"Sure," Maggie said, trying not to sound sarcastic because Abby was so serious.
"I didn't have to bike up that big hill from the beach in the last six months. Except…."
She trailed off, and then seemed to be focusing on the cording. But there was something else she wanted to say.
"Except what?"
Abby shook her head. "She has an alibi, I'm sure," she said in an abrupt change of subject.
"Um, I don't know. I assume so." Harper hadn't offered one when they'd talked, but she didn't point that out to Abby, instead asking, "why would she need one?"
Maggie watched Abby's fingers as she pulled off lengths of nylon cording and cut it into necklace-sized segments for the class. "She had a… problem… with her car a few months ago," Abby said softly.
The way she said it made it seem like it was more than normal car trouble.
"What are you talking about?"
Her narrow shoulders drooped, and she looked down at the lengths of nylon cord she was cutting.
"Alexis," she whispered. "I've been a bit worried about it. Not that I care or anything," she quickly added.
"Alexis? The dead woman? How does that have anything to do with Harper's car?"
"You don't know?"
She shook her head.
"Harper and Alexis were friends. They were both into art, and were kind of snooty." She smiled fondly. "She can be so full of herself, you know?" She wasn't talking about Alexis.
"Yeah, I know," Maggie said.
Abby was still smiling faintly, thinking about Harper. "She likes to talk about great artists and all that stuff. Stuff I wasn't into. And with Alexis Norris she found someone who liked that same stuff and they would talk about it sometimes. It seemed like they were getting to be close friends. I almost…."
"Almost what?"
"I almost felt like sometimes Alexis was about to open up to her, about why she was so miserable and angry all the time."
"Did Harper ever say why Alexis was such a jerk?"
She shook her head. "Harper never got that close to her. But I figured she had some tragedy in her past, like she was in a war or something."
Maggie laughed. "In a war?" It was hard to picture the sophisticated art gallery owner in a war zone, and she said so. "Why would you think that about Alexis, anyway?"
"I don't know," Abby said with a shrug. "Like, you know how soldiers can be so uptight sometimes when they come back from the war. That kind of thing."
"That doesn't make sense. You've seen too many movies, Abby."
"Yes, it does make sense. Like that PTSD stuff."
"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?"
"Yeah. That. I saw it in a movie. Like she hated to be touched. And she hated noise. And she hated everything. Her own daughter, even."
"You have a point there. But I think if she'd had that kind of past the police would have figured it out by now. They're checking into her life, and there's no sign she had anything unusual in her background." She smiled gently at the younger woman. "I think it's unlikely she was off fighting in a war recently."
Abby shrugged. "You can laugh. But I think I'm right. Everyone just assumes she was a jerk for no reason."
"I'm sure she had a reason," Maggie said. "I always assumed she had some kind of mental illness, honestly. That's why I kept trying, and unfortunately failing, to be patient with her when she behaved so badly."
"Maybe. But I just figured if Harper liked her, maybe she wasn't a total creep. Maybe she had some tragic reason for all her awful behavior. Like she had left the love of her life in another country or something and was all distraught."
Maggie couldn't help laughing. "Really? Would this be before or after she got married and had a kid and owned an art gallery?"
"You think it's silly. But I saw a movie with a plot like that and it made me think she might have some reason for being so awful."
"Sometimes there isn't any reason why people are mean," Maggie pointed out. "But what does all this have to do with Harper and her car?"
"They were friends. For a while there. But that ended."
"Because of the car."
"Yeah. She slashed her tires."
"Who? Alexis? She slashed Harper's tires?" Maggie dropped the beads she was holding, and had to scramble to pick them up before they rolled off the table. "That's awful."
"Yeah. And Harper was pretty upset."
"I imagine so. Why?"
"Why was she upset?"
"No. I get that she would be upset. Why did Alexis slash her tires?"
"That's the thing. Harper didn't know. It was like, one day they were friends. They were hanging out in the art gallery, drinking coffee and making snarky comments about the paintings and giggling together, like being intellectual snobs the way Harper likes to do. And then the next day, Harper found her car tires slashed."
"Why did she suspect Harper? Maybe it was vandals."
"Alexis left her painter's knife sticking out of the tire."
"Wow." Maggie thought back to the roses, and the paintings, and all the irrational destruction that seemed to swirl around Alexis Norris. She had a horrible thought for a moment that maybe Willow was behind some of the violence, but dismissed that. Keith Norris had insisted his daughter was never violent. And she just didn't want to think of the sad-eyed girl as capable of something like that.
"So did Harper report the crime to the police?" she asked.
"Nope. She went to confront Alexis about it. She denied it, but then her husband overheard and stepped in. He accused her of always hurting people she cared about, and Alexis finally admitted she did it and said she didn't even like Harper and she deserved to get her tires slashed."
"It must have been an awful scene."
"It was. Harper came back all shaking and worked up. But Mr. Norris offered to pay to replace the tires and that was the end of it."
"The end of it, huh?"
"Yeah. She didn't report it to anyone, the insurance company or the police or anybody. And it was the end of their friendship."
