by J. R. Ripley
“Did you see any signs of a struggle?” Violet’s eyes pierced mine.
“What?” I swiveled my attention from Lance to Violet. “No. I mean, I could see she had been shot, but—”
“And you didn’t hear the shots?”
I wasn’t sure who had even asked the question, maybe both of them, but I answered no because no was the answer. “And there was only one shot.”
“Are you sure?” Lance squinted at me. His pen flew across the paper. Purple ink—what was that all about?
“No.” I waved my hand for him to stop writing. “Don’t quote me on that.”
“So you only heard one shot?” Violet twisted her phone sideways, and I watched the green squiggles as they shimmied.
“No. Like I said, I didn’t hear any shots.”
“Did the killer use a silencer?” That surprising question came from Lance.
“I don’t think so.” I was sinking. “But you’d have to ask the police that question. Can they determine such a thing?” I scratched my cheek. “I don’t know…” Maybe I would ask Dan myself.
“Could it have been a sniper?” Lance hammered.
“A sniper? Really?”
“Have you talked to Lani yet?” Violet wanted to know.
“Who or what is Lani?” I demanded. I felt like I was involved in a swordfight and it was two swordsmen against one.
“Yvonne’s brother. He flew in from California.” Violet wiped her mobile phone against her blouse to remove my spittle from its screen.
“Test, test.” Green squiggly lines on whatever program she was using danced merrily. Violet nodded, satisfied, and jammed the device back up under my chin.
“Boy, he sure doesn’t like you,” Lance said.
“What? Who?” I could barely think straight with the two of them on the attack at once.
“Lani.” Lance flipped through his notepad. “He blames you for the death of his sister.”
“He blames me?” I spluttered. Violet was forced to wipe the spittle from her phone again. Hey, it wasn’t my fault. She shouldn’t have been trying to shove the darn thing down my throat.
“I’ve got to get back to the paper and write this up.” Lance flipped his notebook shut and tapped the cover with his pen, which he then buried in his shirt pocket.
“Me, too.” Violet dropped her phone in her pocket. “I need to get back to the station. Before Joey manages to burn it to the ground.” Joey was a pimply-faced first-year community college student who had dropped out of school to become Violet’s gofer and doormat.
“What? Write what up?” I hadn’t told them anything, had I?
“Come see me if you think of anything else, Amy.” Lance slipped me his business card. As if I didn’t know who he was and where he worked.
Violet tugged my sleeve. “Let’s set up a radio interview.” She suddenly beamed. “Hey, we can make it a live call-in show.”
“Talking about what?” The door tinkled as Lance showed us his backside.
One down, one to go.
“Listeners can call in and ask you about the murder.”
“Yvonne Rice’s death is an ongoing official investigation,” I snapped. “The police are not going to want me talking about it. I’m sure you can understand that, Violet.”
She shrugged off my concern about such things as points of law. “We can even talk about some of your old cases.”
“Old cases?”
“Yeah, you’ve assisted the police on more than one occasion, and that’s just what I’m aware of since I moved to town and took over the station.” She was practically licking her lips in anticipation. “I’ll bet you’ve got dozens of stories to tell.”
A sudden vision of dozens of murder victims, stacked up like so many buttermilk pancakes, made me woozy. “I think not.”
I gave her a gentle nudge toward the door.
She dug her feet in. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
I opened the door. “If I change my mind, I’ll make an appointment to have my head examined.”
I got the impression my words just bounced off her like pebbles off a brick wall. Violet slung her purse over her chest. “If you find Alan Spenner, I’d love to get an exclusive. Before the police get to him.”
I planted my hands at my waist and yelled to be heard as she moved with way too much hip action down the path leading to the sidewalk. “I have no intention of finding Spenner!”
And I hoped he never found me.
Violet’s black van, the am ruby name and logo emblazoned on its side in couldn’t-miss-it-from-the-moon bright red and yellow lettering, stood at the curb. Idling, no less. Didn’t the woman believe in air pollution? Her station sure put out enough of it.
Gizmos and gadgets, antennae, and satellite dishes covered practically every inch of the van’s roof.
I moved halfway down the sidewalk. I needed to blow off some steam, and Violet was as good a target to direct that steam at as anything or anyone. Besides, there was no one else around, with the exception of some sparrows and robins, neither of which I had the heart to verbally assault.
“If Spenner has any brains at all, he’s probably halfway to Bolivia!” I hollered, thinking about Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “In fact, I’ll bet he was never anywhere near Ruby Lake. Chief Kennedy just figures an escaped con makes the perfect scapegoat for the latest murder. If somebody gets killed within a hundred miles of here, Spenner’s name will probably be at the top of the suspect list.”
Violet slipped behind the wheel of her station’s van and rolled down the passenger-side window. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, Amy.”
“Know what?”
“Alan Spenner’s fingerprints were found on the handle of a shed at Ms. Rice’s property.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
“Call me! Toodles!” Violet wriggled her fingers, rolled up the window, and hit the gas.
As she peeled away from the curb, I noticed she had never changed her Texas license plate to a Carolina one and that it was six months expired.
