by A W Hartoin
“Answer the door,” she ordered.
“I am.”
I checked Skanky’s location just in case—on the sofa cleaning his tail—and I opened the door.
I really should’ve specified when I said “anybody.”
Julia stood there, looking so pissed off I swear there were wisps of steam coming out of her ears.
“I’m here to take your statement,” she said.
“Okay. Do you want to come in?”
Her jaw clenched, but she walked in, flipping open an old school notepad and standing stiffly by the door in yet another pants suit. I closed the door behind her and went to stand by Aunt Miriam, whose lips were pursed in displeasure.
“You left the scene,” said Julia.
“In an ambulance,” I said.
She sniffed like that wasn’t a decent excuse for leaving a crime scene. “You left the hospital unauthorized.”
“It’s a hospital not a prison.”
“Don’t expect any special treatment,” said Julia.
Why are you so angry? I’m a flipping witness, not a suspect.
“Fine,” I said. “Go ahead.”
“Your history says you expect special treatment. You won’t be getting it from me.”
“I heard you the first time,” I said.
Julia eyeballed me and Aunt Miriam started making a low throaty noise reminiscent of a sound I’d heard Rottweilers make. I put my hand on her arm and said, “It’s alright.”
“How do you know Kevin Calabasas and Catherine Cabot?” Julia asked.
“They’re friends of Steve Warnock.”
“Who is he?”
“A lawyer.”
“How do you know him?”
“Friend of the family.”
She glanced up from her pad. “Are you going to cooperate with this investigation?”
Not anymore.
“Yes.”
“I expect you to be forthcoming with all information,” said Julia.
Expect all you want, woman.
“Fine,” I said.
“How long have you known Kevin Calabasas?”
“Two days.”
She frowned. “Why have you only known him for two days?”
“Because that’s how long I’ve known him,” I said and Aunt Miriam smiled. It was worth it just to see that.
While Julia worked on a scorching reply, Skanky stretched, jumped on the arm of the sofa, and touched Julia’s hand with his nose. She recoiled and said, “I don’t like cats.”
I don’t like you.
“Are you done?” I asked.
“I’m just getting started. Would you like to come down to the station?”
“No.”
She closed her notepad. “I think we will take this downtown.”
“No.”
“Are you refusing to answer questions?’
“Am I under arrest?” I asked.
Her jaw clenched. “Not yet.”
“Ah, you’re optimistic. That’s good in a newbie.” I returned to the kitchen and fired up the Rocket. I had plenty of time to make a latte. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you on a triple homicide this morning. What happened to that?"
“Nothing. You need to come down to the station,” she said, opening the door.
Aunt Miriam stepped up. “Need is an overused word. Mercy needs oxygen, shelter, and sustenance. Going with you is not a need.”
“She will be interviewed,” said Julia, superior as she could muster.
“Right now I’m curious why you aren’t at the morgue, working on that triple,” I said.
She gritted her teeth so hard I could hear it. “I’m not on that. I’m on this.”
Oh! I get it and I might feel sorry for you if you liked cats and you weren’t, ya know, a bitch.
“So they gave it to Chuck,” I said. “Bummer.”
“It was appropriate use of manpower.” She tried to soften her voice and stance, but it was too late. “Now let’s go down and get this interview done.”
“We can cut to the chase right here,” I said, getting out my milk frothing carafe. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know who did it. I don’t know who would want to hurt either of them. Done and dusted.”
“Not quite. You were seen going into Catherine’s building earlier today.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have anything to say about that?”
“No.”
“Why were you there?”
“Visiting.”
“A woman that you’d never met before?” asked Julia.
“Friendship has to start somewhere,” I said.
“You and Catherine Cabot are friends?”
“Yes.”
“What will she say to that?”
“Ask her when she comes out of recovery.”
“Why aren’t you at the hospital if you’re such good friends?” she asked.
Aunt Miriam marched to the door, opened it, and pointed her cane out. “Because she’s making a latte.”
Julia stared at me for a second and said, “You will answer every question I have.”
“We’ll see,” I said, giving her a finger wave. “Ta-ta.”
Julia stalked out and Aunt Miriam slammed the door. “Ta-ta?”
“It felt right.”
“May Mary forgive me, but I do not like that girl.”
“I suspect we could start a club,” I said. “Latte?”
“You don’t have time,” said Aunt Miriam.
Oh, no.
“Why?”
“Because you have suspects and that…woman doesn’t.”
Dammit.
Chapter Fourteen
AUNT MIRIAM STOOD at the front door of my building, cane in hand and her square black purse hooked over her arm.
“So you’ll go explain things to the parents and I’ll start checking alibis,” I said. “Agreed?”
“Whose alibis?”
“Joe and Patty Hove and John Collier, Clem’s husband.”
She pursed her lips and a lock of faded red hair escaped her dove grey veil. She poked it back under and said, “That’s your list?”
“Er…yeah.”
“And what if they aren’t involved?”
