Burgundy and Bodies

by Sandra Woffington

  On the way out, Joy suggested, “If he had three patches on his back, and there was one left in the box, then he’d only used one patch in six months—hardly the sign of an abuser.”

  “When I met with Eugene the second time, Shane drove past me. Eugene said they’d been toasting his engagement to Cynthia.”

  “Alcohol is a problem. Alcohol and pain meds are risky. Alcohol, pain meds, and three Fentanyl patches, lethal.”

  A chill raced up Max’s spine. “Joy, this is going to sound crazy, but the chief went ballistic when he found out that Shane knew about A-gamer.”

  “Yeah, I remember. He said he’d be ruined if it got out. You know him better than I do, Max. Do you think he’d go this far? Would he kill two people to bury his dirty little secret?”

  “Don’t we all teeter on edges, Joy, between sane and insane, calm and crazed, lover and killer?” Max didn’t have an answer, only more questions. Did the chief’s fear of losing his career cause him to step over the line?

  On the way to the chief’s house, Max called the doctor, who confirmed Shane’s ethical struggle to take more pain meds. He had referred him to a surgeon.

  Max drove through the new housing development where the chief lived. Many of the houses on his block, including the chief’s, had bare yards that waited for landscaping. Maybe now, the chief had time to get after the details that made a tract house a home—if anyone could call his mini-French chateau a tract home. Max could imagine the chief living in an English Tudor or an American craftsmen, but never in a mini-country estate in France. The chief didn’t seem that elegant or refined. Cast a wide net, Max reminded himself. Like any other suspect, Max needed to see the chief as he was and let his prejudices go. It did make Max smile to think the chief had a foofy side, though.

  Max and Joy sidestepped several boxes next to the front door: large boxes, small boxes, long boxes, short boxes from several home shopping networks.

  The chief opened the door and let them in. Max and Joy helped tote the boxes inside. Max saw two expressions on the chief’s face: one begrudgingly welcomed him and the other despised his presence.

  Max imagined the chief’s two faces as split and facing in opposite directions, like Janus, the Roman god of beginnings and endings, paths and predicaments, who had one set of eyes on the future and one, on the past. The chief had tried to scuttle Max’s career. He had no sympathy that the chief’s career sat on the chopping block, but unlike the chief, he would fight for justice. If the chief was innocent, he’d prove it and clear his name.

  The chief sat in an extra-wide hunter green chair, while Max and Joy sat on the matching sofa.

  “Lovely home, chief,” said Joy. “How are you holding up?”

  “How do you think? I’m not. What have you found?” The chief relit a cigar sitting in an ashtray on the side table next to him.

  Max cut to the chase. “Chief, to be blunt, I’m not here to give you a report. You’re a suspect, and Joy and I need to rule you out.”

  The chief puffed on his cigar. “Shoot. What do you need from me?” Thick swirls of smoke snaked into the air.

  Joy asked, “Chief, did you speak to Shane Drake yesterday?”

  The chief responded rather quickly, “No, why?”

  “You’re sure?” asked Max. “Take your time.”

  The chief’s voice rose three notches. “I don’t need more time! I didn’t speak to—wait, the phone rang last night. I was sitting right here. Just lit this very same cigar and had a glass of Merlot. I picked up the call, but no one answered. Caller ID said it was Shane.”

  Joy let out an audible sigh. “No alibi, then? Did you have any company, chief?”

  The chief shook his head. “Who would do this to me? Never mind, I can think of plenty who would. Did you talk to A-gamer?”

  Max could not answer any of the chief’s questions, but he could ask more questions. “We’ve put surveillance on him, but why would A-gamer kill Shane? I understand his animosity toward Anne—and you—but if it wasn’t A-gamer, who else hates you enough to pin two murders on you?”

  “I don’t have a clue. The list is long.”

  The chief’s jowls hung lower than Max had ever seen. His eyes were dark circles. His white hair hadn’t been brushed. A lock of it stuck up on one side. Authority and anger had kept him flushed and taut while on the job, but sitting at home had sucked the wind out of his sails, and his face sagged in defeat. The chief puffed quietly on his cigar, like a man having his last smoke, determined to enjoy every moment and morsel of flavor. “I’ve been around here a long time. Only been chief three years, but I’ve arrested plenty of criminals.”

  Joy leaned forward. “Chief, when did you see your cigar cutter last?”

  “At the game. I didn’t even know it was missing until the next day.”

  Max asked, “When was the last time you were at Shane Drake’s house?”

  “When he hosted the poker game. We had five regulars, but we’re open to guests, like when you came, Max, with your dad or when Deon came.”

  “That was a few years ago. Different cast of characters when I played,” said Max.

  “Right. I bumped into Anne at a hospital charity dinner. She was with Grant, and I happened to sit at their table. They invited me to join them. But to answer your question, Eugene hosted this month, Lee hosted last month, Grant hosted June, then it was me, and then Anne, and Shane would have hosted in March.”

  Joy sighed. “So you haven’t been to Shane’s house in several months?”

  “Yes,” said the chief. “That’s good, I hope.”

  Max pursed his lips in frustration. “Did Shane smoke cigars? Did you give him one to smoke on poker night?” Max’s brain wanted to solve this riddle. He fought to find other plausible solutions. There had to be one.

  “No!” said the chief in a combative tone. “Shane wouldn’t smoke unless you locked him in a room full of tobacco and struck a match. He hated the stuff. Even wanted Grant and me to smoke outside. Cynthia felt the same. Can’t blame ‘em. Grant lights ‘em up end to end.”

  “Cigars?” asked Joy.

  “Cigarettes,” said the chief.

