This time he answers. “I was going to give her a gift,” he says. “I got us two plane tickets to Hawaii. Oahu, actually. I just bought them this morning, they were on sale. I was going to surprise her with them.”
“Oh.” Maybe I should have told him about the divorce papers yesterday after all. “Are those tickets refundable, by any chance?” I ask
“Refundable? No! It’s for a trip next week. Melanie is always saying how I work too much, and I thought surprising her with a vacation would be just the thing to cheer her up. I have a hotel booked, too. It was all a lot to arrange in such a short notice. She’s going to have to clear her schedule, which is why I wanted to tell her today.”
Since Melanie doesn’t work, I’m sure clearing her schedule is going to be the least of her concerns. Canceling a few hair and nail appointments surely won’t be that difficult to do. As I think about Melanie’s schedule, the memory of her planner pops into my mind. I really have to talk to Bess about the Melanie’s visit to the Antique Haven on the day that Joe died.
Cliff continues. “But now, I don’t know where she is. I called the nail salon and they said she left four hours ago!”
“Maybe she went for a walk in the park,” I say. “Or to the market...”
“It’s not like Melanie,” Cliff says. “I know my wife. When she says she’ll be somewhere, she’s there. She told me she would be home at eleven fifteen. She even asked me to defrost the quiche, so that it would be ready for her to bake. Now it’s sitting on the counter-top. It was sweating out little drops of water, and now it’s resting in a wet pool. It’s getting warm and I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Put it in the refrigerator,” I suggest. “I’m sure she’ll be home soon, and she can bake it then.”
I want to hang up, but Cliff isn’t going to let me get away that easily.
“If you haven’t been watching my wife, and you haven’t called Express Travel, and you haven’t talked to Gale, what exactly have you been doing?” he asks.
I bounce a little bit on my Swiss ball, nervously.
“Uh... er... I’ve been... well, I did talk to your wife, sir,” I say.
Should I tell him about the divorce papers? Now? I can picture him, standing in his kitchen next to the sad, defrosted, sweaty quiche. It almost breaks my heart.
“Is that all? You talked to her? Anyone could do that. I didn’t pay you three hundred dollars just to talk to her,” Cliff says, cutting through the silence. “I thought you were a detective. I mean, I had my doubts when I visited your office, but I thought you could be helpful.”
I know I should defend myself. But the words simply don’t come.
“You know what?” Cliff says. “This isn’t working out, is it? It was a mistake to hire you, I’m afraid. I’d like my money back.”
“Sir...” I say quietly. My hand flies to the satchel hanging around my neck.
You know how we had to write down our fears, and then burn the paper to make ash?
Well, this is my worst fear.
I wrote down the word ‘Failure’ on that little slip of paper.
Now, Cliff is saying that I failed him.
I’m speechless.
I already pushed the money that he gave me under Sherry’s door. I couldn’t get it back, even if I wanted to. Plus, even if I did manage to get it back from Sherry, I would still owe her rent.
My mind has already started to spiral downwards, and I’m missing what Cliff is saying now as I keep traveling down a path of negative thinking.
If I can’t pay rent, I’ll have to move out of my office. Without an office, how will I get new clients? Maybe Chris was right to not take my PI business seriously. Maybe my career is a joke.
“—tomorrow at noon,” Cliff says.
Then, there’s silence.
He’s waiting for my response.
I clear my throat. Could this conversation get any worse? “Sorry,” I say. “I kind of zoned out there for a minute. What did you just say?”
“I said, I’ll be stopping by your office for my refund tomorrow at noon,” Cliff repeats. Yep. He is definitely annoyed.
“Okay,” I mumble. “Got it.”
“Goodbye, Penny.” Without another word, Cliff hangs up.
I’m left staring down at my phone.
What am I going to do now?
I guess I have no other option.
I need to have money, to repay Cliff. I’m going to have to do something as far from respectable PI work as I can imagine.