9
Derek called, and it was bad news. Dinner was canceled.
After listening to his apology and promising that I understood completely, I hung up the phone in the kitchen and pouted.
Maeve was running a high fever, and his ex had called to say that his daughter was asking for him.
What could he do but go?
I couldn’t blame him. I couldn’t blame Amy-the-idiot. And I certainly couldn’t blame Maeve.
That was what was so annoying.
I consoled myself with a frozen mac and cheese dinner and half a bottle of red wine. Next, I went downstairs and retrieved the box of chocolates from the kitchenette. I ate half the box before realizing it and pushed what was left under the sofa. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I hoped.
I watched a little TV, then dragged my laptop to the kitchen table and fired it up. An internet search on Alan Spenner was just full of lovely words about him and his nefarious exploits. The man had a temper. Of course, there were also plenty of news articles about his recent escape.
Sadly, there were no late-breaking stories detailing his recent recapture—meaning it hadn’t happened.
I had locked my apartment door and all the windows. Sure, I was on the third floor, but I was taking no chances.
With my dinner date kaput, I had traded my sexy little black number for a pair of gray sweats and a top from the bargain store. The way they itched, the set had been no bargain. The whole outfit had cost only ten dollars, but I still expected fleece to feel like fleece and not steel wool rubbing against my chest and thighs.
I fell asleep on the sofa watching my DVD of Dreamgirls. Ironically, I slept through all the lively songs, and it was the ringing of the phone in the kitchen that woke me up in
time to see the film’s credits roll by.
I yawned, tumbled to my feet in a haze because my legs were numb and tingling. I glanced at the analog clock on the stove as I hurried to the telephone.
Midnight. It had to be either Derek calling to say good night or my mom, although it was quite late for her to be calling for any reason other than an emergency.
I’d have been happy to hear from either one. At that point, I’d have been happy to get a wrong number as long as it wasn’t some stranger asking for money.
“Hello?”
“Amy?” It was a man’s voice, but it didn’t sound quite like Derek. The fuzz of sleep filled my head as if somebody had filled my ear canals with cotton balls. Still, optimistic, I said, “Derek.”
“No, this is Paul.”
“Paul?” I looked at the clock on the rear of the stove once more to see if I was seeing straight. I was. “It’s midnight. What are you calling about?”
“It’s not a what,” he answered cryptically. “It’s a who.”
I yawned and leaned against the counter. “Okay,” I said. “It’s a who. It’s also late, and I’m very tired. Tell me who you are calling about, and let me get back to sleep.”
“I’ll tell you,” Paul said in that way he has of sounding annoyingly chipper and teasing, all wrapped in a bundle of masculinity. “When I do, you won’t want to get back to bed.”
I yawned again and tried to stuff my fist in my mouth. It wouldn’t quite fit. “Out with it, Paul.”
“It’s Kim.”
My brow went up. “What about Kim?”
“She’s here.”
“Here where?” I pictured Kim directly below me in Paul’s apartment on the second floor. But why?
“At the biergarten.”
“Oh,” I said with relief. “So why are you calling me?”
“Because she’s been draped over the bar for hours and won’t leave.”
Silence filled the space between us as I swirled Paul’s words around inside my brain. Whatever was going on, it was too late at night, and I was too befuddled to make sense of it.
“Did you hear me, Amy? I said she won’t leave.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Come get her.”
“Is she alone?”
“Yes. Completely. And she’s been drinking.”
I heard morose singing in the background and pressed my ear to the phone. “Is that—”
“To answer your question, yes, that is Kim. Her idea of karaoke, I guess.”
I recognized the a cappella warbling of Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls.” “She’s not that bad.”
“This is not a karaoke bar, Amy. We don’t have a karaoke machine. You know that.”
More screeching ensued. Was there a kookaburra loose in the bar?
“You hear that, Amy? Come get her before I am forced to resort to drastic measures.”
I had never heard Paul so angry, and that included the time he’d lost a bet to me and had to wear a god-awful dress that belonged to my plus-sized cousin. “I’ll be right there.”
Hanging up, I grabbed my denim jacket from the hall closet and my keys from the glass dish, a Gatlinburg souvenir featuring a primitive painting of a black bear mommy and her two cubs, which we kept on the table beside the door for safeguarding just such things.
Brewer’s Biergarten was mere steps away. An open-air patio stood between Birds & Bees and the main entrance. Despite the portable propane heaters the biergarten employed, the patio was deserted. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour rather than the cold keeping the customers indoors.
I wasn’t two steps inside the biergarten when Paul grabbed me firmly by the elbow and guided me to the bar. Large beer-brewing vats connected by a tangle of plumbing were visible through the tall glass viewing windows.
Paul sat me down on a bar stool beside Kim. “Good luck, Amy.”
I watched him disappear.
Kim slowly turned. “Amy?” A smile lit up her face. “Amy!” Her eyes were lit up, too. I didn’t know if the red had been caused by tears or drinking.
I had a feeling it was both.
