Maggie and the Hidden Homicide

by Barbara Cool Lee

  "—Try to solve the case?"

  "Okay," Brooke admitted. "You've been pretty good at figuring this stuff out. But at what cost? You keep ending up in danger. Remember when I was the second lead in that cheap exploitation flick?"

  "Buxom Babes From Betelgeuse? Yeah. That was an awful film. I wouldn't bring it up if I were you."

  "Don't knock it. It paid off my college loans. But anyway, do you remember my death scene?"

  "Sure." Maggie laughed at the memory. "You really chewed the scenery on that one. I think it took you about three minutes of gasping and moaning to die, with about four different dramatic last words."

  "Everybody's a critic," Brooke muttered with a smile. "But that's not the point. My character was one of those too-stupid-to-live heroines who kept wandering into dark basements and strange places. She always had a good excuse for putting herself in danger. She was looking for clues to the alien invasion."

  Maggie raised her hand, three fingers together in a Girl Scout salute. "I promise. If I get caught in a dark alley with aliens from halfway across the galaxy, I will say something memorable before they off me."

  Brooke shook her head. "Just promise me you'll stay away from the murderer this time."

  "I promise," Maggie said. "I have no idea who it is, anyway. So there's no danger."

  "Famous last words?" Brooke asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "Maybe," Maggie said.

  "Your luck's gonna run out one of these days," Brooke said.

  "But not today," Maggie said. She grabbed the two coffees from the counter and left.

  "Don't you want your scone?"

  "I'll take it to go," Maggie said. "I've got to get the shop open soon. I don't have an assistant to cover me anymore."

  She went over to Reese and set the coffees on the lid of the upright piano. She didn't bother to use a coaster, since the lid was pockmarked with old coffee rings and scratches and even a bit of graffiti carved into the wood.

  Reese sat on the bench, looking at the keys. He had his Ray-Bans on, hiding his eyes, and his head was down.

  He didn't say anything, but just began to play.

  She leaned on the piano and watched him.

  The song was soft, and vaguely familiar. She started to ask, but he said, "All the Pretty Girls by Kaleo," answering her unspoken question.

  He kept playing. Not singing. That was something he never did in public, where his distinctive baritone voice used to keep stadium-sized crowds spellbound. That part of his life was over. But he still played piano. Here, at O'Riley's, where he lied to himself and pretended no one noticed him and he was anonymous.

  And post-rehab, unlike before, he was almost anonymous. His beard had been growing out for a full month, muting the sharp lines of his famous features, and there were strands of gray in the dark blond that she'd never noticed before. And he had crossed a line from his usual slender movie star physique, to an almost gaunt body, which made him appear, with his ratty jeans and an old gray sweater on, like a homeless man who'd wandered in to get out of the damp coastal autumn air.

  But on closer look, the gold Ray-Bans and suede Moncler boots gave him away as one of the town's slumming elites, even before the easy assurance of his piano playing betrayed his background as a professional musician.

  And his physical grace was still there. The lithe ease of his body that was an innate part of him still showed through, despite the tension that she'd noticed ever since he'd relapsed a month ago.

  He played the entire song. It had a wistful quality that she wasn't sure was the way the song was written, or just the way he was choosing to play it.

  "What's it about?" she asked, trying to break through this melancholy that had been shrouding him since last night.

  He didn't answer, so she sipped her latte and listened. She watched this beautiful man with all his gifts and all his demons, his golden head bowed over the battered old keyboard, calming himself with the music that had been the one true center of his life for so long.

  When he finished, he reached for his espresso. "I'll wait for you," he whispered.

  "What?"

  "That's what the song's about." He glanced her way, and she could see his longing. It would be so easy to match it with her own. But this wasn't the time. He wasn't longing for her. He was longing for some stability. Some normalcy. Some center and purpose to his life that he hadn't been able to find.

  So she gave him a gentle smile and he returned it halfheartedly.