"Do you think there was still conflict between them after that?"
"No," Abby said. "They just never talked after that."
"How long ago did this happen?"
"I don't know. A few months ago. But don't tell the police, okay?"
Maggie was quiet, and Abby went back to cutting the cords into lengths for the kits.
"I'm going to see if I can come up with an earring design for a new class," Maggie said to her. And think. She was going to do some thinking.
"I sent you a package," Maggie's dad was telling her on the phone when she got home for her lunch break.
She shifted the phone to her other hand while she unlocked the door of the tiny house and went inside.
"What kind of a package?" she asked.
Jasper got up and met her at the door. She put down her keys and her purse and sat on the daybed.
"It's not there?" her dad said, sounding disappointed. "It was supposed to arrive today."
Jasper scrambled up onto the daybed to stretch out next to Maggie. She ran her fingers through his fur.
"What's supposed to arrive, Dad?"
"An Instant Pot."
"What the heck is an Instant Pot?" Jasper cocked his head to the side as if asking the same question. He always acted curious when she was on the phone. She figured he was confused about why Maggie was talking into the little object at her ear instead of paying attention to him. He rolled over and pushed at her with his paws. She leaned down and gave him a kiss.
"It's a pressure cooker," her dad said.
"And why would I need that, Dad?" she asked.
"It's a way you can make a chicken without ruining it."
"Ah," she said, the light dawning. "I do need that."
"Yeah. You're hopeless, Mija. With the Instant Pot you can make chicken, spaghetti, even chile verde."
"Don't tell me you make your famous chile verde in a pressure cooker, Dad!"
"Of course. You think yo
ur old man is stuck in the past, roasting chiles over a wood fire in the woods or something?"
She laughed. Her dad had a state-of-the-art gourmet kitchen in his house in Cupertino, with a navy and copper La Cornue range, blue granite counters, and cherry cabinets burnished to a sheen. It was the nicest room in his already nice house, and was about as big as a volleyball court.
Cooking was his hobby, and the fact that his only child couldn't boil an egg without ruining it was a constant source of grief for him.
So she let him tell her all about this new kitchen gadget that she figured she'd never use, and his comfortable voice soothed her as she leaned back on the daybed and listened.
"You'll be whipping up pot roasts in no time," he said.
"I don't eat beef, remember, Dad?" she pointed out.
He ignored that. "And then you'll be able to host dinner parties in that mansion of yours." He laughed. He'd seen her tiny house, and still considered her living there to be ridiculous.
"I don't quite have the space for dinner parties, Dad. In fact, I might not have the space for this new appliance."
"Doesn't matter. You'll soon be back in your Casablanca."
"The bank might have something to say about that."
"Sure. Once you and El Dorado get married, you can live there and use the big kitchen again."
El Dorado was his nickname for Reese. The Golden One. He thought Reese was a terrific guy, and never missed a chance to point out how she should have married him instead of the movie executive she'd ended up with.
She didn't think it was worth pointing out that a dozen years ago Reese had been a wasted rock star and she'd been a wide-eyed young secretary, and they would have had nothing in common. She had given up trying to convince her dad that she and Reese were not going to end up together. He was utterly convinced that Reese was the right man for her. And as long as he held out hope for their relationship, he didn't bug her about her private life. So it was easier to just let him assume.
He asked about her work, and she told him about how the classes at the bead shop were going, and how new people were coming into the shop every day.
And then she finally worked herself up to telling him about the murder at the gallery next door, and how she'd been the one to discover the body.
He got very quiet then, and she kept talking, about how she felt uncomfortable that everyone assumed the two teens were guilty, and about how she suspected her fellow business owners, but felt bad about that, and about how she was convinced she was on the right track and the police were on the wrong one.
"Don't you have anything to say?" she finally asked into the silence on the phone.
"There's nothing to say," he replied, very subdued. "My precious child almost got killed when she tried to solve a mystery last time—"
"—Tried to solve? I did solve it."
"And almost got shot. Your dog ended up with a bullet in him the last time you got nosy."
"This is hardly the same thing, Dad." She rubbed at Jasper's scar through his T-shirt and he grinned at her. "I'm not directly connected to this case at all. I'm just curious. Now tell me about the cooking class you're taking."
"You could die, Magdalena," he said, not letting her change the subject.
"No, I couldn't," she said firmly. "Last time was different. This is a completely different case. A woman I barely knew died because of something that has no connection to me. I'm just curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat."
"I know that, Dad. But I don't have a cat. I have a dog. So I'm perfectly safe," she joked.
"You have a dog with a bullet hole in him. Promise me you'll stay out of the case."
"I promise I won't take any risks. I can't promise I won't think about the case."
She could hear his exasperated sigh over the phone. "At least promise me you won't go into any dark alleys with any vicious killers."
She laughed. "That I can easily promise you, Dad."
Chapter Thirteen
Soon after that she was standing on the porch when Reese's Porsche pulled in and parked. It had a roar like a jet engine, and a liquid silver finish that glistened in the sunshine.
