Fries and Alibis

by Trixie Silvertale

  Choking on the dust, I grab a cloth from the bathroom and wipe down all the boxes before returning to the first time capsule.

  “Good idea, dear.”

  It’s nice to have a cheering section—even for the mundane.

  Grams smiles and begins a reply to my unspoken thought. “I—”

  I point to my lips, which did not move, and Grams nods. We’re establishing ground rules. Which seems important in any inter-species communication. Oh, and I’ve decided ghosts are a different species.

  The first evidence box contains police reports and witness statements. I learn that the robbery took place right after closing and that Jacob and Darrin came in through an unsecured employee entrance on the loading dock.

  The statements are all from employees of the box store. None contain details about the shooting. After a cursory review, I deduce that my father, Darrin, and the store manager were the only people in the room containing the safe and later the corpse.

  I make a pile of witness statements. I place the security guard statement on top of that pile. He’s the only one who noticed any kind of detail. The other statements were just the emotional accusations of traumatized employees.

  It’s unclear whether the other employees knew a robbery was in progress prior to the gunshot. Each statement seems quite fuzzy up to the point of the sound of a gun.

  “Do you think he did it, dear?”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “I forgot you were here, Grams.”

  “I was doing my best not to jump into your internal debate. Weren’t there any security cameras in the room where the safe was?”

  I pick up the police report and scan through it a second time. “Says here that the camera was disabled by gunshot. Also says the perps took the tape and smashed the security equipment.”

  “Make a note on your phone thingy.”

  I swipe open the app and stare at Grams. “Do you think they took the tape before or after?” I type a quick note.

  “If it was before, wouldn’t the guard have tried to stop them?”

  I make another note and move toward file box number two.

  By the time I lift the lid off box number five, sunlight paints grey streaks across my ceiling. “What time is it?”

  “How would I know, honey? Time has no meaning on this side.”

  I press a button on my phone and yawn. It’s 5:13 a.m. “I better get a few hours sleep before I open the shop.”

  “I’ll wait over here.” Grams floats to a beautiful scalloped-back chair in the corner and hovers near the puffy seat.

  “Can you ‘fade out’ or something? It’s unnerving to have you floating in a corner watching me.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  I wonder if she’s genuinely gone or just in “low power” mode so I can’t see her. I swear there’s a chuckle coming from somewhere. Oh well, too tired to care.

  I flop onto the four-poster bed and snuggle into the heavenly mattress, Egyptian cotton sheets, and sumptuous down comforter.

  Dreamland holds no rest for me. The robbery plays out from every angle in my nightmares. I watch my father fire the gun over and over.

  When Pyewacket jumps onto the bed, compressing my chest and shocking me instantly awake, I actually feel relief. My time under the comforter hasn’t delivered any rest.

  I rub the sleep from my eyes and absently scratch my fingers between Pye’s ears. He’s suspiciously docile. Is that purring? It sounds like a small lawnmower. Choosing caution, I pull my hand back. “What are you up to, you wicked kitten?”

  “He’s hungry.” Grams swirls closer.

  “Holy Hera!” I don’t think I peed this time, but a ghost greeting first thing in the morning is definitely unsettling. My heart is certainly pumping blood with all its might now. Rise and shiver, I say.

  I blink, yawn, and scrape a hand through my haystack of a hairdo. “I have to feed him? I thought he was a free agent. Don’t bobcats kill mice or something?”

  “Pyewacket is a caracal and he can certainly take care of himself, dear. However, he needs a human to open the box of Fruity Puffs and pour them into his bowl.”

  “Come again?” I look at the fiendish feline and try to reconcile him munching on kids cereal. “Fruity Puffs?”

  “It’s his little treat. I spoiled him.” Grams floats her hand along his back.

  Pye responds with an unsettlingly loud purr.

  “And now that spoiling falls to me, I suppose?”

  “Would you?”

  I chuckle and shake my head.

