by J. R. Ripley
‘So?’ My yawning must have been contagious because Mom was yawning now, too.
‘So, nobody claims to have seen or heard anything. They all claim to not have been anywhere around. Ben says he was on the roof smoking. Markie initially lied about being in at all.’ I grunted. ‘And I don’t know where Reva was.’
Mom stood, grabbed our plates and headed to the kitchen sink. She turned on the spigot and rinsed our plates.
I joined her, bringing the glasses and flatware. ‘The only person who claims to have heard anything at all is some painter on the second floor.’
Mom turned off the water and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel. ‘Oh? I’ve been thinking of having my condo repainted.’
‘She’s not that kind of painter, Mom. She’s an artist. You know, landscapes and fruit.’
Mom ran our glasses under the water and sponged them out. ‘What did she hear?’
‘She says all she heard was what could have been the sound of Lisa falling down the stairs.’ I grabbed the leftover pizza and Mom covered it in plastic wrap. The way that ostrich was tossing around in my stomach, I’d let Mom enjoy it.
‘She did hear Markie and Lisa arguing, though. A day or two day before, outside her studio. Apparently they were really going at it.’ I shared what Blake Sherwood had told me.
Mom shook her head. ‘Sounds like this Markie person may have had a reason or two to want Ms Willoughby dead himself.’
I agreed. I definitely needed to dig a little deeper into Markie’s life and whereabouts.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday morning at the café did not start well. Mom came in early to open the shop with me and learn the routine. Clive came banging on the door before we were open for business, bags under his eyes, hair tussled and face unshaven. He was in indigo jeans and a white shirt. No bowtie.
I turned the key in the lock and let him in. ‘You look terrible, Clive.’ I laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on in. I was about to start the coffee.’
‘Oh, Maggie,’ lamented Clive. ‘It’s simply awful.’
I spun on my heels. ‘My coffee?’
He shook his head. ‘No, what’s happened to Johnny.’
Mom stepped in from the storeroom. ‘What’s happened to Johnny?’
‘The police took him,’ Clive gulped.
‘Oh, dear!’ cried my mom.
I hustled Clive to a table. ‘Have a seat.’ I held out a chair. ‘Mom, would you start the coffee, please?’ I sat in the chair opposite Clive at the table in front of the window. The orange sun was just coming over the horizon. It was beautiful in Table Rock this time of day – if you didn’t have things like murder and trips to the electric chairs on your mind.
Mom brought three cups of coffee to the table and joined us. ‘Drink up,’ she urged Clive. She dumped a handful of creamers and sugar packets onto the table.
Two joggers trotted along the brick-lined sidewalk. An elderly man walking his collie stopped to read the headlines of the Table Rock Reader in the kiosk at the corner.
‘Talk to me, Clive.’ I set my cup down and glanced across the street at Karma Koffee. They already had a good crowd. I toyed with the idea of sending Mom over for a few of their muffins but pride got the better of me. They had one muffin in particular, aptly named Heaven’s Building Blocks, that was to die for – to die and go to heaven for, to be precise. My stomach grumbled like a grouchy old man. Maybe if I wore some sort of disguise, a hat and some dark glasses …
Clive poured a creamer into his cup then added two sugars. ‘It’s because of that man at the Entronque.’
I scratched my nose. ‘What man?’
‘That janitor fellow,’ Clive answered. ‘You remember; he was there when we found the body. Detective Highsmith was talking to him about the elevators and whether they were broken or not.’
‘That reminds me,’ I interjected, ‘did the police ever find those out-of-order signs you’d seen?’
Clive shrugged. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Tell us about this man,’ Mom said sternly, putting us back on course.
Clive took a sip of coffee then continued. ‘The police showed pictures of me and Johnny to the janitor.’
‘And?’ I stifled a yawn. I really needed some sugar. Foregoing the muffin, I poured three packets into my coffee though I usually drink it black and unsweetened.
‘He recognized Johnny. He claimed to have seen him there earlier.’ Clive’s jaw tightened. ‘Arguing with Lisa Willoughby.’
