“How old was Crystal then?”
Darla mused on this for a moment. “Maybe nine? Ten?”
Mariska nodded. “Crystal was old enough to know Alice had taken her away from her mother, but not old enough to appreciate why. She probably never forgave her.”
“Fighting like cats and dogs since I can remember,” agreed Darla.
“It got worse when Alice fell ill. The girl used to take her antics up to the line and then pull back whenever Alice threatened to kick her out. Once Alice grew too weak to fight, Crystal just ran all over her.”
Charlotte slipped on her sunglasses as a beam of sunlight found a way to sneak past the palm leaves waving above the clubhouse. “So it isn’t crazy to think Crystal may have wanted Alice gone?”
“Other than the fact I can’t imagine anyone killing their flesh and blood, not at all,” said Mariska.
Charlotte recalled the scene she’d discovered earlier that morning. Crystal certainly seemed to be in a hurry to rid herself of everything Alice. “I walked by Alice’s house this morning with Abby and the curb was lined with trash bags filled with Alice’s things. It looked like she was building a sandbag levee.”
Mariska raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh no. Alice had such lovely things.”
Darla clucked her tongue. “Body is barely cold.”
“If I died and Bob tried to throw out a single one of my things, I’d come back to haunt him,” said Mariska.
Darla chuckled. “I’d haunt Frank either way. If he wasn’t doing something wrong at that second, I’d know it was coming. Might as well start early.”
“How can we prove she made another stollen with nuts?” continued Charlotte. She was talking to herself more than asking the ladies a question, which was good, because they had started arguing over whose husband would buy the cheaper coffin.
“You’re right. Bob would definitely go for the plywood,” said Darla, relenting.
Mariska scowled. “Are you calling Bob cheap?”
“You were the one calling Bob cheap.”
“But I’m allowed to.”
Darla huffed and looked at Charlotte. “Did you just say something?”
“I was wondering if there is a way to prove Crystal made an additional stollen. One rigged with almond flour.”
“I know how to tell,” said Mariska. “There was half a bag of dried fruits left. I left it right next to all the other baking things in the pantry. No reason she wouldn’t have used them if she’d decided to copy the recipe.”
Charlotte grimaced. “I dunno. Not exactly iron-clad proof. But it might be something to check.”
“I know how I left every last thing in that kitchen. I took pains to put everything neat so Alice wouldn’t have to bother herself with any of it. If I took a peek, I’d know for sure if someone had baked after me.”
Charlotte tapped her knuckles against her lips as she considered the possibilities. “So it would make sense to get you in there. Though, somehow I doubt we can just knock on the door and ask Crystal if we can look around.”
“I’ll tell Frank to let us in,” suggested Darla.
Charlotte shook her head. “He could ask her to let us in, but she wouldn’t have to say yes. Then he’d need a warrant and no judge is going to give him one based on half a bag of dried fruits.”
“Did you learn all that becoming a private eye?” asked Mariska.
“I learned that from every police procedural show ever on television.”
Darla clenched her fist. “That party-muffin is out every night. That means the house is empty every night. We’ll just sneak in there and take a quick look around.”
Charlotte scowled. “Did you just call Crystal a party-muffin?”
Darla arched an eyebrow. “It’s a nice way to say she’s a—”
Charlotte held up a hand. “Got it. Nevermind.”
There was a scream and the three of them jumped.
“Get her, Helen!” called someone from the far end of the pool.
The crystal turquoise water had erupted into a frenzy of splashing. Gina had Helen by the hair, the latter thrashing at her foe, trying to break free. Several of the aerobics ladies encircled the two fighting women, some trying to pry them apart, others cheering support for Helen against the new young upstart.
“Oh for crying out loud,” muttered Charlotte.
Darla slapped her leg. “Use your left, Helen!”
The puppy on her lap jumped to his feet and then toppled over again. Darla grabbed him to keep him safe as she bounced in her chair.
As Helen and Gina were pulled apart, Charlotte reached down into her bag to grab the paper she hadn’t had time to read that morning, hoping she could hide behind it and pretend there weren’t two retired women in the pool trying to whup each other out of Dirty Dirk’s life.
The front page screamed at her with oversized black font: Philanthropist Dies.
Hm. Potential client.
“You’re a tramp!” screamed someone. Charlotte guessed Helen.
She tried harder to concentrate on her reading. She wanted to take the high road, but couldn’t deny that the urge to see who won the wrestling match wasn’t pulling at her.
Kimber Miller was found dead in his home last night. Miller, best known for his show horses, philanthropy and prize-winning Yorkshire Terriers—
Charlotte turned from the paper and looked at the puffball in Darla’s hand.
Yorkshire Terriers?
Chapter Eight
Jackie Blankenship, grudging leader of pool aerobics, had her arms wrapped around Gina while two other women, one of whom Charlotte knew for a fact had had a hip replacement in the last six months, wrestled Helen away.
“Helen Bed’s got a heck of a left,” mused Darla, as if she were considering becoming the woman’s fight manager.
“Did you see this?” asked Charlotte holding out the headline for Mariska and Darla