“I’ll figure it out.” I kissed her cheek, dutifully, and went for the back exit. “I’ll call you later.” I had the back door open and had stepped out before I heard the clicking. Aunt Miriam was right behind me with her cane tapping on the tile. “What are you doing? We agreed you’d go to my parents.”
“You agreed. I’ve decided to help you.”
“Thanks. I’m good.”
“You’re alright.”
“I love you, too.”
“Love is neither here nor there in this present situation,” said the nun. “Hate is what we’re after.”
This cannot happen.
“You can’t come,” I said.
“You have been through ordeal after ordeal,” she said. “You need support.”
“I’m fine.”
Aunt Miriam marched past me and I chased after her. “Really. I’m fine.”
“You look terrible, even for you.”
I ran ahead of her. “Hey. That’s a low blow.”
“You’re covered in scratches and bruises. Your hair would embarrass a rodeo clown and you’ve got a dead parrot in your apartment.”
“Li Shou isn’t dead. I checked.” I couldn’t deny the rest since I could see my reflection in the door. My hair had gotten big and wiry-looking. I needed a hat so bad.
“What did you put on your hair? Dishwashing liquid?”
“No. It’s that ditch. There was something in the water.”
“Something toxic.”
“Possibly, but nobody cares,” I said. “I have a head start on this case and I don’t want to lose it by arguing with you.”
“Then stop arguing,” she said.
Okay. Just say it. Maybe she’ll understand and give you a break.
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“You want to know the truth?” I asked.
“That would be refreshing.”
“It’s about sex.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I cannot be running around investigating sexual deviancy with a nun.”
“Why not?”
I looked up at the clear blue sky. Please Lord. Help me out here.
And she whacked me on the thigh. So much for prayer.
“Son of a—” I danced around rubbing my leg. “You can’t go.”
“I understand sex.”
“No, you don’t. You’re a nun.”
She pointed her cane at my nose. “I was working with prostitutes and pimps thirty years before you were born. I know what goes on and why, but I don’t judge. I leave that to the Lord.”
“But you scare people.”
She drew up to her full height of four foot eleven. “I do not.”
“You scare me.”
Aunt Miriam snorted and trotted around me toward my truck. “Oh, good. Aaron’s already here.”
He was. Sitting in the driver’s seat and staring out the windshield like he’d been there for hours. Heck. He might’ve been. I whipped open the door. “What are you doing?”
“I’m your partner. We have a case,” he said without looking at me.
“How’d you get the keys?”
“Mr. Cervantes gave me the extra.”
Is there no one on my side?
“Fine. I give up. I’m going to go interview people about sex stuff with a nun and an uber nerd. That’s going to go great. Not weird at all.”
Aunt Miriam went around the passenger side and waited. “I’m glad that’s settled.”
She didn’t look glad. She never looks glad. But I went around, opened the door, and boosted her royal shortness in.
“Where to?” asked Aaron.
“La-Z-Boy in Brentwood.” I leaned on the door and put my forehead on the glass. Aaron pulled out and we’d driven only five feet before Julia stepped out from behind a dumpster, holding up her badge. “I knew you were on my case!” she yelled. “Get out.”
“Run her over,” I said.
He didn’t run her over, which was wise, but I didn’t appreciate it much. Aaron drove around her quickly and hit the gas. Julia jumped in an old Ford Expedition and peeled out behind us.
“I should’ve driven,” I said. “We have to lose her.”
With that Aaron kicked it up a notch. He threaded between cars, bumped on sidewalks, narrowly missed mailboxes, and went under an overhang without disturbing the flower boxes.
I was hanging on for dear life, trying to get my seatbelt on, and holding Aunt Miriam back against the seat like a mom does with a little kid when she hits the brakes. “Holy shit! Slow down!”
Aunt Miriam gave my leg a stinging slap. “Language.”
“Sorry.” I got my seatbelt clicked, but I only had two. So none for Aunt Miriam. “Aaron, you’re driving like my dad. Stop it. She doesn’t have a seatbelt.”
“Do not slow down,” said Aunt Miriam, primly sliding around with her purse on her lap and her cane between her knees.
“Are you crazy? You could get killed.”
“The Lord protects his own. Lose her, Aaron.”
We squealed onto Kingshighway leaving a swathe of tire tread. Julia got cut off, but she was trying to put her cherry up.
“You have to lose her before the siren,” I said and Aaron yanked us right, cutting off a bus and barreling down the parkway.
“Not Forest Park!” I yelled. “It’s Saturday. Everyone’s here.”
Everyone was there on a sunny October afternoon, but that didn’t stop Aaron. He drove around traffic and cut through service lanes that I’d never noticed were there. Julia was still behind us. Any second she’d get that cherry on and she’d be able to arrest me, which was the whole point.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Drive to the Art Museum,” said Aunt Miriam.
“No. The Jewel Box.”
I didn’t think he’d listen to me, but he did, keeping almost out of Julia’s sight. There was a warren of streets and paths around the art deco glass masterpiece that some genius decided to gut of all its interior charm—plants, secret pathways, and the cutest little bridge—and turn it into a wedding venue. We used to go there at Easter to see the flowers. Now there was no point and that was the upside, nobody went there so there was nobody to run over.