Oh, that was so not good. ‘What did Johnny have to say? There must be some explanation.’
Clive ran a hand along his forehead. ‘He said he wanted to talk to her again about this lawsuit business. He was afraid that it would reflect badly on The Hitching Post. He told her it would reflect poorly on her as well.’ Clive frowned. ‘Table Rock is a small town. Things have a way of spreading.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I quipped. ‘Where’s Johnny now?’
‘Still at the police station.’
‘I’ll call Andy.’
‘I already did,’ replied Clive. ‘He should be there now.’
Mom and I told Clive not to worry. Though I was worried about the guys, I figured that if Johnny was innocent there was no real harm in letting him stew down at the police station for a while.
Clive rose. ‘I’d better get back to the store. Besides handling everything there I’ve got to deal with all the last-minute preparations for Labor of Love. Thank goodness Johnny had finished the late alterations to Sabrina Higgins’ gown yesterday.’
‘I’ll bet it’s a killer.’ I smiled weakly. ‘Sorry, poor choice of words.’
Clive laid his hand on his chest. ‘I do hope Johnny is out in time to help me.’
‘With Andy handling things you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘No, perhaps not, but Maggie,’ Clive draped his hand over mine, ‘I’d be careful with Johnny.’
A furrow creased my brow. ‘Why?’
‘Because when he does get out,’ Clive locked his eyes on mine, ‘the first thing he said he’s going to do …’
‘Yes?’
‘Is kill you.’ Clive lowered his eyes and gave my hand a squeeze.
‘Kill me?’ I blustered. ‘Whatever for? For helping him? For getting him out of jail? From saving him from a life in prison or, worse yet, the death penalty?’ My voice rose shrilly. ‘They don’t have ice-skating rinks in prison, you know!’
Clive shook his head. ‘For what you did to his car.’
I froze then suddenly melted in my chair. I was a dead woman.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I’d asked Aubrey to run Johnny’s key fob back to him last evening and to say nothing about the little dent in his front bumper, figuring I’d deal with the fallout from that minor disaster later. I’d been hoping Johnny wouldn’t see the dent until I’d come up with a plan to fix it.
Since there was nothing I could do about it now, I turned to preparing for the Labor of Love myself. The logistics of participating in the charity event were daunting. Why had I let Mrs Higgins cajole me into taking part?
I drew up a list of things I was going to need and telephoned Laura Duval. She had some things in her store – tables, tablecloths, an extra coffee urn and even a used fryer that she said she could rent me for the weekend. She was giving me a rock-bottom price on everything, but this weekend’s charity event was still going to set me back plenty.
Aubrey showed up around noon and I left her and Mom in charge of the café while I headed for Laura’s Lightly Used. I was pleased to see that she’d laid the whole lot out in a corner of her store, arranging everything the way it might look under the tent. ‘This is perfect.’ I gave her a hug.
‘Thanks. I tried to think of every item you’d need.’
I nodded effusively. ‘Like I said, perfect.’ She’d even remembered to include a couple of folding chairs and a napkin dispenser. ‘How’d you happen to have all this stuff?’
‘Restauran
ts open and close all the time. You know how it is.’
I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew exactly how it was.
‘Then the owners come in here trying to get a few bucks for their equipment.’ Laura fingered a tabletop deep fryer that was going to be perfect for cooking up beignets. ‘You’d be amazed how cheaply I’m able to get used restaurant supplies. The failure rate on restaurants is—’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Sorry.’
I managed a smile. ‘It’s OK. I’ll cry later.’ I clapped my hands together. ‘Change of subject. Tell me about Houston. Have you seen him again?’
Laura invited me to sit on a second-hand white daybed with a flowery quilt top. ‘Not since the other night. And breakfast.’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘He did ask me out. Tonight, in fact.’
I gazed at her. ‘Did you accept?’
She shook her head no. ‘He’s not my type. And I don’t care much for that weird business associate of his.’
‘Irwin Acheson?’
She nodded. ‘He scares me.’
He scared me too. ‘He’s still around?’
