Margaritas, Marzipan, and Murder

by Harper Lin

  The young, perky front desk clerk at the local gym had extolled the virtues of kickboxing, encouraging me to sign up, even if just for one month to see how I liked it. When I declined, she suggested water aerobics. I signed up for kickboxing. After I’d paid for the class, I wondered if she had deliberately manipulated me into it. But since I was already signed up, and I'd only committed to a single month, I stuck with it and eventually even found that I liked it. Perky Karli smiled every time I walked past her on my way to class, and she was kind enough not to say anything when I signed up for a second month.

  After kickboxing, I headed home to take a shower. I felt slightly ridiculous washing my hair less than an hour before paying someone to do it for me, but I couldn’t handle the thought of going into Beach Waves with sweaty, gross hair. It was a catch-22. I could get a shower before I got my hair done and have someone rewash my already clean hair, or I could wait and shower after my cut and ruin the blowout with the humidity. Double washing my hair was less of a blow to my dignity.

  After my shower, I went ahead and put on my work clothes so I didn’t have to come back home. I took Latte out and threw his tennis ball for him a few times. I felt the lightest and happiest I had in days. Abraham Casey’s murder was all but solved, I had drinks with Sammy to look forward to, and I was finally getting my hair cut. I must have gotten carried away with Latte because by the time I checked the time, I was running late.

  “Here you go!” I sang, giving Latte a treat. “Love you! See you later!” I let him lick me on the nose a few times then shut the door and headed for the salon.

  “Hi. Fran Amaro,” I said as I stepped up to the front desk.

  The pink-and-purple-haired girl staffing the counter made me wonder exactly where we found so many bored teenagers in such a small town. Then I realized it was the first day of school, and instead of sitting in a classroom, she was sitting in a salon, so she had to be older than I thought. I wondered whether I was just getting too old to accurately guess the ages of people younger than me. The thought was not encouraging, especially knowing another birthday was on the horizon.

  The girl looked at me blankly.

  “I have an appointment.” I tried to be polite.

  “Who with?”

  With whom, I mentally corrected. “Chase Williams,” I said instead, deciding civility was a more important lesson for this girl than grammar.

  She clicked her computer mouse a few times. “Okay, have a seat.” She managed a level of monotone I hadn’t realized possible.

  I took a chair and picked up a magazine featuring a celebrity wedding on the cover. It was at least a few months old because I happened to know the couple was already divorced. Still, I flipped through it, looking for my favorite feature, “What’s In Your Bag?” where they emptied out a celebrity’s purse and took a picture, then annotated the contents with prices and some inane bit of information about why the product was in the celebrity’s bag. “She loves this lip balm ($25 for 0.25 oz.) for how silky soft it makes her lips!” “Q-tips ($2 for 250) are a must for quick makeup fixes on the go!” “This luxurious hand crème ($225 for 0.75 oz.) is essential for maintaining the health of her nails and cuticles! Use it to smooth flyaways, too!” I couldn’t say whether I loved seeing the products or the prices more.

  “Fran?” an assistant asked, poking her head around a corner.

  “That’s me!” I stood up and reluctantly parted with the magazine. I hadn’t yet gotten to the “Who Wore It Best?” feature, which was another favorite. I saw the assistant’s face as it went from a happy smile to a look of concern as she saw my still-wet hair wrapped up in a bun.

  She politely waited until I was next to her before she commented. “You know you don’t have to wash your own hair. We do that for you.”

  “I know. I had a kickboxing class this morning and—”

  “Oh, say no more! I totally understand!”

  She took me to the shampoo bowl and rewashed my hair. At least the salon’s products were high quality and didn’t make my hair feel as dry and awful as the cheap stuff. She finished with a quick scalp massage, wrung the excess water out of my hair, and led me to Chase’s chair.

  “Have you ever been here before?”

  “Nope, first time.”

  “You’re in for a treat. Chase’s haircuts are amazing.”

  Chapter 17

  Chase stood behind me, flipping my hair, which had been cut, dried, and styled, over my shoulders, pulling it back, tucking it behind my ears, and tousling it up. “Do you like it?” he asked.

  I nodded. “My head feels so light!”

  “Shake your head. Run your fingers through it. See how it feels.”

  I did as instructed. “It’s so soft.” I thought it was probably the best haircut I’d ever had, better even than the astronomically expensive ones I’d had in New York. It was exactly what I wanted—what I’d already had, but better.

  He flipped it back and forth again then rested his hands on my shoulders as he looked at me in the mirror. “It was so nice to finally get the chance to catch up with you.”

  “I know! It’s been forever, hasn’t it?” As long as it had been, he hadn’t changed a bit over the years. He still had the same sandy blond hair and the same pale blue eyes. Admittedly, the stubble on his chin hadn’t been there in high school, but whenever I’d seen him in passing since then, it had grazed his face. He’d grown taller and broader since school, but the grin was still the same, as was the easy surfer-dude voice and the laid-back mannerisms. At his core, he was the same old Chase even after more than fifteen years.