Aaron used those streets and paths to his advantage. Julia had no clue about the area and we got around the Jewel Box, and she lost sight of us long enough for us to get to the traffic circle and race to Hwy 40.
“Holy—”
Aunt Miriam raised her hand.
“Wow,” I said. “Where did you learn to drive like that?”
“Tommy,” said Aaron.
“When?”
He shrugged and asked, “You hungry?”
“I’m car sick.”
“Vietnamese?”
“How did you get Vietnamese food from ‘I’m car sick.’?” I asked.
“Quiet,” said Aunt Miriam. “I do love Pho, but we’ll see John Collier first, then Pho, then those other two.”
Aaron followed orders and drove to John’s store. Before he parked, I was out and running across the parking lot. I burst in the doors, spotted Mr. Gates, dodged recliners, end tables, and a table heaped with fabric samples to get to him.
“Mr.” I gasped, “Gates…where…is…”
Gates turned from an older couple and said, “Miss Watts, are you—”
“Fine. John?” I bent over. I was getting in worse shape not better. “Where is he?”
“He just left.”
I sucked in a breath and heard a jingle. Aunt Miriam and Aaron. Darn they were fast.
“Was he here all day?” I asked.
“Of course.” Gates smiled at his customers. “We have a dedicated staff.”
“I mean all day all day. As in he never left.”
“Well, he went to A Whole Lotta Pho for lunch after you left.”
The lady added, “It’s very good. We go there all the time.”
Aunt Miriam marched up. “Where are we going?”
“A Whole Lotta Pho,” said the lady. “But it’s early for dinner.”
No more needed to be said. Aaron was out. He trotted to the door and it violently jingled as he whipped it open. Great. If he started to cook, I’d lose my advantage.
“Was that Aaron from Kronos?” asked Gates. “I heard you knew him.”
The lady’s husband peered at me. “You look familiar.”
“I knew you weren’t wearing your contacts,” she said.
“I am. She’s just familiar.”
“She’s a Marilyn Monroe impersonator.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“Put on your glasses, David.”
I grabbed Gates by the arm. “This is important. How long was he gone?”
“Aaron?”
“John!”
Gates thought about it. “I wasn’t paying attention. Maybe an hour.”
Plenty of time.
“Thanks.” I turned Aunt Miriam around. “We’re leaving.”
“Aren’t we going to ask him about the sex?” she asked.
“No.”
“Sex?” asked David hopefully.
“Mercy says there are aberrant sexual things afoot,” Aunt Miriam helpfully called out over her shoulder.
The husband grinned ear to ear. “Sounds fantastic. I like La-Z-Boy better now.”
“David!” said his wife.
“Let’s buy a sofa and go home.”
I pushed Aunt Miriam toward the door. “Ignore her. She’s getting on in years.”
“How dare you? Mercy, I will tell your mother.”
“Tell her,” I said. “It can’t be worse than this.”
I got her out the door and Gates yelled, “Have you thought about my offer?”
David grinned even wider, a real Cheshire
Cat. Swell.
“He’s going to put that on Instagram,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
She marched in the direction of A Whole Lotta Pho. “He’s too old for Instagram.”
“That’s good.”
“He’s going to put it on Facebook.”
“Why is this my life?” I asked the heavens.
She smacked my arm. “Because you’re lucky and don’t forget it.”
“If I do, I’ll have a bruise to remind me.”
Aunt Miriam harrumphed and went into the restaurant where Aaron was making for the back. “Stop!” she yelled and to my amazement, he did. “There will be no cooking here today.”
The wild-eyed Vietnamese man behind the counter protested and Aunt Miriam shushed him. He, too, obeyed. The nun was almost useful because we ordered Pho and Aaron didn’t make it.
When the owner brought our order, Aunt Miriam told him I had questions and he would be answering them. She said it like he protested. He didn’t.
“Er…did a man named John Collier come in here today?” I asked. “He works at La-Z-Boy.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “He was here. He ordered Banh Mi and Laksa. Very good.”
“How long was he here?”
“I don’t know. We were very busy.”
“Did he eat here?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“He didn’t take it to go?”
“No. He had a glass of wine.”
Aunt Miriam narrowed her eyes at him. “Is that usual for this man?”
The owner stepped back and nervously started running his towel through his hands. “No, no. John has tea usually.”
“Was he upset?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“It doesn’t matter. Would you say he was here for a while? Say a half hour?”
“Oh, yes. Our kitchen was very busy.”
I thanked him, quickly paid, and slurped down my Pho. “John’s out. He didn’t have the time. Thank goodness.”
“John Collier would never gun down two people in broad daylight. He sells furniture,” said Aunt Miriam, polishing off her soup faster than me.
“I’m sure furniture sales has a few criminals among them.” I looked at Aaron, who practically had his face in his bowl. “What do you think?”
He looked, focusing on a spot next to me. “Want a donut?”
“No. We’re going to Hove Realty.”
Aunt Miriam put her chopsticks down firmly. “A realtor. Now there’s a serious contender.”