“Do you want to come with me?” I ask. “You’re more than welcome.”
Max shakes his head. “I haven’t done my yoga yet for the day. Today I plan on doing a two-hour vinyasa flow. It’s vital that I give my nervous system a massage today since I did a distance run yesterday.”
“You are seriously the only person I know who massages their nervous system,” I say while rummaging in my drawers for a third layer to pull on over my long sleeve shirt. I know I’ll go straight to the games after dinner at Cora’s, and I want to be sure that I’m dressed appropriately.
“I’m also the only being you know that’s lived past five hundred, aren’t I?” Max asks.
“True,” I say. “You’ll meet us at the park then? At eight, for the games?”
“I’ll be there,” he says. He strides over to me, delivers a deep and wonderful kiss, and then waves goodbye.
“See you in a few hours,” I say.
Once he closes the bedroom door, I let out a huge sigh. I’d better crack this freaking case! Because if I don’t, I just kicked the hottest being I’ve ever met out of my bedroom for no good reason!
Chapter Twelve
It takes me a few more minutes to pile on the layers I think I’ll need for the evening. I end up wearing leggings, sweatpants, three tops, and my reflective-tape-adorned ski pants. I manage to locate my fake glasses from within the mess of covers on my bed, and I put them on. Then I waddle into the bathroom, my pants making a swish-swish sound as the thighs rub together. I suspect Turkey is still hiding in the bathtub.
I pull the shower curtain aside. Yep! There’s my kitty.
“He’s gone,” I say, reaching into the tub and scooping Turkey up into my arms. I kiss his head as I transmit. “I really do wish that you liked Max more.”
Turkey starts purring as I stroke his head. I know he can’t help it. Even if he’s upset about something, he purrs instinctively when I pet him in just the right way.
“And I wish he didn’t kill wild animals and suck blood from their veins,” Turkey says.
I don’t have time to get into this argument again, so I change the subject quickly. “I’m going to walk over to Cora’s with our guests. The last night of Walterdon is tonight. Do you want to come with us?”
“Hmm... a twenty-minute walk in the cold, a crowded house, and then standing around in the cold again?” Turkey asks sarcastically.
I laugh. “I take it that’s a no?”
“I’d prefer to stay here,” Turkey says. “It will be nice to have the house to myself for a little while. I’m getting behind in my consulting work.”
“I’ll miss you too,” I joke.
Turkey nuzzles my chin. “I don’t mean to offend you,” he says. “It’s just I think I’ll be more use to the case if I stay here.”
“How’s that?” I ask. I kiss his forehead again and then set him down gently onto the linoleum. I start brushing my teeth as Turkey answers me.
“In addition to doing a little bit of consulting, I plan on working on the case. I want to see what I can find on the internet about the last tournament,” Turkey says. “You know, maybe there’s an article about Fred’s partner that died or maybe I’ll find some snippets of coverage from W-SPORT. Who knows what a little bit of research could reveal.” His tail is swishing back and forth with excitement.
“Turkey, they’re spirits. From the Spirit Realm. I don’t think we’ll have any news about them on the Earth Realm internet.”
“You never know until you look,” Turkey says.
I rinse, spit, and then set my toothbrush down. “True enough,” I transmit. “Will you reach out to me telepathically if you find anything? I’m going to have my hands full at the games but if you find a clue, I’d really like to know about it.”
I push the bathroom door open. Turkey follows me into the hallway.
“Yes, of course, I will inform you of my findings right away,” he says. “And I hope it’s not too much to ask that you do the same. I don't appreciate being the last to know when something significant happens to you, Penelope.”
We step into the kitchen. “I’ll try,” I say. “Tonight might be kind of hectic, but I’ll really try.”
Turkey lines up at his feeding bowl. Though it’s early for dinner, he knows that I’ll fill his bowl before leaving for Cora’s, and I can tell he’s eager to eat. Turkey always seems to have an appetite.