  Downstairs in the back room I locate the cereal. Pye threads himself around my legs in an insistent, and dangerously unbalancing, figure eight. As soon as the Fruity Puffs hit the bowl he attacks. The way he powers through the sugary treats you’d think . . . you’d think he was a spoiled child.

  I bend to scratch his ears.

  He emits a deep, throaty growl and a needle-clad paw swipes toward my hand.

  I jump back. “Easy, tiger. I’ll make a note to keep my hands to myself during Fruity Puffs feeding time.”

  Grams giggles. “He takes it very seriously, the little cuddle bug.”

  That’s not the term I would’ve used.

  A sharp knock at the front of the store interrupts our tender family moment.

  I shuffle toward the door and twist the locks open.

  The early morning sun wraps an enticing glow around the broad shoulders of Sheriff Erick. I steady myself on the door. “Well, good morning to you.” I grin lasciviously.

  “Mitzy Moon, I’m here to take you in.” Sheriff Harper reaches toward me with the handcuffs.

  For the first time since I laid eyes on him, I step away. “Hold on a minute, Erick. Haven’t we already played this game? My lawyer supplied you with the bus ticket. There’s no way I was here when Cal was killed.”

  He drops his hand and shakes his head. He looks genuinely sorry for what he’s about to say. “I called Silas before I headed over. The ME puts time of death between 1000 and 1100 hours yesterday.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The bus comes through town at 0930 and yesterday it came early, 0900 hours.”

  “You’re serious?” I put my hands on my— Oh crap! I’m still wearing my reindeer onesie. “Can I at least change?”

  Sheriff Erick shakes his head. “Sorry, but I’ve got to take you in. If it’s any consolation, you make a cute reindeer.”

  A healthy glow floods my cheeks.

  “You’ll give her a minute to make herself presentable, Sheriff Harper.” Silas places a friendly but firm hand on the sheriff’s arm.

  I didn’t even see my lawyer arrive, but I’m grateful for the chance to put on some jeans.

  “Make it quick,” the sheriff says.

  I manage to negotiate the chain and race into the apartment. “Grams? Grams? Are you here?”

  “I don’t like the look of this, dear. What will you do?”

  I shrug as I wiggle into my least ripped pair of skinny jeans and the only button-down shirt I own. “I’ll tell Silas to send Twiggy over,” I call as I rush down the stairs.

  “Is there someone else in there?” Sheriff Harper’s hand moves toward his holstered weapon as he peers around me.

  Think fast. Think fast. “Just Pyewacket. I didn’t want him to worry.” I catch Silas’s eye and he nods his approval.

  “I’ll be sure Twiggy sees to the cat,” Silas adds in support of my story.

  I hold out both wrists and take no pleasure as Erick clicks the handcuffs into place.

  Chapter 12

  I rub at the ink on my thumb. Fingerprinted. Booked. The humiliation. I lean back against the concrete wall of the holding cell and hug my knees to my chest. Is this how it felt for my dad?

  I’m sure he was upset to be accused of a crime he didn’t commit. But he committed part of the crime. Everyone seems to agree that he was in on the robbery. What went wrong?

  With nothing but time on my hands, I close my eyes
and call up the images of the witness statements. Every single witness claimed to have heard two gunshots.

  Everyone except the security guard. He claimed he heard three.

  The medical examiner’s report stated the victim died instantly. A single gunshot.

  If the first shot was the one that took out the camera then the guard must’ve arrived before the manager was—

  Who fired the third shot? Who destroyed the security equipment and took the tape? Why didn’t anyone else hear the third shot?

  I scan through the police report in my mind’s eye and recall no mention of a third bullet being recovered.

  “Thought you might be hungry.”

  The sight of Odell’s concerned face and the paper sack, which I pray holds a burger and fries, nearly brings tears to my eyes. “Starving. How’d you know?”

  “Paulsen comes in for breakfast every morning. You’d a thought she’d found the Lindbergh baby.” Odell shakes his head and worry creases his brow.

  I gently tug the bag from his hand and add, “I didn’t do it.”

