move would be to talk with Dixon.

  To get this interview with him, I somewhat twisted the truth. No. Not twisted, choked it to death. Although 32 and well out of my college years, I claimed to be a student at Kent State University who wanted to do an article on his book reviewing process. Then I laid it on thick about admiring his work. That last part wasn’t a lie. In the name of research, I read some of his reviews. He was a clever phrase turner.

  My thoughts returned to Iola Taylor, author of numerous erotic books, each one steamy enough to take the wrinkles out of anyone’s bed sheets. From her photos, she looked like the kind of woman you wouldn’t take home to Mother. With her long, black hair, green eyes and a figure so voluptuous the nuns at Holy Trinity would have automatically prayed for the soul of any man who met her, I got the feeling she wrote from firsthand experience.

  In person, though, it was hard to tell if her pictures were accurate. She wore a bright red scarf around the collar of a tent-like black coat much too heavy for Cleveland’s late spring. Her hair was pinned up under a floppy hat. Even though it was early evening, she never removed her enormous sunglasses. She kept her head lowered most of the time, never allowing me a clear view of her face. Her voice had been a mismatch too, with its nasal quality, as if she had a head cold.

  A shiver ran through me, recalling her response when I asked what the next step would be if he had the information.

  Her face was deadpan and her voice calm. “Kill him.”

  I sounded as if I just sat down naked in a pile of ice. “What did you say?”

  Her laugh resembled a donkey braying. “A joke. The only thing I want killed is his exposé of me. If it exists.”

  “Isn’t that something you should discuss with him yourself?”

  She waved her hand. “I tried and got nowhere. Besides, someone has to stop him. So find out if he really has the information he claimed in his last article, get it from him, and find out where it came from so I can stop the supply.”

  Something didn’t add up and it wasn’t her book sales. “Is this inf
ormation regarding any criminal activity on your part?”

  Head bent writing me a check, she murmured. “Of course not. But if he has what he says he does, it could ruin me. He’s merely a little soul in a corpulent body. Now, would an advance of $10,000 with another $10,000 final payment be agreeable to you?”

  That amount would make me sing karaoke on national television. Sober. With her fee, I could start my own PI business. “One more question. Why did you choose me?”

  “You were so sweet-looking in your photo. With those enormous dark eyes and tiny stature, George will have no reason to be on his guard.”

  No argument there. I looked as non-threatening as tapioca pudding. Although the case still didn’t make much sense, I was not about to turn down a fee, especially such a generous one.

  As a matter of fact, I deposited the check as soon as Iola left my office and planned my next move.

  So here I was, 7:15 that same evening, on my way to see George Dixon. The address he gave me was on Cleveland’s Gold Coast, an area with stately homes and a great view of Lake Erie. The man was doing pretty well.

  I parked on the street and turned off the ignition. A familiar-looking woman in a black coat too heavy for the late spring weather and a floppy black hat rushed out of the house’s side door. Her red scarf caught in a strong breeze, and she grabbed on to it. Then looking straight ahead, she dashed into a Mercedes and pealed out of the driveway as if the devil himself was chasing her.

  My mind didn’t kick into gear soon enough to try and stop her, but I managed to snap a picture of the Mercedes’ license plate.

  I jumped out of my car, rushed across the street to the house, and skidded to a halt. What if a crazed killer lurked inside? Then again, what if somebody was hurt or dying? I could not let that be on my conscience. Wishing to be anywhere besides this place, I forced myself to make a choice.

  Holding my gun in my moist hand, I tried the side door. It was unlocked and I stuck my head inside. “Hello. Mr. Dixon? Anyone home?” Nobody responded.

  With the pounding of my heart in my ears, I stepped inside the kitchen. No one there, so I headed into the dining room. “Hello?” Still no answer, except a soft whimper coming from my throat.

  I found Dixon bare-chested and bloody, bound to a chair in his library. He had a big lump and bruise on the right side of his forehead. Covering his face, arms, and upper torso were multiple lacerations. I cringed and swallowed hard to keep my most recent meal in its rightful place. Bloodied manila folders lying at his feet told me these were what made the paper cuts. Some cuts were short in length, others, long; all must have been painful. A wadded newspaper was stuffed in his mouth. My whole body trembled as I called 911.

  The ambulance arrived in less than five minutes, with the police close behind. I stood back as an EMT leaped from his vehicle. Uniformed officers bounded from their cars. Amidst the chaos, my mind refused to focus. Even when one of the cops escorted me away, my foggy brain could not put what had happened here together in any way that made sense.

  The situation grew more complicated. Of all the homicide detectives in the Cleveland Police Department, Detective Brian Corrigan caught this case.

  Resembling a kid found smoking in the school restroom, I shuffled my feet, hoping he’d go easy on me. He didn’t.

  Corrigan sauntered up to me, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me. The victim hired you to protect him.”

  We had met over similar situations in the past. I crinkled my nose, not wanting to say anything. The detective pulled out his notepad. Knowing he would find out soon enough, I gave him a quick rundown of the events leading up to my presence at the late Mr. Dixon’s house.

  “Let me get this straight. You came here hoping to talk to the victim but he was already dead.” Corrigan scratched his chin. “Did you see anyone going into the house or coming out?”

  I coughed and looked around, then down at my feet.

  “Who did you see, Claire?” Corrigan’s foot began tapping as fast as my heartbeat.