I’ve always had confidence issues—since I was a little kid, growing up poor with a single mom. I never really felt good enough. My thick glasses, frizzy hair, lack of coordination and mouth full of braces didn’t help.
Being prideful has never been an issue for me.
However, if I did have any pride to start out with, I’m sure I’d be swallowing it now, as I dial the lawyer that Cora works for, Hiroku Itsu.
“Hello?” I say, when Hiroku answers. “This is Penny... Penny Banks. Cora gave me your number. I’d like to talk to you about becoming a....” I pause, in disbelief. Has my life really come to this?
Yes.
Yes, it has.
I take a deep breath. “I’d like to talk to you about becoming a nanny for your Chihuahua.”
Chapter Eleven
I plan to meet Hiroku at her offices at four. Apparently, her Chihuahua, Blueberry Muffin, will be there as well, so that we can ‘get to know each other’.
The only thing that makes this situation any better is that Hiroku agreed to give me a three-hundred-dollar advance payment.
I’ll have money to give to Cliff, tomorrow.
Since I have two hours ‘til I have to report for my new nanny duties, and learning the Chihuahua’s name stirred my appetite, I head off to the Death Cafe to see if Annie has been doing any baking.
When I enter the cafe, the smell of freshly baked pie greets me. Finally, something is going right!
I make my way to the counter, and Annie smiles when she sees me.
“Penny! I was hoping you would stop by. How is the case coming along?”
“I was fired,” I say.
“Fired! By Mayor Haywater?”
I nod.
She shakes her head. “What is that man thinking? First he bans awnings because the sidewalks are ‘too narrow’ and now he fires the best PI in town?”
“The only PI in town,” I say.
“Oh, you poor thing. Well, have some pie. On the house.”
Who can say no to that? I graciously accept the fat wedge of peach pie that Annie serves up to me, and then start eating it while I’m still standing at the counter. There’re only a few other patrons in the cafe, and no one waiting to order or pay, so I know Annie doesn’t mind.
“What happened?” Annie asks, as I begin wolfing down pie.
“Cliff called... he wanted to know what I’ve been doing to figure out why his wife bought the one-way ticket. I couldn’t tell him about the progress I made—you know, the divorce papers—without dragging Cora into it.”
“I suppose not,” Annie says.
“Plus,” I add, “I don’t want to tell him about the divorce. He should hear that from his wife, not me.”
“But what about Joe Gallant?” Annie asks.
She reaches below the counter for something, and then places it on the countertop next to my plate of pie. I see that it’s Joe’s obituary.
“Here,” she says, pushing the paper towards me. “I cut that out of the Crier weeks ago. I was going to put it up on the wall in the bathroom, but then I thought you should have a look at it first.”
“Thanks,” I say. While most of the Death Cafe is decorated cheerfully, the bathroom decor stays true to the death theme. It is wallpapered in obituaries. “I’ll bring it back to you once I read it,” I promise.
Annie nods. “Do you still think he was murdered?”
Good question. I chew and swallow my pie. “I do,” I say. “I’m not really su
re what to do about that.”
“Keep trying to figure out who killed him!” Annie says.
“You think I should?” I ask.
“What kind of a question is that?” Annie asks. She reaches out and pats my arm. “Of course, you should.” A timer starts beeping, and Annie grins. “That’s my macaroons!” she says, and hustles off.
While she’s gone, I scan over the obituary.
It’s pretty short. It says that Joe Gallant grew up in Hillcrest, the youngest of two brothers. His older brother, Paul Gallant, was a plow truck driver for the town. Paul died three years back, of a heart attack. Joe had no children, and is survived by his niece, Paul’s only daughter, Molly Gallant.
I know Molly. She works at the Art Coop, over by the library.
Annie returns, with a tray bursting with steaming, fragrant macaroons.
I look up from the obituary. “This is helpful,” I tell my friend. “I forgot that Joe had a niece.”
“Good, I thought it might be. Will you talk to Molly?”
“I’d love to,” I say. “Eventually. But I’m going to have to put this investigation on hold while I figure out the ins and outs of this new gig I just took on. I’m going to be a—” I stop short, unable to say the words aloud.
