Just as I began perusing the research Cookie had put by Mr. Coffee—she knew me so well—someone knocked on my door. I found the prospect appealing. Maybe I’d won a million dollars. Or maybe someone was going to try to sell me a vacuum cleaner and would offer a free demonstration. Either way, it was a win–win.
I put down my chicken burrito and opened the door to my good fortune, realizing I would do anything I could think of to stay awake.
Cookie’s daughter, Amber, stood on the other side. Well, not the other side, just the other side of the door. She would have been tall for a twenty-year-old, but she was only twelve, which made her really tall. I could’ve sworn she was much shorter that morning. Fresh out of the shower, her long black hair smelled like strawberry shampoo and hung in wet tangles over her shoulders. She wore pink tank-topped pajamas with capri-styled bottoms covering the longest, skinniest legs I’d ever seen. Dancer’s legs. She was like a butterfly on the verge of bursting out of her cocoon.
“Are you going to watch TV on your TV?” she asked, her huge blue eyes completely serious.
“As opposed to on my toaster?” When she pressed her mouth together and blinked, waiting for a response, I caved. “No, I’m not going to watch TV on my TV.”
“Good.” She grinned and bounced past me.
“But I am going to take a shower in my shower.”
“Okay.” She picked up the remote, plopped onto my sofa, and draped her bare feet over the side. “Mom canceled our cable prescription.”
“She didn’t,” I said, fighting back a giggle.
Cookie came out her door and into mine just then, also wearing pajamas. I glowered at her in horror.
She rolled her eyes. “Has she convinced you to call child services yet?”
“Mom,” Amber said, flipping onto her stomach, “it’s just wrong. Why should I have to pay because you want to be all healthy?”
I cast her another horrified glare. “You don’t,” I said, the contempt in my voice undeniable.
She sighed and handed me another printout after she closed the door. “My doctor says I need to lose weight.”
“Dr. Yost?” I asked. The paper she handed me had our would-be client’s name on top. Why would an otolaryngologist tell her to lose weight? Especially if she wasn’t going to him?
“No, not Dr. Yost.” She padded over to the bar and climbed onto a stool. “Why would I go to Dr. Yost?”
“Oh, this is his arrest record.” I scanned it while taking another bite of burrito, then asked, “So, what does your losing weight have to do with cable?”
“Not much, besides the fact that it’s much more expensive to eat healthy than it is to eat junk food.”
“Exactly why I don’t eat healthy.” I shook my chicken burrito at her. “There’s a lesson to be learned here.”
“You don’t count. Skinny chicks are dumb.”
“I beg your pardon. You think I’m skinny?”
“The doctor’s right. I have to cut back.” Her shoulders deflated. “Do you know how hard it is to diet with a name like Cookie?”
“That’s so weird.” I stared off into space, marveling at the similarities of our situation. “It’s hard to diet with a name like Charley, too. Maybe we should just change our names?” I said, refocusing on her.
“I would do it in a heartbeat if I thought it would help. What do you think?” She gestured to the file she’d left while reaching over the snack bar and pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“You have all the movie channels!” Amber squealed. “How did I not know that?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “No wonder that bill is so friggin’ high.” I zeroed in on a newspaper article about Yost’s previous wife. “Dr. Yost’s wife was found dead in her hotel room of an apparent heart attack.” I looked up at Cook. “She couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven. A heart attack?”
“Keep reading,” Cookie said.
“According to sources,” I said, reading aloud, “Ingrid Yost, who was on vacation alone in the Cayman Islands, called and left a message on her husband’s answering machine only minutes before her heart stopped, so despite the strange chain of events surrounding Mrs. Yost’s death, police say there will be no follow-up investigation.” I glanced up at Cookie. “The strange chain of events?”
“Keep reading,” she said, tearing off a bite of my chicken burrito.
I took a bite as I read, then put the article down. “Okay,” I said, swallowing hard, “so Ingrid Yost files a police report stating her husband was threatening her two days before she files for divorce. Two days after that, she flies to the Cayman Islands packed with little more than her toothbrush, calls and leaves a message on the doctor’s home answering machine about how she was sorry she wasn’t a better wife and how she no longer wants a divorce, then she dies five minutes later?”
“Yep.”
“With no previous history of heart problems?” I picked up the phone and speed-dialed FBI Agent Carson. Cookie’s brows raised in curiosity as she tore off another bite.
“So, what’s wrong with this picture?” I asked when Agent Carson answered.
“Hold on, let me get to another room.” After a moment, she asked, “Did you find Teresa Yost already?”
“Where are you?”
“At the Yosts’ house. My partner still thinks there’ll be a ransom demand.”
“Over a week later?”
“He’s new. What’s up?”
“His first wife had filed charges against him two days before she filed for divorce, two days before she flew to the Cayman Islands and died of a heart attack? Really?”
“So, you haven’t found her.”
“A divorce in which he stood to lose a small fortune?”
“And your point is?”
“Um, maybe it’s all connected?”
“Of course it’s connected, but try proving that. We checked the doctor’s passport and flights. He didn’t go to the Cayman Islands. Says he went hunting to try to work things out in his head.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. The doctor’s loaded. He could have paid someone to dispose of her. He had more than enough knowledge on what drugs to use to induce a heart attack. And don’t you think the message on the answering machine was a little much?”