‘I’ve seen him walking around in town and also at Lisa’s condo.’ She gave me a meaningful look. ‘Or should I say Houston’s condo. I suppose it belongs to him now.’
‘Yeah, like everything else that had once been hers.’ I filled Laura in on the latest news about a witness having seen Johnny down at the Entronque the morning of her death. Laura didn’t believe Johnny was guilty of murder any more than I did. I wrote Lisa a check for the supplies and she agreed to drive the whole lot over to Table Rock Town Square early the next morning. That was nice of her. It meant I wasn’t going to have to ask Andy to haul it over for me in his pickup.
I was pedaling back to the café when I glanced in the window of Hopping Mad, the Hopi-Irish pub run by Johnny Honanie. Irwin Acheson stood at the bar, all six foot forever of him, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged his pectorals and highlighted his biceps. A sports show played on the three flat-screen TVs behind the bar. He caught me looking at him and waved. ‘Come on in.’ There was a gleam in his eye.
I parked the Schwinn against the fire hydrant and went inside.
He draped a python over my shoulder and I drew back. ‘Hey, Red. Let me buy you a drink.’ He scratched the underside of his chin. ‘What was your name again?’
Despite his sexy Irish accent, I suppressed a shudder. ‘Maggie Miller.’
Irwin flashed a set of white teeth. ‘That’s right.’ He pulled tighter and I felt the python squeezing the life out of me. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me my name?’
I extricated myself from his grip and took the empty stool at his side. ‘Irwin Acheson.’
‘Yep.’ Irwin puffed out his chest, looking satisfied. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Coffee,’ I replied, looking at the bartender. I didn’t get it; what business did Houston Willoughby have with this lout?
Irwin laughed. ‘Give her one of these.’ He pinged a tall damp beer mug with his fingertip. ‘In fact, get me another while you’re at it.’ He turned to me. ‘It’s the house beer. Pretty good stuff, too. I’m thinking of trying it out at one of my establishments back home.’ He fiddled with his mug. ‘Goes great with their beer-glazed bacon. Want some?’
‘No, thanks.’ I’d rather eat ostrich. My lips brushed my glass, catching mostly foam. I wanted to keep my wits about me. I feared Irwin’s wits were long gone, and I wasn’t sure that could be blamed on the beer he’d consumed. ‘So, you and Houston go way back?’
His big shoulders heaved up then fell. ‘A few years. We’ve done some business.’
‘You’re in the restaurant business, too?’
Irwin nodded. ‘A sushi bar, an Italian fine-dining restaurant and a stake in Houston’s Mexican joint.’
‘Covering all your culinary bases, aren’t you? No casual American?’
He smiled lasciviously. ‘Not yet.’ He practically purred. ‘But I’m game if you are.’
A frisson of dread ran up my arms. I’d have to be careful around this guy. I cleared my throat and took a sip of beer. The brew was tangy and cold. ‘What brings you to Table Rock? Looking for another investment?’
Irwin shook his head. ‘I heard how nice it is this time of year. I had some time on my hands; I thought I’d see for myself.’
‘Quite a coincidence that Houston Willoughby happened to be here at the same time.’
A smile crept across his chiseled face. ‘A happy coincidence.’
‘Did you know his sister, Lisa?’
‘We’d met.’
‘Maybe you visited her here before? In Table Rock?’
Irwin stared at me. I thought I saw something in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
‘You mentioned at the diner that you knew where she lived.’
He downed half his beer and wiped his lips with a finger. His eyes fell to my glass. ‘When you’re finished with that how about showing me the sights?’
‘Sorry, I’ve got to get back to the café.’ I left before the Irish python could coil himself around me, constricting my chest until my heart stopped. Something told me that the only sight he was interested in seeing was the inside of my bedroom. That was definitely not part of the Table Rock tour.
I found Detective Highsmith at his desk and slapped my insurance card and a copy of my driver’s license on his blotter. His brows edged up. ‘What’s this?’ He was wearing the same brown cotton suit he’d worn the first time we’d met. The same milk-stained tie, too.
‘My insurance information.’ Of course, it was void. I had no insurance – I had no car.