  He downed his entire coffee in one big gulp, then stood up. He looked toward the coffee's house's doorway, and she turned.

  Nora McJasper had come in, and she headed toward them.

  Nora shared both Maggie's last name and the ex-husband it had come from. Despite (or perhaps because of) this, they had become good friends.

  The older woman was also close to Reese. She'd known him since he was only fifteen, when she'd discovered young Stanley Tibbets playing in a band and turned him into Reese Stevens, launching him into the whirlpool of fame that had led to his near-death as a dissipated rock star. And she'd been the behind-the-scenes guru who crafted his rebirth as a successful actor.

  Now she balanced worrying about his career, and about him personally. This appeared to be one of those times the balance was tilting off-kilter.

  Nora pulled up a chair and sat down next to the piano. With her severe gray suit and short-cropped white hair, she looked like a stern school principal facing down a juvenile delinquent.

  "I'm glad you're back," she said gruffly. "You all better?"

  "Maybe," Reese replied warily, not willing to commit.

  "You left rehab early," she said. "Got a call from that doctor of yours."

  "That's a HIPAA violation," Reese said. "Remember the time I played a doctor who got arrested for violating patient confidentiality?"

  He felt in his pocket, then stopped. He had been unconsciously reaching for a cigarette, Maggie realized. Which meant he was stressing out again.

  She cleared her throat, and he glanced her way. "Early?" she said. "You didn't tell me you left rehab before you were supposed to."

  He shrugged. "It's not like I broke out of a straightjacket and escaped, Maggie. I made a plan with the clinic to leave, got supports in place, all that stuff." He sighed. "I had gotten all I could out of the joint. The rest of my recovery is up to me."

  "So what's the plan?" Nora said dryly, raising one manicured brow so high it almost touched her platinum bangs.

  "The plan is to buy a ranch out in Carita Valley and learn how to relax," he said, in what was obviously bombshell news to his manager.

  "You're gonna what?" she asked, that eyebrow succeeding in meeting the bangs this time. "You're due back in LA for film talks next week."

  He shook his head. "I'm not moving back to LA. I'm planting some roots here. Relax," he added when Nora's eyebrow stayed in its alarmed position. "I just need some time to get away. Find myself."

  Maggie got an uncomfortable feeling that he was trying to find something, but not quite sure what it was.

  But that didn't appear to be Nora's main concern. "You have meetings scheduled for that vampire film. And I have a couple other good projects in the works."

  "I thought the vampire pic was off the table after Big Mac died," he said. "No producer, no film, right?"

  "They're trying to get new backing," Nora said.

  "But I'm no longer under contract for it," Reese said, narrowing his eyes. "Right?"

  "Technically, no. But it's your most popular role," Nora pointed out. "Reprising it will get you back on top after a bad couple of years. There are only so many Sexiest Man on the Planet awards we can wrangle for you before people start to move on to someone else."

  He shrugged. Again made that unconscious reach for the cigarette, but this time stopped himself and instead put his hand on the piano keys.

  He played a chord, softly. "Maybe I don't want to be back on top." He glanced her way, his mirrored shades masking his exp
ression. "I think I'll take a year off."

  Nora stopped raising her eyebrow. Her face took on a professional mask. "If that's what you want," she said calmly. "It's your call. But getting back to work might be better than sitting in a house staring at the walls. And I thought you promised Shane he could visit the set and see how they make the fake blood spurt."

  Maggie thought that was hitting below the belt. Shane was Reese's fourteen-year-old son. He was off in boarding school, but Reese was trying his best to build a relationship with him after years apart.

  But he didn't react to Nora's attempt to guilt him into doing the project. "I'm not sure a movie set is the best place to work on my sobriety," he drawled. "And watching his dad fall to pieces wouldn't be good for the kid."

  Nora nodded. "Fine. I'm just your manager."

  "Hardly," he said, deadpan. "But sometimes it's good to put a brake on your Svengali tendencies."

  She smirked at that. "My control over you is hardly hypnotic. You never do what I say."

