I edged away. “People don't usually leave much overnight. I mean, the storage is for the daytime, while they're working.”
“So why did she leave this stuff here after she'd gone home?”
“I don't know.” I studied the floor, an empty feeling twisting my gut. Flecks of black powder dusted the linoleum. “Maybe she forgot them?” But that didn't seem right. Mathilda had been careful, and unlike Darla, usually kept her purse inside her bin. So she'd taken her purse home. She should have seen the other items and taken them as well, but she hadn’t. Plus, she’d come in that day and gone into the kitchen. I’d assumed she’d taken something out of her box. But what if she’d put things insides? But if that was true, why? Because she didn’t trust her roommate? “I didn't notice anything unusual about the cigarettes or book,” I mused aloud. “There was nothing written on its pages.”
The sheriff swore. “You examined them? That was evidence!”
I crossed my arms. “No one seemed very interested at the time.”
“How could I be, when I didn't know it existed? Even if the book did mean something, a good lawyer will make sure this photo isn't admissible as evidence. I only have your word this belonged to Mathilda.”
“Why would I make that up?” It had always been like this, I thought miserably. I was always McCourt's first and last suspect.
“I don't know, Ms. Bonheim, why would you?”
“I have no reason—”
The dishwasher ground into action again, something thumping inside it. My skull throbbed in time to its beat.
“Don't you?” she asked. “This whole story could be a scam. An attacker who you conveniently didn't see. Potential evidence, missing.” Her nostrils flared. “Do you have any idea—”
The deputy stuck his head from the closet. “Prints are everywhere. We'll need to print everyone who might have come inside.”
She made a quick, angry nod in response. “We've got Ms. Bonheim's prints on file, as well as one or two of the other employees. Come back tomorrow during opening hours to get the rest.”
“Will do,” he said.
She turned to me. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell me? Did you notice any smells or sounds?”
“No. Sorry. But the person was strong.”
“Person? You can't even tell me if it was a man or woman?”
“They were behind me, and I was surprised. It happened really fast,” I said weakly.
She jabbed a gloved finger at me. “We'll be back tomorrow.” The sheriff ripped off her gloves and jammed her hat on her head. “Let's go.”
I saw them out the alley door and locked it after them.
Picatrix trotted down the stairs and sat on the bottom step. The ebony cat meowed.
“No,” I said shakily. “I don't think that went well at all.”
*****
A loud bang, like a gunshot.
I started, looked out Ground's front window.
A dented, Volvo missing its hood and both bumpers puttered to a halt in front of my café.
Gasping a laugh, I hurried around the wooden counter. I pushed open the red-paned door and strode onto the sidewalk. The air was cool, the morning sky dim and hazy with the memory of night.
Lenore emerged from the gray Volvo and slammed shut the door. It fell off, clattering to the pavement. Someone had spray painted a yellow male organ on its side.
“Oh,” I said.
She glared. “I loved that car.”
I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep from laughing.
“It isn't funny!”
“No,” I sobered. “I wonder where they got the spray paint?”
She rolled her eyes. “Someone broke a window in the hardware store last night. The owner said nothing was stolen, but obviously, something was.”
“Nice detective work.”
“And the garden gnomes were stolen from Mrs. Biddlecreek’s front yard.” Her delicate nostrils flared. “The virikas have got to go.”
“Are you planning on keeping that car parked on Main Street? Because Ground just opened, and my customers—”
She shot me a look that could have curdled soy milk.
“Okay, okay.” I raised my hands in a warding gesture. “Keep it there as long as you want.”
She sniffed. “Help me get this door in the trunk.”
We maneuvered the front door, which was surprisingly heavy, into the trunk. Lenore slammed it shut. The lid bounced open, and she swore.
My lips twitched. Lenore really did love that car.
I watched my sister drive off, then I walked inside and taped a paper sign in the window. REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE CAPTURE OF MATHILDA SINCLAIR’S KILLER. Free coffee for life.
