Beignets, Brides and Bodies

by J. R. Ripley

  ‘K for kill me?’ I suggested. No response. Nothing. Not even from Aubrey, and I was paying the girl’s salary.

  Mrs Higgins blinked. ‘Most of the vendors try to get there early. Six a.m. Since you are selling coffee and beignets you should probably get there a bit earlier than that. Yes,’ she smiled, ‘let’s make it five-thirty.’ My mouth would be sore if I smiled as big and long as Mrs Higgins. ‘That way there will be coffee and beignets for our other volunteers. Tell me,’ Mrs Higgins said, looking pointedly around the café, ‘is there a Mr Miller?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  Aubrey rolled her eyes and muttered. ‘Here we go again.’

  I ignored my annoying young assistant. ‘Why?’ I blinked at Samantha Higgins.

  ‘Because of your loss, of course.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m not. Besides, you don’t have to feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for his new wife.’

  Impossible as I would have imagined it, Mrs Higgins’ brow wrinkled up. ‘Whose new wife?’

  ‘My dead ex-husband’s, of course.’

  Mrs Higgins’ troubled eyes turned to Aubrey. Aubrey smiled apologetically. Samantha Higgins departed without another word.

  ‘What’s her problem?’ I frowned at the registration papers in my hand. ‘Volunteers,’ I groaned, ‘or victims?’

  Aubrey laughed. ‘It’s for charity, Maggie. You’ll be helping the less fortunate.’

  ‘Great,’ I growled, ‘where do I sign up?’

  ‘I think you just did.’ Aubrey was smiling – at me, not with me.

  ‘Don’t be a wise guy,’ I said. ‘She called you by name. You know that woman?’

  Aubrey nodded. ‘Sure, she runs an art gallery. The Higgins live down the street from me.’ Aubrey still lived at home with her parents. ‘Mrs Higgins’ husband is my folks’ accountant.’

  ‘I wish you had warned me.’

  ‘About what?’ Aubrey quirked her brow in my direction.

  I didn’t know ‘about what’ so I let it slide. More for my benefit than hers. A tap on my shoulder set me off and I spun around. The registration papers went flying, scattering across the floor.

  The young man in his twenties who’d tapped me on the shoulder scrambled to pick them up. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, a sheepish smile on his gorgeous face. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He handed me a crumpled fistful of papers.

  I eyed them. Maybe I could tell Mrs Higgins I’d lost the registration forms or, better yet, that they’d been destroyed. I could ‘accidently’ drop them in the deep fryer. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘You’re Ms Miller, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He was a really good-looking kid, with wavy brown hair, smoldering dark eyes and a killer smile with the dimples to match. Probably captain of the football team in high school. ‘Do I know you?’ Surely I didn’t.

  ‘Hi, Cody.’ Aubrey wriggled her fingers at the boy.

  ‘Hey, Aubrey. How are you?’ He stepped aside and approached the counter.

  The two youngsters exchanged pleasantries while I cleaned out the French coffee press. Apparently I’d been forgotten – the fate of us old people. If you were under thirty then being nearly forty was like being nearly a hundred, it seemed.

  Cody ordered a dozen beignets and four coffees. I decided to forgive him for scaring me and for being so young and handsome. As I handed him his order, he said, ‘So I hear you were one of the people who discovered Lisa Willoughby.’

  My brow shot up. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Did you know her?’

  He shrugged lopsidedly. ‘She was working on our cake for Sunday.’

  ‘Your cake?’

  ‘Cody and Mrs Higgins’ daughter, Sabrina, are getting married this weekend.’

  I smiled broadly. ‘Congratulations!’ First the mother of the bride enters my shop, then the groom. Was that a coincidence?

  He nodded. ‘Thanks. It’s going to be awesome.’ He turned to Aubrey and pointed. ‘You’ll be there, right?’

  Aubrey’s head bobbed up and down. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.’

  ‘Sabrina’s mother was here only a minute ago.’

  ‘Really? How about that. What did she want?’

  ‘To give me these.’ I held up the twisted registration papers.

  ‘You know,’ Cody said, rolling the top of the bag of beignets closed in his fingers, ‘I don’t believe what happened to Lisa was murder. She probably slipped and fell.’ Cody dropped his change in the tip jar. ‘People around here can be a little goofy.’