  He smiled then. "You usually talk me into things. But not this time."

  "They'll forget who you are if you don't start working again soon," she pointed out.

  "They won't forget who I am," he said. "They just won't care. Maybe that's what I want."

  "I see." Nora pursed her lips. "You have a publicity tour for your last film coming up in a few weeks. You up to it?"

  He paused, really seeming to ponder it. "I think so," he finally answered, without a trace of his usual sarcasm. "Let me have a little more time. I want to get a few things settled first."

  She nodded briskly, then stood up. "Fine. If we need to cancel, we still have time."

  "No," he said. "I'll do it. The minimum. A couple of talk shows and a studio press conference. I'll do my job. Then I'll come… home."

  Wherever that was.

  Chapter Nine

  A little while later, Reese headed back to Casablanca to meet his personal trainer, and Maggie headed to work.

  It wasn't a long trip. She walked across the street from O'Riley's to the little shop with the purple door and the big barber pole out front.

  She unlocked the door and went inside. Flipped a switch. The lights came on and the barber pole began to spin.

  On all the walls around her, the beads sparkled. Every color, every size, every shape, all on display to entice customers. And entice her. This was her dream job, playing with beads and creating things with her hands.

  She had brought her big dining table from Casablanca and put it in the center of the shop. Now it was cleared off, ready for her next class.

  She had flyers out all over town, and had taken out an ad in the NTSB, but with the end of tourist season, she was seeing a real downturn in walk-in business. She hadn't gotten any enrollments at all for today's beginning stringing class, so she had nothing to do this morning. It was going to be a slow day.

  But that was okay. She had a lot to think about. She opened her purse and got out the little skull Taiyari had made. She put it on the counter in front of her.

  The skull had taken on a darker, more sinister meaning now, and she shivered, thinking back to the discovery of the body. She was really getting sick of stumbling across dead people. She wasn't able to feel that dispassionate interest that the police seemed to have. When she saw a body, she thought of the person whose life had been snuffed out too soon, and of the family and friends who would mourn their loss.

  And of the suspects who might be responsible for the tragedy.

  She flipped on the little radio she kept behind the counter, and tuned it to a jazz station to fill the silence that was giving her too much empty space to think. The music didn't help, and her mind kept going back over the case.

  She wondered if Taiyari had been arrested yet, or if she, too, would be found as a body, a life snuffed out too soon, with only friends left to mourn her. Or had she simply disappeared into the night, leaving no trace.

  No trace but a Wixáritari knife, buried deep in Ethan Kirby's back.

  She covered the skull with her hand, the sight of it now making her sick.

  Everyone told her to stay out of it. But somehow, the sight of that girl, and the men who had watched her with their hooded eyes and dark glances, kept coming back into her mind.

  She needed to work on a project. So she got out her latest find, Swarovski's new color of crystals. She opened the little package and spilled them onto a tray, where they glittered up at her.

  This new color could have been created with her in mind. It was just her thing: Light Amethyst Silver Shade, a pale lavender color with a shimmering silvery coating that made the crystals sparkle with a mysterious, metallic sheen.

  "Ooh!" she said aloud. Some matte violet Matubo beads would be perfect against this shade.

  She hunted around for them, and couldn't find them. Maybe they were in the stack of boxes behind the counter. She knelt down to look. "Do you know where—?" she called out, then stopped herself.

  No Abby. No assistant there to make a snarky remark when she started playing with the inventory and making little projects. No friend around to talk things over with. She should have brought Jasper to work with her. At least he would nod back when she said something.

  She let out a raspberry, kneeling there on the floor behind the counter. "Wish you were here," she muttered.

  "Who?" someone said.

  She stood up. "Lauren!" she said, and the woman took a step back at her enthusiasm, then smiled tentatively.

  "It's just me, Maggie. You act like you've seen a ghost."

  Lauren Douglas was dressed for work in her usual low-key business casual pantsuit, navy blue and conservative. Her curls were cropped short, highlighting her bright brown eyes. She was a very pretty young woman some years younger than Maggie, and one of the shop's best customers.

