Sharpe Wit Read online

  Sharpe Wit

  Second Act Snoop Mysteries, Volume 8

  Lisa B. Thomas

  Published by Lisa B. Thomas, 2019.

  SHARPE WIT

  Copyright © 2019 Lisa B. Thomas

  Cozy Stuff and Such, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Works by Lisa B. Thomas

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Clara hoped Renee, the new cook they’d hired at the diner, wouldn’t be late again. It was hard enough getting everything ready for the early trucker crowd at five in the morning without also getting slammed with a barrage of customers when the kitchen was understaffed.

  She checked the four pots of coffee she had brewing. One of the burners had been on the fritz and she wanted to make sure it was working. Touching the glass carafe, she was pleased to find it getting hot.

  The back door opened and Renee rushed in.

  Whew. It was going to be a good morning at the Highway Café. She walked over to the front window that faced the highway to pull back the checkered curtains and watch the sun peek up over the small hills in the distance. Not surprisingly, an early bird customer sat in one of the rockers out front, waiting for them to open. She couldn’t see his face because of the ball cap pulled low over his brow. Clara glanced around for the man’s rig, wondering if he was one of their usuals.

  Not seeing a truck, she decided to take mercy on the man and let him in a few minutes early for a jolt of her super-caffeinated hot coffee. Who knows, maybe he was a big tipper. She tapped on the window to get his attention. When he didn’t move, she assumed he was asleep. She banged on the window a little harder and called out, “Hey, mister. We’re open.”

  Nothing.

  Just then a strong wind gust whipped by, stirring up dust on the dirt-covered parking lot. When it settled, the man’s cap had shifted to the side and she could see his face. Unfortunately, this wasn’t Clara’s first experience with death, and she recognized it right away.

  She yelled back to the kitchen, “Renee! Call 9-1-1.”

  Chapter 1

  Sometimes Dan had the worst timing. Deena Sharpe couldn’t believe her editor at the Northeast Texas Tribune had called her away from the bank where her husband, Gary, and his business partner, Scott, had just signed the final papers on their new joint venture. Sharpe & Myers Financial Services had gone from a midlife crisis dream to the real deal. Sure, there was that brief interruption where Gary wanted to be a farmer and own a vineyard, but luckily, he’d gotten over that when the reality of actually working outdoors in the Texas heat with his own hands finally set in.

  Whatever this new story Dan had, it had better be good or else she’d be joining the others at Las Abuelas for a celebratory brunch. Dan had called it a “doozy” and he wasn’t known for hyperbole. She’d made her apologies to Gary and Scott and gone out to the parking lot. That’s when she remembered Gary had driven them in his little red sports car. She knew he could get a ride with Scott or Vera, so she got in and started it up. She’d only driven it a few times, preferring her big SUV over the little Mercedes.

  She hadn’t been able to talk in the bank, so she dialed Dan’s number on her cell phone to get the details. He answered on the first ring.

  Without even saying hello, he told her she needed to get over to the Mortimer Funeral Home right away.

  “The funeral home? Why?” Annoyance crept into her tone. Her beat was major crimes, not obituaries.

  “There’s a guy down there trying to steal a body. Came over the scanner.”

  Now her curiosity was piqued. This could be something. “Anything else?”

  “He’s armed, so be careful.”

  She heard the other end of the call click off. If Dan had known more, he would have told her. She pulled out of the parking lot and headed down Elm to First Street, wondering what the police presence would be like at the scene and how close she’d be able to get.

  Most of the incidents she’d investigated were not active crime scenes, so this one would be more dangerous. She was glad she hadn’t known this before she left Gary or else he might have sensed something was up. It seemed the longer they were together, the more in tune they’d become with each other’s moods. Almost forty years of marriage will do that to you.

  As she turned down First, she listened for the sound of sirens but heard none. Was she too late? It wasn’t like the Maycroft Police Department to be that efficient. She made a right on Ivy and pulled up to the funeral home. There was one squad car without its lights on and Detective Guttman’s unmarked vehicle. Somewhat disappointed, she headed inside.

  “We’re closed right now,” a black-clad woman in her forties said with a nervous twitter in her voice. “Would you like to make an appointment?”

  The woman was pencil-thin and had her hair pulled back in a severe bun. Deena recognized her as Jeanie, the funeral director’s wife. The couple’s faces were plastered on several billboards in town.

  She pulled her press pass from her purse. “I’m Deena Sharpe, a reporter with the Tribune.” It still gave her a thrill to introduce herself as a reporter. After teaching journalism for thirty-plus years, she finally felt like she was playing in the big leagues. Okay, well maybe the minors. After all, Maycroft was just a small town in Northeast Texas. But it was just the right size for her. “I understand there was a . . . um . . . robbery here this morning?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that. But if you’ll make an appointment—”

  Voices preceded the opening of an office door, and out came Detective Guttman followed by Officer Hitchcock and an older gentleman in handcuffs.