  I had to agree with him on that point.

  ‘Folks jump to conclusions. Lisa probably had frosting on the bottom of her shoe or something. It seems to me like the police are making too much out of the whole thing. Freak accidents happen all the time.’

  ‘You could be right,’ I said. It was true – maybe she had managed to go flying and falling to her death. Who was to say? ‘The police seem pretty certain, though.’ Clive’s confession, no doubt, hadn’t hurt their case. If the police had had time to examine the crime scene more thoroughly as well as the body who knew what else they might know about the case?

  ‘I heard they locked up some guy from next door then let him go,’ Cody said.

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Besides, I was with “the guy next door” that morning. We went to the Entronque together. I really don’t see how Clive – that’s my next-door neighbour – could have killed anybody.’

  Actually, I supposed it could have been easy. Clive was no killer, though.

  But if the stairwell had been empty of dead bodies on his way up and then contained a dead body after he came down, why hadn’t he seen anyone else in the hall or on the stairs? Why hadn’t he seen the killer? Or had he? Had it been Johnny? Was he covering for Johnny for real?

  ‘Do the police have any other suspects?’ he asked.

  ‘If they do they’re not telling me.’

  ‘Well,’ his fingers fidgeted with the bags, ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Good luck with the wedding!’ I called out. ‘That was weird,’ I said to Aubrey as Cody left.

  ‘Cody Ryan is a little weird,’ she replied. She rapped her knuckles against her skull. ‘High-school football. Took a few too many hits to the head,’ she eyed me, ‘if you know what I mean?’

  A jock; I knew it. I set down the pastry cutter and crossed the dining room. I poked my head out the door and watched Cody head up the street. He spoke on his phone for a moment, shook his head and dumped the bag of beignets in the nearest trash bin at the corner. He grabbed one cup of coffee from the tray then threw the rest of the coffees in with the discarded beignets.

  What the heck was that all about?

  FIFTEEN

  An unmarked and unremarkable navy-blue sedan pulled up at the curb and the M&M man got out – Mark Highsmith, Table Rock’s top detective. He must have been on duty because he was driving the Ford instead of the boy fantasymobile. He unwound from the vehicle and stepped up onto the sidewalk. ‘No Firebird today?’ I remarked.

  ‘I told you before,’ he said, sounding none too amused, ‘it’s a Trans Am.’ He wore an equally unremarkable brown suit.

  I held the door open as he entered the café. ‘Trans Am, trans-fat,’ I deadpanned. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘About a hundred horsepower.’

  I guessed to him there was a difference.

  ‘Must come in handy when you’re reenacting Smoky and the Bandit with your high-school buddies.’

  He gave me a dirty look. ‘I wonder how much fat is in these beignets you’re serving here.’

  It seemed the detective was pretty good at being snarky too when he’d a mind to. All the more reason to dislike the man. He had me there on the fat issue. I didn’t know and I didn’t want to know how much fat, let alone trans-fat, might be in a serving of beignets. I wasn’t advertising them as healthy eating alternatives or diet donuts.

  Besides, I’
m all about indulging. If you can’t indulge in this life what good is it to be alive? ‘Less than you think. I use non-fat oil. How about a dozen? To go.’

  He looked almost amused. I say almost because with Highsmith it’s always hard to tell. ‘Have you seen Johnny Wolfe today?’

  ‘You must be confused, Detective. This is Maggie’s Beignet Café.’ I stabbed my chest with a finger. ‘I work here. The Hitching Post is next door. Johnny works there.’ I opened the front door and held it open. ‘Nice seeing you again.’

  He moved toward the counter instead of the door. ‘I’ll have a coffee,’ he said to Aubrey. ‘Two creams.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Aubrey prepared the coffee. I sighed and retreated behind the counter. The further I was from the long arm of the law, the better.

  He turned to me, coffee cup in hand, steam rising toward his nostrils. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  Getting rid of him wasn’t going to prove to be as simple as I’d hoped. ‘No, I have not seen Johnny today, Detective.’

  I wasn’t lying. I hadn’t seen him today. Well, he had been asleep on the sofa when I’d left. But that was a technicality and could be interpreted one of two ways. I’d barely given him a look. Johnny had not been awake, he’d been asleep, legs kicking like he was competing in Skate America. We hadn’t spoken. And most of him had been covered by a blanket.