“A what?” Annie asks, raising her brow.
“A... well, a nanny for a very high maintenance Chihuahua,” I say.
Annie laughs. Then, meeting my stony gaze, she stops abruptly. “Oh, dear!” she says. “You’re serious?”
I nod. “It’s just a couple of afternoons a week, and I’ll make twenty dollars an hour. I’m going to find out more about it soon.”
“Here,” she says, reaching for a pair of tongs. “Have a macaroon. It will cheer you up.”
I hold up a hand. I’ve polished off the slice of pie and I’m feeling full. “No,” I say. “I can’t accept your pity pastries.” I say.
“Just one little macaroon?” Annie says. She already has it in the tongs, and she’s holding it out towards me, waving it back and forth in front of my nose. It smells so good!
“Oh, okay,” I say. How could I say no?
As I break it in two to let some of the steam escape, I continue lamenting my position.
“It’s my own fault I was fired,” I say. “I should have just done what Cliff told me. He wanted me to call the Express Travel people and talk to Melanie’s sister Gale. I didn’t do those things.”
My shoulders slump. “It’s my fault for getting fired from the case, and it’s my fault that I have to resort to Chihuahua nannying.”
“Penny, Cliff Haywater is not a detective—you’re the detective. He can’t tell you how to solve a case. You have a natural ability with this kind of thing. You were following your instincts! Your instincts as an investigator, and...” she lowers her voice. “Your instincts as a witch.”
“Thanks,” I say, biting into the now cooler macaroon. It’s fluffy and sweet.
Annie speaks as I chew. “If I were you, I’d—”
I don't’ get to hear what Annie would do, because at that moment a woman enters the cafe, talking loudly. “Is that peach pie I smell?” she gushes.
She rushes up to the counter, and I move to the side to get out of her way.
“Oh, Annie, dear, I just knew I smelled it from outside! You know how I love your pie. Look, Savannah! Annie made her peach pie!”
The woman turns to the door, and calls out loudly to a toddler who has just wobbled in.
At first, I try to wait for the woman to order and then go away, so that I can keep talking to my friend. I polish off my macaroon and hover around the counter. But the woman has a myriad of questions for Annie, and while they’re talking, two more customers gather round the counter, drawn in by the smell of freshly baked pie and macaroons.
I can see that Annie will be tied up for longer than I have the patience to wait.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I tell Annie, as I pick up my crumb-riddled plate and the Crier clipping.
“Good luck, Penny,” Annie says over her shoulder as she pours a cup of coffee from a carafe behind the counter. “Don’t give up!” She gives me a wink, and then returns to pouring coffee.
On my way out the door, I deposit the plate into a dustbin, and I fold the obituary in half and slide it into the back pocket of my messenger bag. I can feel the cuffs in the pocket too, exactly where I left them. I’ll have to pick out a key ring soon, like Chris suggested.
Out on the sidewalk, I consider Annie’s words.
Just because Cliff fired me doesn’t mean I have to stop searching for the truth. I want to know why Melanie booked that flight, and never took it. I want to know who killed Joe.
I glance at my phone. I have an hour before I have to be at Hiroku’s office. That’s just enough time for a quick visit to Bess’ Antique Haven.
When I step into the Antique Haven, I spot Bess at the back, rearranging a row of used cowboy boots up on a high shelf. As I walk over, I eye the boots in her hand. They’re burnished red, with little hand painted, turquoise and pink roses on the side. Since I’m here on business, not for shopping, I make myself look away.
“Hi there, Penny,” Bess says warmly as I approach. “Just got these in!” She holds out the boots, and wiggles them in my direction. “They’re your size, and would look great on you... seeing as you’ve been wearing so much black lately. You should really accessorize with a bit of color.”
I have been wearing alot of black lately, and the black high-tops I have on do nothing to spice up my outfit. Those boots would look great with some of my dresses...
No! I am here on business!