I walk to the pantry, and as I do, I give Camille and Pat a little wave. Pat is lying on my living room floor, stretching, and Camille is sitting on the couch writing in what looks like a small journal.
“Almost ready to head over to Cora’s house for dinner?” I ask out loud, while I pull Turkey’s food off of the shelf. “The sun is setting. It’s safe to go out now.”
Pat speaks first. “Ready as we’ll ever be, right Cam? I’ll just finish up this last round of stretches.”
“And I’ll mark down one more thing in my training journal,” Camille says while writing busily.
I fill Turkey’s dish with dry food and a scoop of wet and then place it on the floor in front of him.
“They’re leaving tomorrow, right?” Turkey asks me telepathically.
“Oh, they’re not so bad,” I say. “Be nice. And yes, they’re leaving tomorrow. Enjoy your dinner and your quiet time,” I say.
“Please be safe tonight,” Turkey says.
His words make me stoop down and give him another kiss.
I have a risky career. I never know what the day, or night, will bring. That means I can never pass up an opportunity to give my cat some love. “I will,” I promise.
Soon Camille, Pat, and I are finishing our trek across town to Cora’s house. As we climb Cora’s steps, I make a promise to myself. I will not be completely distracted by delicious dinner items tonight. Yesterday evening, I was so hungry and so food-focused that I had a tunnel vision for Cora’s crock pot and barely noticed anything at all that was going on around me. That can’t happen again.
So, for the next hour, I remain hyper vigilant. I try to notice everything that happens around me.
For example, it doesn’t get away from me that Fred removes all of the red peppers from his salad and sets them on the edge of his plate.
I also notice that Marve’s bald head is shinier today than it was yesterday as if he’s applied some sort of special, bald-man lotion or oil.
I also notice the way Boleslava serves up two plates of food and hands one to Boris, who is waiting nearby.
I see the way Henry taps his knee up and down, below the table, the whole time we eat. Yes, to notice this I had to actually spend some time under the table, pretending to pick up a dropped fork.
I notice that there are twelve dirty plates in the sink when we’re all done eating and that there’s one dinner roll left.
I notice that Cora is out of tinfoil. Could that be a clue? Nope.
I swear. Despite all of my amazing observation skills, I’m no closer to cracking the case when the meal is over than when it began.
The athletes congregate in the living room while Cora, Marley, Annie and I finish cleaning up the kitchen and dining room.
“Ladies,” I say as I load the twelfth plate into the dishwasher. “Tonight’s the night. We have to solve this case. Cora, did you check on that cigarette like I asked you too?”
“Yes!” Cora says. “And it was there. Just like Beth said.”
“That means Beth didn’t do it, right?” Annie asks. She’s scooping what’s left of the chicken and rice casserole Cora baked into a Tupperware.
“Correct,” I say. “Beth has an alibi. That leaves Boris, Fred, and Marve.”
“It just couldn’t be Fred,” Annie says. “He’s just so nice, and funny...”
Marley elbows Annie. “We know you think that, Annie,” she says with a wink. “It’s in the way you look at him.”
“It is?” Annie asks.
I chime in. “Annie, it could be Fred. Almost everyone else is accounted for.
All of the athletes were with us when Janice was killed, except for Fred, Marve, Boris, and Beth. Beth didn’t do it, so—”
“My money’s on Boris,” Cora interjects. “He did lie to you, Penny, didn’t he?”
I nod. “He did. But that doesn’t mean he’s a killer. After all, Beth lied too, and she didn’t kill Janice. She just had a secret to hide.”
Cora hands me a glass, and I load it into the dishwasher.
I think it’s in a good spot, but Cora reaches over and moves it two rows over. “That’s a small glass,” she says. “It goes in the narrow row.”
Then she starts rearranging several of the other glasses I’ve stacked. As she does, she speaks. “Boris was on the stairs, and Blueberry said that she saw him take the trophy out of the bag. That’s got to be enough.”
“It’s not,” I say. “It’s close. Really close. But we need something more. We need to know more about his motive. And why would Boris possibly want to kill Fred’s tennis partner, all those years ago?”