  And a cat. Carole Two loves snoozing on a warm body.

  ‘Why do you want to talk to Johnny so badly, anyway? I thought you had your killer – Clive Rothschild. Though you did let him go.’

  ‘We released him on bail,’ Highsmith corrected. ‘Besides, Mr Rothschild recanted his confession.’ The detective shook his head. ‘He said he didn’t know what he was thinking. Got confused.’

  Confused was right. ‘He has blood pressure issues,’ I said in Clive’s defense. ‘It affects his mental acuity at times.’

  ‘Let’s just say Clive Rothschild and Johnny Wolfe are persons of interest.’ Detective Highsmith took a tentative sip.

  Those two guys were interesting all right. But I didn’t believe either of them were killers.

  ‘Besides, there are certain inconsistencies concerning the body and the crime scene. When it comes to naming a killer, I’m keeping my options open.’ He looked me over and not in a good way. I hadn’t killed anyone, yet he still managed to make me feel like I had.

  ‘Inconsistencies? Care to share?’

  ‘No,’ he said happily.

  I decided to throw him a curveball. ‘I spoke with somebody earlier who wasn’t so sure Lisa Willoughby was murdered.’ I folded my arms over my chest.

  He looked down his nose at me. ‘Did this person have a name?’

  I hesitated but only for a moment. The kid hadn’t told me anything in confidence, after all. ‘It was Cody Ryan.’

  Said nose wrinkled. ‘Cody Ryan?’

  I explained how he was the groom concerning the cake that Markie’s Masterpieces was preparing for an upcoming wedding and for which Clive had been carrying the now-infamous swatch of fabric from the bridal gown.

  ‘Interesting.’ Highsmith pulled his tiny notepad from his breast pocket and scratched something down on the paper.

  ‘What about the cake that was found, you know,’ I cleared my throat, ‘at the scene of the murder? Anything special about it?’

  ‘You mean besides the fact that it was lying atop the victim?’

  I arched my brow and waited. It could very well be that the cake was connected to the murder. ‘Who ordered that cake?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but Lisa Willoughby was delivering the cake to the reception hall at the Table Rock Community Church. A couple were renewing their vows yesterday afternoon.’

  I wished I could have rescinded my own. ‘Maybe she had some connection to the couple.’

  ‘Yeah, she did.’ The detective shot me a withering look. ‘She made their vow-renewal cake.’

  And I wished I’d locked the café door before Highsmith had gotten inside. ‘Speaking of Willoughby,’ I scratched a fingernail along my temple, ‘did Houston Willoughby come to see you?’

  Now he openly smirked. ‘Yeah, he told the desk sergeant that you were kind enough to tell him that his sister had been murdered.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I watched Aubrey disappear into the storeroom. The coward. ‘It just sort of happened.’ No point ratting the poor girl out.

  ‘A lot of things just sort of happen to you,’ he replied. ‘Don’t they?’

  I shrugged. Sometimes the shrug defense is the best defense.

  I helped a couple more customers and shouted for Aubrey to get back out front. Highsmith lingered at the counter. I was beginning to fear he’d spook the customers. At least he wasn’t wearing a uniform of any sort.

  He sipped his coffee loudly. As Aubrey and I filled orders, Highsmith said, ‘I kind of feel bad for the guy.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Houston Willoughby.’

  I stopped what I was doing. It was hard to imagine Detective Highsmith feeling sorry for anyone, let alone a stranger. ‘Why?’

  Highsmith set down his near-empty coffee mug. ‘He came to town to let his sister know that their aunt, Willow Willoughby, had passed away over the weekend.’

  Willow Willoughby? What kind of a name was that? ‘He drove all the way here for that?’ I extracted a half-dozen beignets from the fryer and dumped them over the drip tray. ‘Why didn’t he simply call?’

  Highsmith shrugged those broad shoulders of his. ‘He said she’d changed cell phones and switched her number. So he decided to come tell her in person.’ He dropped a dollar bill in the jelly slash tip jar. ‘If you see Johnny Wolfe, tell him I’d still like a word.’

  Highsmith hopped in his car and disappeared.