  “Edwin Cooper?” Deena was shocked to see her next-door neighbor being led out by police.

  “Mrs. Sharpe! You have to help me. Tell these men I’m not dead!”

  “Quiet down,” Guttman said and rolled his eyes. He turned to Deena. “I’m surprised to see you here, Mrs. Sharpe. I thought you only reported on the big cases these days.”

  “And I thought you were a detective. If this isn’t a big deal, why are you here?”

  By the crimson color working its way up his neck, she could tell she’d gotten to him. And why was her neighbor being hauled off by the police? “What’s going on, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Back off, Deena,” Guttman said. “You don’t work for an attorney anymore. You have no business with this suspect while he’s under our custody.”

  Before Deena could answer, Edwin Cooper called out, “They said I was dead! It’s in the newspaper. Tell them I’m not crazy.”<
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  As Hitchcock put the man in the police car, she noticed the officer had a plastic bag in his hand containing something black. He opened the trunk to put it inside. It must have been a gun. Cooper’s gun?

  Jeffrey Mortimer, dressed in a blue suit with a red silk pocket square, hurried out of the office just as Deena reentered the funeral home. He looked pale, which was surprising for someone who dealt with death day in and day out.

  “I’m sorry for the delay,” he said to Deena and tightened the knot on his tie. “How can we help you today?”

  Jeanie stepped out from behind her desk. “She’s a reporter, not a client.”

  Jeffrey blew out a breath and his shoulders sagged. “Oh. I see. I suppose you want to know about the madman who just tried to kill me.”

  Even Jeanie rolled her eyes at that one.

  “Well, yes.” She showed him her press pass. “I’m Deena Sharpe from the Tribune, and I understand there was some kind of disturbance here today. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Sure. Just step into my office, and I’ll tell you all about it.” He nodded at his wife, who returned to her desk.

  The funeral director’s office was sparsely decorated with a few framed diplomas and certificates hung on beige-colored walls. Nothing screamed death or dying. Deena took a seat in a black leather chair across from Jeffrey and got out her notepad and pen.

  “What exactly do you want to know? I suppose you saw that lunatic being hauled off in the paddy wagon.” Jeffrey was clearly still shaken.

  She dismissed the lunatic comment, knowing how frightening it must have been to be held at gunpoint. “Just start at the beginning and tell me what happened.”

  “Jeanie and I were going over next month’s calendar when that . . . gentleman comes crashing through the door demanding to see the person in charge. We are used to dealing with all sorts of grieving people here, so I calmly asked him to come to my office. He refused.” Jeffrey stuck out his chin as though he’d been slapped across the face.

  “Then I asked him who the loved one was that he was here in regards to. That’s when he got even louder. He said, ‘Me! It’s about me.’”

  Deena looked up from her notes. “What did he mean by that? Was he wanting to preplan his own funeral?”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “That’s what I thought too, but then he started mumbling that he wasn’t dead. That’s when I asked him his name, and he said it was Edwin Cooper. I said, ‘No. What is your name?’ He just kept proclaiming himself to be Edwin Cooper.” Jeffrey pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I knew that wasn’t true because we have a Mr. Edwin Cooper in the back.”

  Deena cocked her head. “You mean, on ice? Six feet under? Dead?”

  “We refer to them as the dearly departed, but yes. You get the picture. I thought perhaps this gentleman was the father, so I asked him if he was a relative.”

  “Makes sense,” Deena said, wondering when the gun part was coming.

  “Anyway, after a lot of yelling and gnashing of teeth, he demanded to see the body of Edwin Cooper. I told him that would be fine as long as he showed me some identification and that he was indeed a relative. The paperwork we had listed a son and granddaughter as next of kin.” Jeffrey’s face broke into a sly grin. “That’s when the old codger pulled out his wallet and sure enough, he didn’t have a driver’s license. He went wild at that point and pulled out a pistol from his pocket. That’s when I hit the panic button twice.”

  “Panic button?” Deena asked.

  “Yes. It’s here under my desk. One ring signals Jeanie to come in and help calm down the family members who are either in the clutches of grief or at each others’ throats over the funeral details. Two rings means to call the police.”

  Who knew the mortuary could be such a dangerous place. “Do you use the panic button often?”

  “More than you would think.”

  Deena twisted in her chair. “What happened then?”

  “I told him I could let him see the body. Of course, I had no intention of doing so.” He pointed to a plaque on the wall. “You don’t make Funeral Director of the Quarter by bending the rules.”

  “Impressive.” Deena tapped her pen, waiting for the good part of the story.

  “I took him first into the showroom, knowing I could kill some time. No pun intended.”

  “The showroom has . . . what exactly?”

  “Coffins.”

  “Of course.” She’d never actually planned a funeral and wasn’t savvy as to the inner workings. “And then?”