I could afford free coffee for life. But I couldn't afford getting arrested again.
Returning to the counter, I taped another sign on the back of the cash register.
“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” Darla filled a cup at the espresso machine. She raised her voice above the noise. “I mean, is the sheriff okay with offering a reward?”
I tossed my head. “People offer rewards all the time. Why wouldn't she be okay with it?”
“I dunno.” She set the espresso on the counter, and a tourist in ski gear lunged for it. “But everyone knows she doesn't like you. I mean, it's totally irrational and unfair, but…”
“Yeah.” I cast a glance into the crowd.
Mrs. Raven and Mr. O'Hare had seized a table in the center of the room. They sat motionless in their old-fashioned attire, coffee mugs cooling on the table.
Watching.
I looked away, a ribbon of ice racing down my spine. Why couldn’t they just go?
Old Mrs. Steinberg, wreathed to her eyeballs in thick black scarves, stepped to the counter. “One large coffee. Black.”
Darla hastened to the coffee machine.
The elderly woman banged the back of the register with her cane. “You're wasting time with this reward.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but if someone has evidence—”
“Oh, I'm sure there's evidence. But what happened to the unfortunate Mathilda isn't important.”
My neck stiffened. “One of my employees was murdered. Of course it's important.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You have a bigger problem, and you and your sisters need to resolve it quickly.” She glanced toward Raven and O'Hare.
“Those two?” I whispered and rubbed my dry hands against the front of my apron. So, she did know something.
“Not so loud,” she hissed.
Darla handed a large, paper cup across the counter to the old woman.
“Thank you, young lady,” Mrs. Steinberg said. She glared at me. “Fix the problem!” She stumped to Raven and O'Hare's table. Dragging a nearby chair across the floor, she sat between the couple.
What did she know about them?
“Solve the problem?” Darla asked, expression anxious. “Is something wrong with the coffee?”
“No. It's just Mrs. Steinberg being Mrs. Steinberg.”
Darla spun one finger near her ear in the universal sign for nuttiness. “Got it.”
Doyle was enthusiastic about the chance for free coffee for life. I was flooded with tips about Mathilda, most of which I suspected were useless.
Finally, the tipsters became too big a distraction. While Diane and Darla managed the counter, I staked out a corner table. A line of potential witnesses, bundled against the cold, snaked through the café.
I smiled hopefully at the man across from me, a windburned gas station attendant named Earl.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That girl who died put five dollars in her tank the day she was killed.”
I made a note on my yellow pad. “Do you remember what time this was?”
He rubbed his weather-roughened face, his broken fingernails stained with dirt and grease. “Around three, I guess. She was a
lways just putting in five dollars here, five dollars there.” He laughed. “I was starting to wonder if she had a crush on me, she was at the station so often. I mean, why not just fill up the tank?”
Because Earl's gas was horribly expensive? Five dollars would get Mathilda to Angels Camp, where there was competition and lower prices.
“Thanks, Earl. I'll let the sheriff know.”
“And my free coffee?”
“If this leads to her killer, it's yours.” I doubted it would, but you never knew. “But I'll have to run it by the sheriff first.”
“All right.” He pushed back his chair. “You let me know now.”
Honey, a waitress from Antoine's bar, claimed his chair and laughed nervously. “Wow. Who knew free coffee would be this exciting?” She shook her head. Her long hair was the same color as her name, and the light shifted and glinted on the silken strands.
“It's a small town.”
“Yeah.” She turned her own paper cup between gloved hands.
“Did you see Mathilda the day she died?” I prompted, my foot twitching beneath the table. Most of my “tips” had been Mathilda sightings. Mathilda on the street. Mathilda in Ground, Mathilda in her car…
“No,” Honey said. “But I sort of knew her. We both have stepmothers. Mine's okay. She's a decent enough person, and she tries. I guess it's not easy coming into a family.”
“And Mathilda's?”