Bess is about to say something else, but I hold up a hand to stop her. “No, thanks,” I say. “They’re really nice, but I’m not here to shop.”
She looks disappointed by this, but she puts the boots up on the shelf and starts climbing off her step ladder.
“Oh? Then what can I do for you?” she asks.
“I’m here on PI business,” I say. I like the way it sounds. I puff up my chest a bit as I continue. “I’m hoping that you can tell me a bit about Melanie Haywater’s visit to you, on the fourteenth of last month.”
“Penny,” Bess says, making her way through the racks of consignment and vintage clothing. “I could barely tell you what I had for breakfast this morning. How am I supposed to tell you what happened last month?”
I follow her. Bess walks behind the shop’s counter and takes a seat on a padded stool by the cash register. Her glasses are hanging down on a beaded chain, resting on her ample chest. She lifts them up to her eyes and peers at me. “And why do you want to know about Melanie Haywater, anyways?”
“It’s PI business,” I say. “Like I said.”
“I don’t like it,” Bess says, shaking her head. Some of her warm tone is gone. “You always seem to be rooting around in other people’s business, Penny Banks. How would you like it if I went around snooping into your personal matters?”
“Snoop all you want,” I say. Then, thinking of my recent conversation with Azure, I add. “Privacy is overrated, anyways.”
Bess makes a tisk tisk sound with her tongue. She looks down at a pile of receipts and starts idly flipping through them.
I continue. “This is for everyone’s safety,” I say. “There might be a murderer in our town, and I, for one, am not too happy about that.”
Bess snaps her head up, and her fingers stop flipping through the papers. “A murderer?” she repeats.
I nod solemnly. “I’m not positive, Bess, but I’ve been looking into Joe Gallant’s death and it really doesn’t seem like an accident to me.”
“Oh, my!” Bess places a hand on her bosom. “Well, I had no idea! Here I am going about business as if everything is just fine! All the while there’s a killer prowling about. Are the police after him?”
“Or her,” I say, correcting Bess. I think about Chris’s response to my suggestion that Joe was killed. ‘Don’t go imagining things,’ I
can hear him say.
I screw my lips up to the side. “The police? Er... not exactly.” I say. “And I don’t have any hard evidence. Not enough to get the PD to start up an investigation. So, I’m investigating this myself.”
Bess nods. “Alright, then,” she says, as if I’ve passed some sort of test. “And what does Melanie Haywater have to do with all of this? I saw her at the salon when I was getting my hair done the other day.” Bess gives her short, died auburn locks a loving pat. “She really didn’t look good. Pale and tired, if you ask me.”
“Melanie was at The Place on the day that Joe was found dead,” I say. “I’m looking into everyone that was there that day, not just Melanie. I want to be thorough. In her planner, it said that—”
“How do you know what she has written in her planner?” Bess interrupts to ask me.
I wave a hand. “I just happened to see it, when I was over for coffee...” I say.
“You and Melanie have coffee together?” Bess asks.
“Once in a while,” I answer. Once, period, I think to myself. “Anyways, I saw that she came here right before she went into The Place that day. It was in the middle of the afternoon. About two thirty. She had an appointment with you. Does that ring any bells?”
“Hmm... let me see...” Bess taps her lips as she thinks. “Middle of the day... that would be right after lunch hour... unless I ate early, which I do sometimes...”
I give her time. Eventually, after much lip-tapping and verbalized musings, Bess comes up blank.
“I’m sorry, Penny,” she says. “I’d love to help you, but I see so many people every day, and I just don’t think I can recall one specific transaction like that.”
Well, at least one of our businesses is booming. I wish I was having trouble keeping transactions straight.
Bess goes on. “Now, if you asked me about those painted cowboy boots that I just got in today, I could tell you all the details. Buttercup brought them in. She was waiting outside when I opened up the shop, and she said that—”
I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t stand here and listen to a long winded story that doesn’t pertain to our case, so I interrupt. “Would you have it in your paperwork?” I ask, pointing to the pile of receipts that Bess has at her fingertips.
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 11