  At her side sat Hendrix, her very wise German Shepherd dog. He watched Maggie with only mild interest.

  Lauren looked around the shop. "No Jasper today?"

  "Nope. I left him home. It's hard to handle him and the shop with no assistant."

  "Oh, well. I just stopped by on the way to work because I thought the boys would like to see each other."

  Jasper worshipped Hendrix, and Hendrix treated Jasper like a slightly annoying younger brother.

  "We'll have to get them together for a play date soon," Maggie said, and Lauren nodded absently. She'd seen the skull.

  She frowned. "Is that evidence?" Lauren worked as a records clerk for the police department, and obviously knew about the case.

  Maggie shook her head. "Nope."

  Lauren looked skeptical, so Maggie added, "no, really. It isn't."

  "I believe you," she said. She came up to the counter and stood there fiddling with the amethyst crystals.

  "Those would go well with your favorite burgundy glass pearls, don't you think?" Maggie asked.

  Lauren nodded. She put the crystals down.

  There was a moment of silence, then she said, "what's going on, Maggie?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I have never had you see me and not ask about your latest case. It's eerie, you standing there with a skull from a murder suspect in front of you, and not even ask me what I know about the case."

  Maggie laughed. "Am I that obvious? I guess I am."

  "Yeah. I don't mind, though. So why aren't you asking me any questions?"

  "It's not my case, as you called it. I'm a civilian. I just found the body. I have nothing to do with it."

  Lauren laughed. "Really?"

  "Well," Maggie said. "Don't you think I should keep my nose out of it? Everyone tells me that. I'm not a cop. I'm not a private eye. I'm just a regular person. It's not my problem that an innocent girl is either dead, in danger, or—"

  "—or about to be charged for a murder she didn't commit?" Lauren finished. She smiled gently at Maggie.

  "Yeah," Maggie said softly. "It's not my problem."

  "Any man's death diminishes me, b
ecause I am involved in mankind." Lauren whispered the words, and she was looking at the beads again with eyes sparkling as brightly as the crystals. But the sparkle in her eyes wasn't some cold trick of light from an inanimate object. It was tears welling up.

  "What's wrong?" Maggie asked. Lauren had never shown vulnerability like this before. Except when she'd made a memorial necklace in one of Maggie's classes, to honor a boy she'd once known.

  "Nothing," Lauren said firmly. She sniffed, clearing out the emotion that had suddenly come to her, and when she looked Maggie in the eyes her expression was cheerful and neutral again. "Just reminded me of a line from a friend's favorite poem." She gathered up Hendrix's leash. "I'm sorry if I seemed to be judging you. If you want to not get involved in someone else's problems, that makes a lot of sense. You can't save the world single-handed." She gave Maggie a bright smile. "Let's plan that puppy play date soon. A run on the beach, okay?"

  Maggie nodded.

  Lauren turned to go, but Maggie stopped her. "Hey!" she called out.

  Lauren turned back.

  "What can you tell me about Ethan Kirby's murder?"

  Chapter Ten

  She went home at noon to grab lunch and take Jasper out to stretch his legs. They ended up in the back yard of Casablanca.

  "Any news on the girl?" Reese asked.

  They sat in the lounge chairs with mugs of coffee she'd made using her big Juro espresso machine in Casablanca's kitchen. The sun was bright, and there wasn't a wisp of fog left in the blue sky. A speed boat cut across the water in front of them, leaving a foamy V for half a mile in its wake.

  "The Coast Guard's going to give him a ticket," Reese muttered.

  "Doesn't he have diplomatic immunity?" Maggie asked, seeing the flag of a small European country flying from the stern. She took a sip of her coffee, and sighed. "I miss my coffee maker."

  "You should take it to the tiny house," Reese said. "I never use the thing."

  "Where would I put it?" she asked. "It's bigger than my kitchen counter."