Cora reaches for the Tupperware that Annie’s holding out. She crosses the kitchen and opens the fridge door as she says, “Maybe Boris thought that Fred’s partner was too good. Boris thought he and Boleslava had a better shot at winning the tournament if the other guy was out of the picture.”
Oops. I should have thought of that. “Good point, Cora,” I say.
Cora smiles. “Thanks! Should we—I don’t know—throw him in handcuffs or something? I mean, I’m an administrative assistant—or at least, I was an administrative assistant. This is a little bit out of my league. But it seems like if we’re pretty sure he did it, we should do something about it.”
All eyes turn to me. I guess that makes sense. I mean, I am the certified PI in the room. And I am the only one who owns handcuffs.
I hesitate and then shake my head. “Not yet,” I say. “It doesn’t feel right. I’m really not sure that it’s Boris. I think there’s more to the story. I think there’s something we’re missing—I just don’t know what. Let’s see how the night goes. Maybe we’ll find a new clue.”
We put the last touches on the kitchen, and then Marley and Annie head out so that they can stop at the Death Café and load up a wagon with refreshments. Cora and I bundle up and then traipse over to the park, leading the spirit athletes along dark side streets to avoid any public that might still be lingering on Main Street. I’m wearing my headlamp again, so I lead the way, snaking between icy puddles and snow piles.
The court is still cleared off, due to our work the night before. The lights are on. The air is even colder than it was during yesterday’s games.
Boris and Boleslava take the court, opposite Beth and Henry.
Max arrives at eight on the nose. He looks as handsome as ever as he positions himself at the net.
Annie and Marley join us and set up shop on the picnic table. Annie has even made a little banner for the makeshift refreshment stand. ‘The Death Café is a proud sponsor of Walterdon!’ it says.
On the picnic table, there’s also a board with the lineup of matches. There are four matches that will take place tonight, to determine who the finalists are. Each match consists of two sets, or possibly three if a tiebreaker is needed. Each set consists of up to seven games. It’s going to be a long night.
The fifth and final championship match will determine the winner of the tournament.
Who will it be?
And will we know who the killer is by then?
Not unless I do some detecting—and fast.
I scan the park and see Marve and Fred near the playground. Fred is hanging from gymnastic rings, doing sporadic, wobbly pull-ups. Marve has the camera aimed at him.
Hmm. I want to talk to each of them—but it will do no good to talk to them together. I need to get them alone. It would be best to talk to Marve first. I really want to know if he has any footage that might help us solve the case. I begin walking towards the two men.
How am I going to get them apart?
I’d better think of something quick. They’re looking at me now.
I give a polite wave. “Hey, Fred,” I say. “My friend Annie wants to talk to you.”
Fred glances over at the picnic table, where Annie is playing her penny whistle and occasionally shouting out, “Coffee! Get your hot coffee!”
Marley brought her hula hoop and is swinging it around her hips whenever Annie plays a tune on the whistle.
I smile, looking at them. My friends are weird... in the best possible way.
Fred is hanging from the monkey bars, gazing at the interesting refreshment table too.
“Really?” he says. “She wants to talk to me?”
I nod. “She probably wants to wish you luck for your big game. Or ask you out on a date. Or sell you some coffee cake. I have no idea, but you’d better go talk to her!”
Fred looks more than a little flustered as he drops down from the bars.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes. I’ll go talk to her right away!” He strokes his trimmed white beard a few times as if smoothing it into place and then rushes off.
At last, I’m alone with Marve.
“Get some good footage of Fred warming up?” I ask, pointing to his camera.
“Decent,” Marve says.
“I hear you work for a TV channel called W-SPORT?” I ask. “That’s pretty neat. How long have you done that?”
“Been with them for twenty-five years,” he says. “In fact, I expect to become a part owner of the channel soon. I’ve been covering tennis, but I have a feeling they’re going to put me in charge of human interest stories, too. You know, sporting events come with a lot of intrigue. You just have to know how to catch it on camera correctly.”