  The name stuck in my throat. It took a huge effort to spit it out. “My client, Iola Taylor.”

  Chapter Two

  Corrigan wrote the name down and tapped his pen against the pad. “Doesn’t she write that smutty stuff?” He grimaced. “Never mind. Did she have anything in her hands?”

  I shook my head, feeling like Benedict Arnold. The only difference was that, instead of betraying my country, I was in the process of doing so with my client. As Gino, my former and perhaps soon-to-be boss, would say, “Life is a series of spinning the wheel and taking your chances.” Too bad I chanced upon the scene as she fled. “Not that I could see, but I’ll send you the pictures I took of her license plate.”

  Corrigan noticed my wobbly state, took my arm and led me to a lounge chair on the patio. “Have a seat, Claire. Should’ve had you sitting before I asked any questions.” Out of the corner of his mouth, he smirked, “Think I’d know by now. We’ve done this so many times.”

  Once seated, I felt better, but saw no humor in his comment.

  He must’ve gotten the message because he coughed and continued his questioning. “You didn’t see her enter. What time was it when she left?”

  “7:15 this evening.” I wanted to break out of there and devour some chocolate.

  The gods must have realized my need. A uniformed officer approached Corrigan to take him to the body.

  “Claire, I’ll be right back. Will you be okay?”

  “Yes. Can I go?” I stared at him with pleading-puppy eyes, hoping he couldn’t forbid me to leave.

  He looked up to the sky. “Okay, Claire. You can wipe that dog-in-the-pound look off your face. If you’re okay, go.” He leaned close, “Call you later.”

  A little put off by his less-than-flattering read of my expression, I almost told him not to bother. I didn’t because if I had given him a hard time, he might have made me wait there.

  His voice all business again. “If you hear from your client, call me. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Knowing Corrigan was watching me, I took my time getting to my car. Too fast and he’d get suspicious. Too slow and he’d think I needed assistance.

  In the privacy of my office, I covered my face with my hands and moaned. Despite having seen other dead bodies, Corrigan was right. It wasn’t any easier.

  My client probably committed the murder and I was the only witness. Wishing I had never taken this case was of no use. Then guilt set in. What if I’d gotten there sooner? Would Dixon be alive and my client be just an angry author? My thoughts whirled like a Kansas tornado in my mind.

  After my minor breakdown, practicality took over. Did the check clear? With my dire financial situation, it was impossible not to think about it. I had just gotten on my bank’s website when my office door opened and then closed.

  I wasn’t expecting anyone. “Is anyone out there?” When nobody responded, I pulled my gun out and rose from my seat, making my way to the reception area and my office door.

  Iola held up her hands. “Don’t shoot. It’s Iola.” Although she was still wearing the dark glasses, she held the hat in her hand.

  Even though this wasn’t the first time I’d faced a likely killer, it still scared me, making me feel as exposed as a banana without its peel. Just as easy to smash too.

  I lowered the gun and steadied my voice. “Why are you here?”

  Iola slipped off her scarf, removed her sunglasses, her face level with mine. She didn’t resemble her photos at all. She had thinning brown hair, close-set eyes, and without the oversized glasses, her nose appeared to be an unfortunate size. I kept quiet; instinct telling me now was not the time to offer her makeup tips.

  Her chin quivered. “I went to see George this evening. He was…” She took a deep breath. “Dead.” She covered her mouth with her hand. Still, her sobs broke through.

  Unwilling to stand there and watch her fall apart, I put my gun down on my desk and guided her to a nearby seat. Grabbing the tissue box,
I handed her one, pulled my desk chair around and positioned it so close our knees almost touched. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  She dabbed at her eyes and released a jagged breath. “His review of my book, Torn Lace, was online. It was cruel beyond belief. So I went to see him, to demand he retract what he’d written.” She put up her hand. “I know. I hired you to talk to him. It’s just that he so infuriated me. How dare he…” She ripped little pieces of the tissue off, leaving what looked like crumbs in her lap.

  I leaned in and as gently as possible, urged her to continue.

  Iola sniffed and stared down at the shredded tissue. “His door was unlocked. I knew not to go in. I did anyway. George was tied up, covered in blood. Terrified, I ran out without even checking to see if he was alive.” She squeezed her eyes shut and her body jerked with a silent sob.

  My natural reaction would have been to hug and comfort her. In this case, though, my instincts told me that would be the wrong thing to do. She might just be putting on a convincing act.

  As if some unseen timer had run out on her remorse, she detached herself from George’s death as fast as she’d fallen apart over it. Her spine straightened and she tilted her chin “I thought it best to get to my car and leave before anyone knew I’d been there.”

  I knew you’d been there.

  Tempting as it was to demand why she hadn’t bothered to call 911 for the man, it wouldn’t have helped me obtain more information. “Was anybody else at his house?” That was assuming she, herself, wasn’t the killer.

  She closed her eyes. “No.” Then blinked and opened them. “I got two blocks away before turning back to help him.”

  Knowing the answer, I still asked, “Did you help him then?”

  Iola stared over my shoulder. “Someone was already there, and I heard the sirens.” She adjusted her coat’s collar. “Yes, I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That doesn’t mean I killed him. Someone else did. You must believe me.”

  I cast my eyes up to the sky. Of course she killed him. Before that thought cemented itself in my mind, another little voice inside me whispered, “What if she didn’t?”