  “As soon as I showed him the Ultra Celestial 300, he was hooked. Worked like a charm. Before long, he wanted to know about fabric colors, handle finishes—the works. In fact, whenever he gets out of jail, I think I can sign him up as a customer. Do you know his real name? I’ll go ahead and fill out a potential lead form on him.” Jeffrey picked up a pen and looked at Deena expectantly.

  “Yes,” she said, matching Jeffrey’s previous grin. “His name is Edwin Cooper.”

  Chapter 2

  Once Jeffrey Mortimer realized the body in the back of the funeral home may have been misidentified, he had no more time to talk to Deena. On her way to the police station, she stopped at the doughnut shop to get coffee and a newspaper. Surprisingly, there were no police officers there even though this was their favorite midmorning stop.

  Deena liked the place because it didn’t have a barista who would spend five minutes using countless gadgets to fix a simple cup of coffee. It was also right across the parking lot from her friend Sandra Davis’s thrift shop. While the counter worker poured the two cups she ordered, she put two quarters in the slot on the rack and took out the newspaper. It always made Deena smile to know that the Tribune still used the little vending machines that operated on the honor system. Folks around Maycroft wouldn’t dare pay for a newspaper and then take more than one. Small-town life suited Deena like that.

  Monday’s edition was always slim, and this week’s was no exception. In her hurry to get to the bank with Gary that morning, she hadn’t taken the time to read the newspaper at home.

  Sure enough, at the start of section B in a small box was the obituary for Edwin Cooper, eighty-two years old. The only other information was that he was at the Mortimer Funeral Home. That was unusual. Most people in their small town had long obituaries chronicling the person’s life story. Whoever was working the obit desk must not have been able to contact any family members. She stuffed the newspaper into her satchel and headed for the police station.

  She carried in the two tall cups of coffee. Luckily, Linda McKenzie was on duty at the front desk. “Hey, girl. I thought you could use some real coffee this morning.” She passed a cup to the officer.

  “I don’t think he’ll want to talk to you right now,” Linda said. “He’s been barking orders at everyone. You know how he is when he barks.” She took the lid off the steaming cup of coffee and sniffed in the rich aroma.

  “Like a junkyard dog,” Deena said and then laughed. “Actually, I have some information about the funeral home case. It might be helpful. Let me just knock on the door and hand him this coffee. If he throws me out, c’est la vie.”

  Linda took a sip and then pushed the button to unlock the door to the office area. “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Detective Linus Guttman’s door was slightly ajar, but she didn’t dare enter without knocking first.

  When she did, a deep, gruff voice asked, “What do you want?”

  She pushed back the door slowly, entering coffee cup first. “Ding-dong. Avon calling.”

  “What took you so long?” he said and reached for the cup.

  Deena was stunned. The detective had never acted glad to see her before. “Really?”

  “Of course not,” he said and snatched the cup. “Now scram. I’m busy.”

  Deena took that as an invitation to sit down. Over the past few years, she and Detective Guttman had developed a love/hate relationshi
p. She loved picking at him for information and he loved throwing her out of his office. “Besides the gift of caffeine, I come bearing information about Edwin Cooper.”

  The transplanted Philadelphian wore Nikes and a white shirt and dark pants. He’d recently grown a beard to beef up his weak chin. Now that he was in a steady relationship, he’d added a few pounds to his slim frame. He definitely stood out from the Stetson-wearing, boot-loving, slow-talking Southern cops he worked with.

  Leaning back in his chair, he slugged down the hot coffee like it was cool water. “If you’re here to tell me he’s not dead, save your breath.”

  “Actually, I was going to tell you he’s my next-door neighbor and that he’s not dead. Although”—she fished the newspaper out of her bag—“this obituary says otherwise. Care to explain?”

  He tossed the paper back at her. “It’s your newspaper. You tell me.”

  “Jeffrey Mortimer said the body was identified by the Maycroft Police Department. I’m sure that’s where the misidentification started. And by the way, if Edwin Cooper is still alive, who is in the funeral home?” She tilted her head in mock confusion.

  Guttman grabbed the receiver, mashed a button, and yelled into the phone, “Hitchcock! My office. Now!” He didn’t really need the phone. His voice was probably heard all the way down the corridor.

  Hitchcock lumbered in, obviously unshaken by the boss’s temper. “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you get ahold of the morgue? What did they say?”

  Chewing on a toothpick, as usual, the officer folded his arms over his sizable paunch. “You ain’t gonna believe this. It was a clerical error. They’d called the next of kin in California but had to leave a message. Never got a positive ID. Somebody checked the wrong box on the paperwork.”

  Guttman shook his head. “Call the DA and tell him what you told me.” He glanced at Deena. “And don’t talk to the press. I’m running point on this case now.”

  Hitchcock grinned at Deena and tipped his hat. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Sharpe.”