“Honestly, I don't know. Mathilda and her stepmom fought like cats and dogs. I saw them arguing once. Mathilda stormed off and nearly ran me down. She came to Antoine's to apologize that night, and we got to talking.”
“Oh?”
“You know Mathilda's money is in trust?”
I nodded.
“Well, her stepmother controls the money until Mathilda's twenty-five.”
My scalp tingled. I leaned forward. “Twenty-five?”
“Mathilda thought…” She looked over her shoulder, at the line behind her and leaned closer, her ample chest touching the table. “I don't know if this is true,” she said in a low voice. “It's just what Mathilda told me once.”
“I get it,” I whispered. “What you’re about to tell me is hearsay.”
She swallowed. “She thought her stepmother might have been dipping into the money.”
Embezzling from the trust? My pulse zinged. “Did Mathilda give you any details?”
Honey shook her head. “No, but I think Mathilda believed it was true.”
“Why didn't she go to the police or her lawyers?”
“I don't know. I got the feeling she had gone to lawyers, but they'd blown her off.”
I scribbled on my lined pad. “When was this?”
“About six months ago.” She grimaced. “That's why I can't remember the details.”
“Was there anything else you can remember?”
She rose gracefully from the wooden chair. “No. Sorry. I hope that helps.”
“I don't know if it will or not, but I'll give all this info to the sheriff.” Grabbing the notepad off the table, I stood. “I'll be right back,” I said to the waiting witnesses.
A groan rippled down the line of tipsters.
Ignoring it, I strode to the kitchen, and jogged upstairs. Mathilda's employee file lay on my kitchen table. I opened it and scanned the page.
Mathilda would have turned twenty-five next month.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“In spite of all their experimentation, the aliens still don't understand how fragile humans can be.” Mrs. Biddlecreek thumped her cane on the floor with an air of triumph and sat back in the wooden chair. “And they stole my damn garden gnomes.”
My pen paused over the yellow pad, and I tried not to wince. Should I tell her where the gnomes had gone? Or would that just cause more problems for Mr. O’Malley’s family? I sighed. Maybe I could sneak them back into her yard.
Behind me, a coffee mug clattered. The murmurs of afternoon business meetings and kaffeeklatsches continued unabated.
“Aliens?” I asked. I'd gotten at least one solid lead from my “free coffee” reward offer. So, I'd gritted my teeth and continued working my way down the line of tipsters.
Her silvery brows drew downward. “What did you think I was talking about?”
“You believe aliens killed Mathilda Sinclair,” I said.
“Not intentionally!”
“I see.” Involuntarily, I glanced toward the table where Mrs. Raven and Mr. O'Hare still sat. They'd been nursing coffees all day. It was freaking me out.
I twiddled my pen between my fingers, drumming it on the paper.
She leaned forward, her gray wool coat bunching in the folds of her thick waistline. “It was bound to happen someday. They've taken so many of us, not to mention my gnomes. Why your own sister—”
“Was lost in the woods,” I said quickly, heat racing from my neck to my face.
Mrs. Biddlecreek touched a curl of her stiff gray hair. “Of course, she'd say that. I understand the probing can be quite… intimate.”
I choked on a laugh and brought my Ground mug to my mouth to hide my expression. “Yes. Well. Did you witness anything specifically, um, alien on Friday night that might help?”
“Oh, just the usual lights in the sky. You know how it is.”
I scribbled something on my notepad. “Right. I’ll be sure to include your report in my notes to the sheriff.” And I would, because I knew it would make McCourt crazy. “Thank you,” I caroled.
Stiffly, the old woman rose and stumped from Ground.
I slumped in my chair. Thank God that was over. Mrs. Biddlecreek had been the last person in line.
Darla ambled to my table and poured me a fresh cup of coffee. “How'd it go?”
“Another alien abduction gone wrong,” I said.
One side of Darla's mouth quirked upward. “Did you learn anything useful?”
“I'm not sure. I've got a list of Mathilda sightings on Friday, but I don't know if I can trust any of them, or if they mean anything. Did you know Mathilda was going to come into her money when she turned twenty-five?”