  “Probably high school since we’ve had a real conversation.”

  “You know, you’re probably right.”

  “I think every time I come into the café, you’re so busy. I see you behind the counter, making drinks for everyone, rushing around. It’s not stressing you out too much, is it, Fran? Too much stress isn’t good for you.”

  I was touched by his concern. I’d always felt having my hair done was like a form of therapy—you come in, sit down for an hour, talk to a professional, and when you leave, you feel fresh and rejuvenated. Like yourself, only better. And stylists like Chase only proved the point. Not only was he great at doing hair, he was great at reading his clients.

  “I’m doing okay.” I smiled at him in the mirror. “We have our busy times, but we have our slow time, too. You just always seem to come in when there’s a rush.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he laughed. He touched the ends of my hair again, arranging them just so. “But, you know, seriously, Fran, if you ever get to feeling like it’s too much, let me know. I have some stuff that can help you relax a little.”

  “What? Like scissors and a comb? Haircuts do always make me feel better.” I laughed nervously. I was almost certain that wasn’t what he meant.

  “Well, there’s that,” he laughed. “But I meant I have something else. To help you relax.” He paused and looked at me for a second. I tried to keep my face perfectly neutral. “Just let me know, okay?”

  I nodded and tried to give him a little bit of a smile. Not enough to encourage him, but enough to let him know I wasn’t going to run straight to the police to turn him in for offering me…whatever he had just offered. Drugs? A gift certificate for a massage? Essential oils?

  As we walked toward the front counter, I chided myself for assuming the worst. Chase could quite possibly be offering me some kind of herbal supplement. Matt or Sammy could have said the exact same thing, and I never would have questioned it. The situation with Abraham Casey had me jumping to crazy conclusions. I needed to find Mike as soon as possible and fill him in on everything I’d learned over the past few days so I could get back to my normal life and stop assuming my friends were trying to sell me drugs.

  “I’ll check her out,” Chase said to the bored, punk-haired teenager at the desk.

  “Whatever.” She sighed and rolled her chair back from the computer.

  Chase leaned over t
he computer and punched a few buttons. “I’ll give you the friends and family discount.” He winked at me. He clicked the mouse a couple of times and told me the price. The salon’s rates were already reasonable, especially in comparison to what I was used to paying, but the number Chase gave me was a forty-percent discount on top of that. I tipped him generously in exchange.

  I was giving him a quick hug goodbye when I glanced out the window and saw Mike on the other side of the street, walking down the sidewalk in the direction of the salon. It was perfect timing. I could go talk to him, tell him everything, and still make it to work on time. I waved goodbye to Chase and hurried outside to catch up with Mike. I stepped out between the parallel-parked cars and glanced down the street to check for oncoming traffic. It was all clear, so I crossed to the median.

  “Mike!” I called out, waving my hand as he passed me across the other lane of traffic. “Mike!”

  He stopped in front of the miniature golf place and turned around to see who was calling him. His face grew stern when he saw it was me. I wondered if he’d heard about my investigation.

  “Hi, Mike!” I caught up to him on the sidewalk. He was wearing a suit and tie—his detective clothes. When he was just patrolling the streets, he wore a regular uniform. The fact that he was wearing his investigating clothes didn’t bode well for me.

  “Hello, Francesca.” Whatever he looked so serious about wasn’t good if he was using my full name.

  “How are you?” I tried to sound cheerful.

  “I’ve been better. In fact, I was better this morning before I went over to the Seaside Inn to interview Ed Martin.”

  I swallowed hard and tried to play off my apprehension. “Oh, did it not go well?”

  “It went very well, actually. His recollection of the events in question was quite good. Apparently, someone came by the other day and helped refresh everything for him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Fran…” The warning tone in his voice unmistakable.

  “Yes?”

  “I told you to stay out of it.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get involved.”

  “But you did.”

  I nodded.

  “You need to tell me everything.”

  “Can we go somewhere to talk? Instead of…out here?” I waved my hand around to indicate the very public nature of Main Street. The idea of going into detail about my findings while standing where anyone could walk by and hear me was incredibly unappealing, as was the idea of enduring Mike’s reaction.

  “You mean like my interrogation room?” he suggested.

  “I was thinking more like my café.”

  Mike grunted, turned, and stalked off in the direction of the coffee shop. I took that to mean he was agreeing to my suggestion and followed him.

  He pulled open the café door and let me go in first.

  “Hey!” Sammy exclaimed. “You’re here early. I didn’t expect you for—” She stopped suddenly when she saw Mike and his sullen expression. “Hey, Mike.” She barely succeeded at sounding cheerful.

  I made a move to sit in an armchair in the corner, but Mike had other ideas. “Back room,” he barked as he blew past me. He managed to flash a smile at Sammy. “Black coffee, please, Sam. Large. And could you bring it to me in the back?”

  “Sure thing, Mike.” She raised her eyebrows and made her eyes big as I walked past her. The code for both was “what did you do” and “you’re in trouble.”