"Keeping a low profile?" she asked with a raised eyebrow toward the sex symbol getting out of his half-million dollar sports car wearing nothing but shorts and running shoes.
He shrugged, lifting those magnificent shoulders. The movement made the muscles across his chest ripple and she quickly looked away.
He came over to stand next to the tiny house's porch. "What is it?" he asked, eyeing the opened box at her feet.
"It just arrived. My dad's latest attempt to teach me to cook," she replied. "An Instant Pot."
He came up onto the porch and stood next to her looking down at the box while she told him all about what her dad had said. She sounded far more authoritative than she actually was. "If I figure out how to use it, I'll share the results."
He nodded, but appeared distracted, so she asked him how things were going with Shane.
"He decided to sleep in," Reese said softly. "All day, apparently. So I went for a run. Maybe he'll be up now that I'm back." But he sounded doubtful, and the resigned shrug betrayed his attempt to act nonchalant about it.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.
"I could use a hug," he said wanly.
"Not when you look like that," she replied with a smile.
"Like what? Oh." He looked down, realizing he didn't have a shirt on. "Is that really a problem?"
"As long as we want to remain platonic friends it is. I'm only human."
His voice was a deep rumble near her ear. "Who says we want to remain platonic?"
She took a step back. "I do."
"Don't break my heart, Maggie."
She laughed, but he didn't, and she suddenly got the uncomfortable feeling he might not be joking.
"You're such a flirt," she said quickly, wanting to get back onto their usual safe ground.
"Not always," he said in a whisper, that deep voice making her forget how firm she was about keeping their relationship just a friendship.
"You're out of your mind," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you have the most beautiful women falling all over you. You don't need me."
"You don't think you're beautiful?"
"I'm not swimsuit model beautiful," she clarified. "I know I'm not unattractive. I may be getting older now, but I was pretty cute back in the day."
"Pretty cute," he said softly.
"Yeah. I could knock 'em dead on Rodeo Drive when I was 25. But now I'm 35, and I no longer care about the fad diets and the makeup and the latest fashions. I'm showing my real age, and I like it. I like being this way. I like who I'm becoming. I don't want to go back to the shallow person I used to be. I don't want to go back to that world. And you're part of that world."
"But it wouldn't be that world with the two of us in it together," he said, and her breath caught in her throat as she—just for a moment—pictured the two of them as partners, navigating their way through life, having each other's backs and not being alone among the wolves.
"Come on," she teased, wanting to change the tone of the conversation before it got out of hand. "You're one of the most handsome movie stars in the world. You should be with the most beautiful woman."
"I thought Olivia was the most beautiful woman in the world when I met her. And she's a toxic narcissist."
"I know. You were a bad match."
"But I'm older now," he said. "And hopefully a bit smarter. And I'm sober. And I want a real woman. An equal. You."
She waved a hand, warding off the dangerous turn this was taking. "Don't go there, Reese. Really. Just don't."
"Why not?"
"You're so good at seducing women," she said. "You know just what to say."
"Then why doesn't it work on you?" he asked.
"It almost works," she said. "But then my common sense kicks in."
"
I don't get that," he said, and she could see he meant it. "Us. Together. That seems like the most common-sense thing ever."
She shook her head. "You and some model who is thrilled to go to a movie premiere makes sense. You and a fellow actress makes sense. You and pretty much anyone else makes sense. Not someone who hates being in the public eye and who hasn't an ounce of patience left for the phoniness of Hollywood. You know that. So why do you keep flirting with me?"
He leaned back against the porch railing. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "It's this. This right here."
"What?" she asked.
"This conversation we're having. Where we talk to each other like adults. And I tell you the truth and you tell me the truth. And there's no lie between us. You're Magdalena Lopez McJasper, and I'm Stanley John Tibbets, and we know the truth about each other. You know I'm a mess and immature and can be an arrogant jerk. I know you're too naïve and too nosy and you can't let go of puzzles and it gets you in trouble. And we can say that to each other without playing games. Not like—" He stopped. Waved his arms. "Like all that. Out there in the world. But this. This right here. It's real."
She sighed. She sat down on the steps and he joined her, sitting side-by-side.
"I never told you that I was a fan of your band when I was twelve," she said.
He smiled. "No, you didn't. But at the risk of sounding like an arrogant jerk, most twelve-year-old girls were that year."
"Yeah," she said. "I saw you in that red convertible in your first music video, driving down the Coast Highway, singing to the girl in the passenger seat. I saw the blue ocean and the fancy car and the pretty boy and the carefree life and I dreamed that would be my life someday. I was the only child of a single dad who ran a used car lot, and his business hadn't yet become the big success it later was. I hung out in his stuffy office after school and did my homework, and we lived in a little house that always had a junker car in the driveway. And I wanted something different. I wanted my life to be just like your music video when I grew up."
"And it was," he said.
"Yeah. I married a rich man in Hollywood and he bought me a red convertible and a beach house. And I went to spas and had my nails done and focused on being as pretty as a picture and on not thinking too much. Because when I thought too much, I realized how miserably unhappy I was, and how it was all an illusion."
Maggie and the Mourning Beads Page 8