I laid a hand over her shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” Kim hiccoughed. “’Scuse me.”
“The question is what are you doing here?” There was an empty beer mug in front of her. Her fingers were wrapped around its glass handle.
“Paula’s gorgeous.”
“Ah.” I nodded.
“I mean, really Victoria Secret model gorgeous.” Kim shook her head slowly side to side. “Can you believe my luck?”
Kim was wearing dark jeans and low black heels and a white blouse with silver sequin trim. A black leather jacket was draped over the bar. “Why did she have to be a cop? Why isn’t she out strutting the runway?”
“Yeah, how dare she risk her life to keep us safe when she could be pouting and walking the runways of New York?”
Kim’s eyelids drooped. “You’re not helping, Amy.” She waved to the woman behind the bar for another drink, but I waved even more emphatically for the woman to ignore the request.
“Sorry.” I slid my hand from around Kim’s back and patted her arm. “How about if we get out of here? We can talk at my place. Better yet, you can spend the night. Mom’s away.” Kim definitely shouldn’t be driving. We had no regular taxi service in town, and the bus would have stopped running by now. It was either Amy’s taxi service or Amy’s house. “You can sleep in her bed.”
“She was giving him a massage when I got to his house.” Kim stared at the wall of liquor bottles behind the bar.
“Were they, ah…” I wasn’t sure how to phrase the question so I spat it out: “dressed?”
“What?” Kim jolted. “Of course they were dressed! Completely! Sheesh, Amy. What kind of question is that?” She burped. “Were they dressed.” She fondled her empty mug and frowned. “Of course they were dressed.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. I wasn’t quite sorry that I had answered the ringing telephone at midnight, but I was edging that way. Who answers a telephone at midnight? Nobody, that’s who. Only people looking for trouble.
And I was looking at trouble. Drunken, best-friend trouble.
I sighed. Such things were the price of friendship.
Kim leveled her eyes on me. “They were at the kitchen table. In the kitchen.”
“Paula and Dan. Kitchen table. Got it.” As if the kitchen table might be someplace else? I kept that quip to myself.
“Dan was sitting in a kitchen chair. Paula was rubbing his neck.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.” It had been the middle of the day, and they weren’t naked, thank goodness. What was the problem?
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I think you are beautiful. Dan thinks so too.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Don’t tell me he’s never told you how beautiful you are.”
Kim shrugged. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “I guess so.” She sniffed. “So you think I’m making a big deal out of nothing?”
“Of that I am positive.” I grabbed her coat and tossed it over her shoulders. “Here, put this on. We’ll go home, brew up some decaf or a pot of nice chamomile tea. We can talk some more in private there.”
Paul was hovering nearby, pretending to dust beer bottles. Please. Could the man be any more obvious?
Kim complied. She slid off her stool and thrust her arms in her jacket.
Paul mouthed a thank-you.
I nodded.
Kim took a step, stumbled, and glommed onto my left arm for support. “I am acting like a bit of an idiot. I mean, I’m sure if you walked in on Amy—the other Amy, that is—massaging Derek’s neck, you wouldn’t mind at all.”
&nb
sp; I flinched but forced my legs to keep moving toward the exit. “Of course,” I said rather more tersely than I had intended.
“It wouldn’t bother you one bit.” Kim’s weight dragged on me as we walked.
“Not one bit.” Truth be told, I might wrap my own two hands around Amy-the-ex’s throat and return the favor, rather forcefully, but I couldn’t tell Kim that. Not in her current, fragile condition.
Kim stopped at the door, which was being patiently propped open by the hostess. “Has Derek ever told you that he loves you?”
“Well…not in so many words, exactly.” Cold wind shot through the door, buffeting us. We scooted outdoors and began moving toward Birds & Bees. “What about Dan? Has he ever said the L word?”
“Not a peep. Not even a hint.”
Our heels clattered against the sidewalk. The streets were nearly deserted. Except for the biergarten and the diner, there wasn’t much foot or vehicle traffic in this part of town at this late hour.
“Dan’s never even brought up us being exclusive. You know, like you and Derek. You’re so lucky, Amy.”
I turned the key in the front lock of the store. I’d left the interior lights on. I thought about my relationship with Derek as we made our way up the stairs to my apartment. Kim was having a hard time of it. I figured the exertion would do her good. Help sweat out the alcohol.
Were Derek and I exclusive? I certainly was, and I thought he was too. But it was never something that we had talked about.
Maybe we should.
Inside the apartment, I boiled water for tea and settled next to Kim on the sofa. But by the time I had gotten to my seat, Kim was sound asleep. I plopped a chamomile tea bag in my cup and added a spoonful of honey.
I shut my eyes and took a sip. If the telephone rang again, I was not answering it.
* * * *
I hadn’t had the heart to wake Kim, so she had spent the night on the sofa. I had tossed a comforter over her torso and taken off her boots.
The smell of coffee forced her head off her chest. “Ow!” She pressed the palm of her hand into her forehead and groaned loudly. “I feel like I ran head-on into a semi.”
“Have a bit of a hangover, have we?”