  I grimaced and followed Mike into the back. He shut the door behind us and sat in a chair. He crossed his legs, ankle over knee, and folded his arms across his chest. He was a tall, muscular man, quite imposing in the small room. I edged past him and sat down in another chair facing him.

  He didn’t say a word, which only served to make me more nervous. He kept his eyes on me, and I waited. There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Mike called.

  “I have your coffee.” Sammy stuck her head in.

  “Thanks, Sam.” He reached up and took the coffee from her without breaking eye contact with me.

  Sammy mouthed “good luck” and slipped back out, pulling the door closed.

  Mike took a sip of his coffee. “You may as well get started,” he said.

  “Well, that night—the night of the murder—”

  “I’m sorry?” Mike interrupted me.

  “The night of the murder.”

  He leaned forward and put an elbow on his knee. “How do you know that?”

  “Know what?”

  “I told you it was a suicide. Why did you just say murder?”

  “Oh, um, I just sort of…figured it out. Suicide didn’t make sense to me, so I thought it was probably a murder.”

  “Suicide didn’t make sense to you.” He shook his head. “Go on.”

  “Well, that was the first thing. I went home and talked to Matt about it and realized it was probably a murder. So the next day, I went and talked to Mary Ellen to see what she could tell me about Abraham Casey.”

  “Wait, how did you find out his name?”

  “Mary Ellen.”

  “Mary Ellen told you?”

  I nodded. “Is that not okay? She didn’t know if it was okay or not.”

  “It’s not okay when she’s giving you information she’s withholding from the police.”

  “But—she wasn’t withholding it. She told you as soon as she remembered she knew it.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “She told me.”

  “When?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Yes. She told me she remembered it during the night and called the officer who interviewed her first thing in the morning. She left him a message.”

  Mike stared at me for a second. “Son of a—” he muttered under his breath, followed by another, even less polite word. “She called Bradshaw?” he asked in a normal tone of voice.

  “That’s what she said. He didn’t get the message?”

  “He either didn’t get it or just didn’t bother to tell anyone. Do you know how many hours we wasted trying to figure out this guy’s name when we could have had it first thing?”

  A horrible thought occurred to me. “You don’t think Mary Ellen lied to me about calling, do you?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve had issues with Bradshaw before. Never like this, though.” He shook his head, and I could tell he was trying to contain himself. “How did Mary Ellen know his name?”

  “It was on his credit card receipt.”

  “He paid with a credit card?”

  “Yes.”

  “He paid with a credit card,” he repeated, seemingly pained by the words. Mike leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead vigorously. “I’m going to fire him,” he said, again under his breath. “He’s fired. I’m firing him.”

  “So, wait—if you didn’t get Mary Ellen’s message, how did you find out his name?”

  “His fingerprints came back from IAFIS yesterday.” He must have noticed the blank look on my face. “Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. It’s an FBI system. Lets you compare a set of fingerprints against a huge pool of them. Casey had to get fingerprinted to get his pharmacy license.” He paused. “I assume you already know he was a pharmacist.” He sounded weary.

  I nodded.

  “Of course you do. You’re a better detective than half the guys on my force, and it’s not even your job.” He pointed to me. “Don’t you ever tell anyone I said that.”

  I grinned. “I won’t.”

  “Tell me what else you know.” He pulled a little notebook out of his pocket. He flipped to a blank page and poised his pencil over it.

  I ran quickly through the other information I’d gathered during my nearly three-day head start—his wife and child, the pharmacists’ convention, and my conversation with Suzy. Mike scribbled down notes as I spoke.

  “So, you think there’s a drug angle to this?” Mi
ke asked.

  “I don’t know if I think there’s a drug angle. I think there are maybe some drugs involved. Lovers’ quarrel makes the most sense to me, though. His wife found out he didn’t go to the conference, came here to confront him, caught him with Suzy, and things got violent.”

  “So you think the wife did it? What’s her name…” He flipped the pages in his little notebook, looking for her name.

  “Leah,” I offered.

  “Of course you know that.”

  I smiled. He didn’t. I guessed he was still annoyed his officer had dropped the ball.

  “You think Leah Casey did it?”

  “I’m not really sure she did it.” I didn’t want him to think I had more evidence than I did pointing in her direction. “And even if she did, it could have been self-defense. He might have attacked her first.”

  “And have you spoken with Mrs. Casey?”

  “No! Of course not. I’m not going to call up a grieving widow and start asking her questions about her dead husband.”

  “If you’d called her before last night, you would have been the one breaking the news to her.”

  I cringed, grateful I’d decided not to contact her. “I’ll leave that stuff up to you. I’m not the police, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. I’m just not so sure you do.”

  I looked down at my hands in my lap.

  “So, since you seem to know everything about this case, can you tell me why he didn’t actually go to the conference? He was registered, you know.”

  I didn’t know, and I could have kicked myself for not having thought to check whether he’d been registered. “I figure he just wanted a break from his everyday life. He probably booked the conference so he’d have a cover and then decided to just go to the beach for a few days, get away from it all.”