She shook her head. “I knew something was happening. Mathilda kept talking about leaving Doyle after her birthday. But she didn't mention an inheritance or anything.” Her round face flushed. “I was going to tell you we needed to start looking for a new barista before she left. I should have said something sooner.”
“That's all right.” I sighed and glanced toward the coffeeshop’s front windows. “I suppose it's time to post a Help Wanted sign. I'll do it tonight. And I'll do the closing. You did enough today. In fact, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off?”
“I don't mind staying. I'm glad you're doing this for Mathilda.”
My head lowered. So why did it feel like too little, too late?
She smiled. “But I will take the rest of the day off. Thanks.”
Glancing at O’Hare and Raven, I returned behind the counter and got back to my real job. Even though I'd spent most of the day in Ground, I'd missed being behind the counter. And in spite of my watchers, I smiled a little easier at the customers who came through.
*****
That evening, I closed Ground alone. Standing in the darkened café, I loosened my apron strings and listened to the tick of the clock, the hum of a passing car.
I shook myself and headed upstairs to my laptop.
Picatrix met me at the door. Her kibble bowl wasn't empty, but she meowed frantically while I topped it up.
“I didn’t leave you to starve.” Chuckling, I walked to my alcove retreat. Climbing ivy and philodendrons traversed the base of its pale brickwork. It would take another year or two for the plants to get any real height.
My fingers twitched. Unless I did a teeny spell…
Resolutely, I turned my back and dropped onto the sofa. No. No growth spells.
I booted up my laptop. If my source today was right, Lydia Sinclair�
��d had a strong motive to get rid of Mathilda. I wanted to learn more about the widow.
There was a good bit about the Sinclairs online — less about Lydia herself. She and her late husband had been a fixture in the San Francisco society scene before he'd died… under suspicious circumstances.
BILLIONAIRE PHILANTHROPIST GOES MISSING ON CRUISE SHIP
It began as an idyllic, boutique vacation cruise on the luxury cruise ship Wanderlust… until nearly two days into the trip.
“I was on the promenade deck,” said a passenger who wished to remain anonymous. “Then a voice over the intercom said, 'Man overboard, port side.' The entire deck quieted. It was eerie.”
Lydia Sinclair had reported that her husband, Ronald Sinclair from San Francisco, had fallen from his balcony. The search began immediately, but to date, the body has not been found.
Ronald Sinclair, billionaire and philanthropist, helped raise millions for those in need. Of late, his focus had turned to the issue of elder abuse, particularly of adults in care facilities.
Born in Kansas City, Kansas, Mr. Sinclair was CEO of two Fortune 500 corporations and co-founder of a venture capital firm based in Silicon Valley. After his first wife, Sandra, died of breast cancer, he remarried Lydia Sinclair. The couple were ubiquitous on the San Francisco social circuit.
Mr. Sinclair is survived by his daughter, Mathilda, and his wife, Lydia.
Picatrix bounded onto the couch and stared at the screen.
“Oh, so now you’re interested?” I clicked on another article.
FBI TAKES LEAD IN PROBE OF BILLIONAIRE WHO VANISHED ON CRUISE SHIP
The FBI reports it is now working with Wanderlust Cruise Lines to understand what happened when billionaire philanthropist Ronald Sinclair fell overboard from his stateroom balcony.
“I left him drinking on the balcony,” said Mr. Sinclair's wife, Lydia. “He was upset about something, but wouldn't tell me what, and had been drinking heavily. He said he didn’t want to go to dinner. When I returned, he wasn't in the state room, but his room key and wallet and cell phone were in the room. I knew something had happened. I hope they can find him. I just want to put Ronald to rest.”
A passenger in a nearby stateroom claims he heard a shout, but didn’t think anything of it until he saw Mrs. Sinclair in the hallway, looking distraught. When she told him her husband was missing, they contacted the ship’s authorities.
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 10