He taps the side of his head. “You have to get into the athlete's mind. You have to show the psychology. Their emotions. That’s what the viewer will relate to.”
Marve is warming to the subject, I can tell. I decide to indulge him. “And how do you do that?” I ask.
“I shoot a lot of close-ups,” he says while cradling his camera in his hands and turning it occasionally, as if it’s a fascinating artifact rather than a standard video camera. “I like to zoom in on the eyes. That’s been my style all along. Eyes are so expressive. I take extreme close-ups. Fear, determination, passion, fatigue, desperation... you name it and I can capture it just by zooming in on the eyes.”
“Brilliant,” I say. Really, I think he’s being a little bit full of himself, but I’m not going to say that to him. Have I mentioned that I’m working on being tactful?
I’ve learned that it doesn’t hurt to throw in a compliment or two, when interviewing suspects.
“It sounds like you’re really talented with that thing,” I say.
Marve grins.
I’ve got him just where I want him.
“Say...” I step in closer to him. “Do you think you might have some footage, from the last few days, that might help us figure out who killed Janice? I mean, you are always filming. I was thinking maybe you caught a clue on tape.”
“It’s possible,” Marve says. “I’d have to look. I have hours of film, you know.” He looks down at his camera. “If I did happen to have some footage that revealed a clue, what would it be worth to you?”
He looks up sharply and adjusts his black-framed glasses. He’s wearing a beret, in a wine-red color. As he adjusts his glasses, his whole beret flops forward.
I reach for my own frames and square them up. I almost feel like we’re having a dance-off, except it’s a glasses-adjustment-off.
I finish squaring my glasses and then give them a final shove up my nose. Marve is a few inches shorter than me, so I’m looking down at him as I say, “I’m not going to pay you for it, Marve. You would share the footage because you want to bring the killer to justice.”
Marve laughs. I have to say, it’s kind of a maniacal laugh. I don’t mean to sound judgmental or anything, I’m just reporting the facts.
“Mwa ha ha!” he says.
“You think I’m just going to give you video footage like that? Do you know how valuable that video footage will be? My bosses at W-SPORT are going to love me for that footage. It’s worth thousands, if not millions. I have the story—all of it—on tape. Janice’s death, the athlete's reactions, the grief, the agony, the determination to play on. It’s the story of a lifetime, and you think I’m going to just give it to you? Mwa ha ha.”
His laugh gives me goosebumps, and this time, it’s not the good kind.
It takes me a moment to gather myself. A moment’s not bad, seeing as I’m speaking to a ghost-like-being with an evil laugh.
“Marve, this is murder we’re talking about. It doesn’t matter how much you’re going to get paid or what kind of promotions you’re going to get. What matters is that you could help bring a murderer to justice. Isn’t that reward enough?”
Marve smirks. “Not for me, it’s not. The entertainment industry is cut throat, honey. I do what I have to do to better my career. If you’re willing to pay me for the footage, now that might be a different story.”
I think about the five thousand dollars that Turkey recently earned with his consulting. For a split second, I almost promise it to Marve. But at the last minute, I remember Turkey saying that I was hopelessly bad with my money.
Forking over five thousand dollars to a spirit I barely know probably wouldn’t be the wisest decision of my life.
So, I bite my tongue.
After a beat I say, “It’s wrong of you to ask me for money.” Then I add, “Just like it was wrong of you to ask Beth for money. She shouldn’t have to pay you to keep her secret.”
“What secret?” Marve asks.
“You know... about—” I lower my voice and whisper, “Her little smoking habit.”
“Oh, that!” Marve says. “How do you know about that?” he asks.
“I’m an investigator. That’s my job. I figure things out.”
“I’m actually kind of impressed,” Marve says snidely. “I thought you were a total joke of an investigator. I didn’t really think you’d find anything out.”
I place my hands on my hips. “Total joke?” I repeat. Then, “You know what? I don’t have to take this from you. This conversation is over.”
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 65