  “Only a fool’d think you did.” He makes to spit on the ground but thinks better of it. “I don’t like the smell of this thing, you hear me?”

  I nod and shove another handful of fries into my mouth.

  “Odell? What are you doing in here?” Sheriff Harper sidles up to the holding cell and looks from my benefactor to me. “She’s not allowed to have visitors.”

  “Gotta feed your prisoners, Sheriff. This ain’t a gulag.” Odell ignores the sheriff and grabs the bars of my cell. “Same thing for dinner?”

  Mouth full, I nod emphatically.

  “Odell, I’m warning you . . . ” Sheriff Harper tilts his head in earnest.

  Odell waves him off and walks out of the station, as though the sheriff just announced the sky is purple and he’s not having it.

  “Silas said he had something to take care of, but he asked me to let you know he’d be back this afternoon.” Sheriff Harper gives me an uncomfortable nod and turns.

  “Erick?” I use a soft tone and let my voice crack a little.

  He exhales and looks over his shoulder at the cell.

  “How did the ME determine time of death?”

  “Miss Moon, I’ll be sure to give your lawyer a copy of the report. He can pass along the details. In the meantime, I’ll ask you again to refer to me as Sheriff Harper. First degree murder is no joke.”

  He walks out and I lick the salt off my fingers. Murder. Like father like daughter. What an unfortunate family legacy.

  The sound of a key in the cell door wakes me. I look around in momentary confusion. My all-night investigation into my father’s case must’ve caught up to me. I rub my face and work to bring my visitor into focus. “Hey, Silas.”

  “You have been released on $100,000 bail.” He extends a hand to help me up. “I’ll return you to the bookshop. Your arraignment will be held a week from tomorrow.”

  I take his hand and follow him mutely out of the holding cell. I can’t believe this is happening to me. This over-eager sheriff in this backwater town is actually going to accuse— “Did you say $100,000?”

  “I did.” Silas holds the door for me as we exit to the street.

  “I don’t have that kind of money. Did you post my bail? I can’t repay you. I mean, I don’t plan—”

  “Isadora’s estate is more than capable of posting bail. Now, it behooves me to remind you that you mustn’t leave town. But if you’re anything like your grandmother, I’ll assume you’re all fight and no flight.”

  The shock of the money is sure to be distorting my face, but the truth of his assumption pushes a smile through. “I’m a fighter. If Erick isn’t going to look for any other suspects, I’ll just have to do it for him.”

  “You may require these.”

  Silas lays a key ring in my hand.

  I rub the emblem. “I have a Mercedes?”

  “Indeed. I thought you might be in need of transport to and from the questioning of witnesses.” He smiles and gives a little wink.

  “I’ll have a list of suspects by supper. Can you get me their addresses?”

  “Twiggy is a resourceful woman. Folks tend to experience a degree of intimidation in her presence. Take her along as you see fit.” Silas opens the door of the Model T and I slide in with a fresh sense of purpose.

  Looks like I’m working two cases at once. At this rate, I’ll have to hang an addendum sign in the front window: “Bell, Book & Candle Bookshop and Detective Services.”

  Chapter 13

  Back at the bookstore, Grams is swirling mad while Pye chases something through the stacks. If it’s a mouse, I don’t want to know.

  Twiggy walks out of the back room and, for a split second, I swear there’s concern on her face. Whatever it was is quickly replaced with cool indifference.

  “Oh, you’re back.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Silas give you the keys?”

  “He did.”

  She nods and walks away.

  Grams impatiently announces, “I have two names for that list, dear. Start writing or tapping. There’s no time to lose.”

  Once I retreat to the safety of the apartment, I whip out my phone and prepare to take dictation. “Whenever you’re ready, Grams.”

  “Top of the list has to be Cal’s gold-digging third wife, Kitty Zimmerman-Duncan. And write down her boyfriend, too.”

  I pause and raise an eyebrow. “She has a boyfriend?”

  “She’s thirty years younger than Cal, pumped full of collagen, Botox, and a set of—”

  “Grams!”