  I couldn’t believe I had that guy for a neighbor. Plus, he’d seen me kissing Brad Smith. It was bad enough I had the owners of Karma Koffee, my across-the-street competition, as my landlords. No doubt about it, I was definitely moving when the lease on the apartment was up. ‘You could have said something,’ I scolded Aubrey.

  She stuck her head out from the storeroom, her fingers clutching the doorframe. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Anything.’

  There was a gleam in Aubrey’s eyes as she skipped to the register, took the next customer’s credit card and ran it through the scanner. ‘I wouldn’t want to interrupt you and the detective in your mating ritual.’

  ‘Mating ritual?’ I spluttered.

  The customer picked up his order and barked out a laugh. I turned the color of a maraschino cherry and tugged off my apron. I snatched the papers that Mrs Higgins had unloaded on me from under the counter and headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ called Aubrey.

  ‘If I’m not back in time,’ I hollered through the glass, ‘lock up!’

  SIXTEEN

  Where I was going was to see a guy named Cosmic Ray. And I found him. From behind a twelve-foot-long lacquered wood counter he was speaking softly to a couple of tourists – a blue-skirted woman with a clunky camera around her neck and a man in cargo shorts with a pair of binoculars dangling from a leather strap around his own thick, suntanned neck.

  Ray Bentley, or Cosmic Ray as his nametag so proudly displayed, was a thin man in his fifties wearing a ‘Vortexes Are A Man’s Best Friend’ emblazoned tie-dyed T-shirt. I didn’t know what he had on down below. It might have been the bottom half of a shiny silver spacesuit. His thinning brown hair was done up in two tightly wound pigtails at the back of his head, held in place with two purple coyote pigtail ties.

  For a moment, I questioned Cosmic Ray being the best person to represent Table Rock but I quickly realized he was just right, given the nature of our fair, if off-kilter, town. He had dark, close-set eyes and I wondered if those pigtails were really antennae for receiving signals from Venus. A lidded paper Karma Koffee cup sat on the counter within easy reach of his l
eft hand. Those Karma people were inescapable.

  A few more tourists wandered in from the street, asking for information. To pass the time, I casually examined a wooden rack filled to the brim with brochures from every hotel, motel, restaurant and tourist trap within a hundred miles of Table Rock. Note to self: when I’d saved up a few bucks, get a brochure made of my own special tourist trap, Maggie’s Beignet Café, and have Cosmic add it to the rack.

  I read through a pamphlet on Table Rock’s history then plucked a brochure for one of those Jeep tours from the rack and thumbed through it. There’s a Jeep tour practically everywhere you go in Arizona.

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’ inquired Cosmic Ray.

  I replaced the brochure, albeit slightly crooked and slightly mangled, and turned around. ‘I’m Maggie Miller,’ I explained. ‘From down the street.’ I pulled the registration papers from my purse as I approached the counter. ‘I own Maggie’s Beignet Café on Laredo.’ I peeked over the counter. Cosmic wore nondescript khakis with a bundle of keys lashed to a belt loop with a teal-colored carabiner. Nothing alien or even fashion forward.

  ‘A local, eh?’

  ‘Recent transplant.’

  Main and Laredo make up two sides of Table Rock Town Square. The Table Rock Visitor Center was at the corner of Main and Gurley. John A. Gurley was a former territorial governor. The very first governor of the Arizona Territory, in fact. The fact that he’d never actually been to Arizona and had died before ever arriving to serve didn’t stop the town from naming one of its major streets after him, though the pamphlet hadn’t explained why.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘how did Governor Gurley die? Was it Indians? Marauders?’

  Cosmic chuckled. ‘Appendicitis.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hardly the stuff of folklore and legend.

  The fourth street marking the boundary of the square was named Smile. The original name had been Aubergine. It seems a prominent local farmer had once grown eggplant. Eggplant does like the heat. Where else but Arizona can a vegetable grow and precook at the same time?

  Apparently a bunch of hippies back in the sixties – who had arrived like an invading horde – had thought renaming the street Smile was a good thing. The mayor at the time was a bigtime Grateful Dead fan, a real Dead Head, from San Francisco. It seemed the hippies outnumbered the more reserved voters of Table Rock because Smile it became and has stayed ever since. Have I mentioned that Table Rockers are a quirky bunch?