The detective leaned back and stretched his arms overhead. The chair creaked loudly. I didn’t blame it. ‘Oh, man,’ he said, ‘you should have seen Johnny Wolfe when I told him about that.’
I fell into the chair opposite his desk. ‘You told him?’
He nodded curtly.
‘You – you blabbed?’ How could he do that? He’d been so kind, so gentle yesterday. He’d kissed me! On the forehead, but still … The big jerk. ‘Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?’ I could feel the heat rising in my face and my heart pounding against my chest.
‘Trouble I’ve caused?’ He leaned toward me. ‘It seems to me that you cause trouble wherever you go.’
‘Why, you—’ I held my tongue and chuffed. ‘Where’s Johnny? I want to see him.’ I scrambled to retrieve my license and insurance card off the desk. Let him pay for his own damages. Besides, I didn’t see any good reason for him to see my biological age right there in black and white.
Highsmith shook his head. ‘No can do. He’s with his attorney. You know, the one whose pickup you recently stole.’
‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response.’ I folded my arms across my chest. ‘Take me to Johnny and Andy. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see me.’
Detective Highsmith rose from his desk and matched my pose. ‘Maybe so, but I don’t expect Veronica will be nearly as glad.’
I gulped. VV Vargas. Had Brad mentioned my little get-together with the detective to VV? ‘Veronica’s here?’ I shivered. It was an involuntary response every time I laid eyes on the woman or heard her name mentioned. I’d rather face Medusa, snakes and all.
Highsmith nodded and gestured toward his door. ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’
I grunted. ‘Fine, but you’re wasting your time. If you ask me the real killer is still out there, at large, at loose, ready to kill again.’
Highsmith smiled. ‘And who might that be?’
I smiled back. Two could play that game. ‘One,’ I said, counting off on my fingers, ‘Markie Gravelle. Two, Ben Baker. Three, Houston Willoughby. He’s going to inherit everything from that aunt now.’
Highsmith shrugged my words off like so much fluff.
I’d lost count. I mouthed the numbers as I counted my fingers again. ‘Four, Cody Ryan.’ Highsmith snorted and I ignored him. ‘Five, Irwin Acheson.’
Highsmith wrinkled his nose. ‘Who?’
‘Some business associate of Lisa’s brother, Houston. He and Houston are partners in a Mexican restaurant over in Santa Fe.’
‘So why would this Acheson fellow want Houston’s sister dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snapped. ‘You tell me. If you’d spend less time harassing Johnny and Clive and more time looking for the real killer, you might have the answer already.’
It was the detective’s turn to count. This guy was a real copycat. ‘Number one,’ he began, pulling on an index finger, ‘your friend, Clive Rothschild, was found at the scene, and that piece of fabric beneath the victim’s body. Number two,’ his eyes drilled into mine. ‘He confessed.’
I jerked my head. ‘Big deal. He took it back.’ Could you recant a murder confession? I was a little fuzzy on the legalities of takesy-backsies when used as a legal defense in such cases as cold-blooded murder.
Highsmith looked down his nose at me. ‘Number—’ He hesitated, looking confused. Huh, not so smart after all, was he? ‘Number whatever,’ he said sternly, ‘Mr Wolfe was seen arguing with the deceased within an hour of her death.’
I started for the door. Nothing he’d said was worthy of a reply.
‘Oh, and Miller?’
I froze in the doorway. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m glad you’re OK.’ He cracked a little smile. ‘How’s the nose?’ His fingers went to his own finely hewn smell detector and jiggled it.
I couldn’t help chuckling. My collision with Highsmith’s Pontiac had been just strong enough for me to strike my nose against the steering wheel but not severe enough to have set off the airbag. ‘Still sore.’ I sighed, my hand clutching the doorjamb. ‘But thanks for asking.’
TWENTY-NINE
I held my hand against the sun, waiting for the bus. The police station was a bit far out of my comfort zone when it came to biking so I’d taken public transport to the station. I hoped a bus would be along soon. It was hot. I was tired and thirsty. Three sips of beer does not a luncheon make.