  “What can I say? I never liked her. Too fake. From her misappropriated British colloquialisms to her Jessica Rabbit hair . . . I thought Cal could do better.”

  Not my place to say, but it sounds like my Grams may be more than a little jealous.

  “Well, it’s—”

  I point to my lips.

  Grams crosses her arms and swirls angrily around the apartment.

  “I’ve written ‘The trollop’s boyfriend’ on the list, if that makes you feel better.”

  “Thank you. It does.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek. “That’s not a very long list.”

  “Truth is, dear, Cal and I drifted apart these past few years. I don’t know who he was doing business with or which folks were in his new social circle.” Grams places a hand over her heart and sighs.

  “That’s all right. I’ll see if I can meet with Kitty and maybe she’ll let something useful slip.”

  “Yes. One day at a time. That’s all any of us can manage.”

  I get a strong AA vibe from that comment, but I let it lie. Too late. I try to stuff the thought down, but I catch Grams looking at me with a pained expression. The kind of regret I’ve had on many a morning after. I smile and nod.

  She does the same.

  It’s probably best if I change the subject. “Silas mentioned that I might take Twiggy along on the interrogations.”

  “Oh, not on this one, honey. Kitty has a golden stick so far up her—”

  “Grams!”

  She giggles uncontrollably. “I guess my roots are showing.”

  “Do you come from a long line of street fighters?” I chuckle.

  “As a matter of fact, I played a little roller derby before I met Odell. There were actually a few contenders before Odell—truth be told.” A mischievous grin plays across her ghostly lips.

  “The truth will have to be told at a later date, Grams. Where can I find Kitty?”

  She looks down her nose at me and scrunches her face like there’s a bad smell in the air. “You won’t get within fifty yards of her looking like something Pye dragged in.”

  I walk toward my duffle.

  “Unless you’re hiding the Queer Eye guys in that bag, dear, you’re going to need to borrow something from my closet.”

  I can’t picture myself wearing some sixty-five-year-old lady’s clothes. I roll my eye
s.

  Grams swirls toward the closet. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

  I open the door and the lights pop on with flair. My jaw drops. “Holy crap, Grams!”

  She chuckles with satisfaction as I step into a closet right out of Sex and the City meets Confessions of a Shopaholic.

  Just to be clear, I love clothes. The fact that I wear ripped skinny jeans and snarky T-shirts is my protest to poverty, not a fashion choice. I walk reverently through the closet and my fingers dance across the fabrics. Yes, I said fabrics. I’m on Project Runway now.

  “You’ll want the aquamarine tea-length dress with the Valentino T-straps. Kitty’s got a thing for Valentinos.”

  I pull the padded hanger supporting the lovely frock and check the tag. “Matthew Christopher? Must’ve been one special occasion.”

  “I married Cal in that dress.”

  I turn and see little apparition tears rolling down Grams’ cheeks.

  “I can’t possibly wear this, Grams.”

  “I want you to, dear. I’ll never get to wear it again . . . He always said I looked like an angel fallen from heaven in it.”

  I hold the dress in front of me and gaze into the full-length mirror. “Oh brother. I better start with a shower.”

  Grams chuckles. “And they say wisdom is wasted on the young.”

  I won’t bore you with the particulars, but let’s agree that it is the single most enjoyable, all-hot-water-no-surprises shower of my life.

  I sit down at the marble-topped vanity and stare at my freshly scrubbed reflection. I get a flash of my mother’s face and I smile wistfully. Memories of sitting on the Formica counter in the bathroom of our studio apartment watching her “put on her face” drift softly into my consciousness. She would explain each step to me as though she were a warrior preparing for battle.

  “This is called foundation and it covers up any weak spots or imperfections so I look ready to conquer the world.”

  I miss the sound of her voice.

  “The blush gives me a little color so they can’t tell I’m running on four hours’ sleep.”

  I remember she worked at least two jobs, but maybe it was three. Time erases so much.