  The chief leaned forward in his chair. “What the hell did you find at Shane’s, another cigar clipper? Tell me!”

  “A cigar butt,” said Max. “Your brand. Half smoked.”

  “Then someone from that game—whoever killed Anne and Shane, if it is the same person—took my butt and planted it there to land my butt in jail! And they’re succeeding.” The chief jumped up and paced the taupe carpet. “I can’t stand this!”

  Pictures of French landscapes, vineyards, and cafes leaned against the walls, waiting for someone to put them in place.

  “Deon said he’d never played with the group before. Is that true?” asked Max.

  “Yes,” said the chief. “I’d never met him before.”

  “Who else has a connection to both Anne and Shane?” asked Joy. “And how do you fit in, chief?”

  The chief paced more. He puffed on his cigar. “Do you think I haven’t racked my brain over that one? I have. I don’t see a connection. And what did I do to the person framing me?”

  “Chief,” said Joy in a firm voice. “We’re still investigating every clue. We’ll find who did this.”

  The chief put down his cigar. He grabbed a half empty bottle of Merlot from the end table, poured it into a glass that had wine residue, and gulped it down. “Before I’m tossed in the can would be preferable.”

  Max rose to leave. “We’ll re-interview the witnesses. Someone must have seen something that can help us.”

  Max hopped into the car and smacked his palm on the steering wheel. “I don’t get it. This case doesn’t make any sense!”

  Joy laughed, which made Max angry. He shot her a glare of defiance.

  “Think of any case you’ve ever been on or assisted with, Max. Even if you were pretty sure you knew who did it…”

  Max finished the sentence. “…it never mak
es sense until it makes sense. David King.”

  “Sam Burton,” said Joy.

  18

  Max pulled into the parking lot of the Chen’s flower shop. “This is our last stop. I’m beat. I’ll drop you back at the station, and we can both get a good night’s sleep and start fresh tomorrow.”

  “Sleep does sound good.”

  They found the Chens putting vases in the refrigerator case, preparing to close the store.

  Lee stopped the moment he saw them and rushed over with Mia just behind him. “Eugene called us. He says Shane is dead.”

  Mia’s face frowned. “Are we in danger?”

  Max put up a hand to calm her down. “Mrs. Chen, why would anyone want to hurt either of you? Is there more to the poker game that we need to know?” Max wondered if it had boiled down to money. For centuries, that single problem had wreaked havoc, torn families apart, and resulted in cold-blooded murder. Passion had done equal damage.

  Mia shrugged. Her eyes widened as she rushed to get her feelings out. “People are crazy. There was no reason to hurt Anne. No reason to hurt Shane.”

  Joy acknowledged Mia’s fears, and Max knew why—to gain her trust. “Mia, I’d be worried, too, if I were you. But we’re keeping our eyes on you. Lee left early, remember. And because he did—he has an alibi. He was with you.”

  Mia calmed down. “You see Lee. It was a good thing that you come home early. I say to him, no more poker. Not with that group. We can go to the casino. He can play cards. I go to the spa. We go together.”

  Mr. Chen’s chin dropped half an inch. It was clear he was not a brave enough man to contradict his wife’s edict. Not yet anyway. Not when her concern for his safety meant she still cared for him.

  “Mia. Let the detectives talk, please.” Mr. Chen put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  Joy established a buffer zone between them. “It’s quite all right, Mr. Chen. It’s normal for your wife to be afraid at a time like this. Until tests come back, we’re considering that this may be an accidental overdose of painkillers.”

  This worked like a charm. Mia exhaled and loosened her tightly sealed lips. Her face carried a righteous glow. “I’m sorry for Shane. He was a nice man.”

  Max jumped in before Mia wound herself up again. “I spoke with Eugene yesterday. Shane and Cynthia had just gotten engaged.”

  Lee confirmed this. “Eugene say this to me on the phone.”

  Mia waved her hands and shook her head. “I don’t buy it. Shane wanted a piece of Eugene’s and Kenneth’s golden goose, not a wife. How do you think Eugene and Kenneth built those fancy houses?”

  “But didn’t Shane ask Cynthia to marry him?” asked Joy.

  “Sure. Shane asked her every month, begged all the time, but Cynthia say no, no, no.” Mia wagged her finger.

  Max added, “It sounds like Eugene had a hand in it. Prodded her to accept.”

  “Maybe, yes.” Mia shrugged again. “Maybe Cynthia was tired of saying no.” She raised her chin again in a way to let everyone know she was not wrong at all.

  Max asked, “Did Shane abuse painkillers to your knowledge?”

  Lee answered, “No. Shane had a beer, but he stayed sharp when he played poker. He was going to see a doctor, I think. To talk about surgery to fix his back.”

  Max knew nothing more could come of the interrogation. “Well, thanks for your time. Both of you. We’ll be in touch.”

  Once in the car, Max wound his way around the mall. “At least we know one thing. Mia’s alibi rules Lee out, so these two are way down on the list. I firmly believe that had either of them killed Anne or Shane, they would have bickered about it with us standing right there.”

  “I think you’re right. It’s kind of cute though. And since Lee has been playing poker for quite some time, I suspect he gets to do what he wants, even if Mia says no, no, no.”

  The station in Grape Gulch wasn’t too far from the mall, so before they knew it, Max parked the car and they stepped out. “I’ll check in with the captain, but you can head out. I’ll see you tomorrow, Joy.”

  “Max, I...uh…I…well, thanks again. I mean it. Thank you.”

  Max heard the neediness in her voice. “Joy, look at me.” He waited for her to cast her dark eyes upward and lock onto his. “I didn’t do you any favor. Now you’ve got your hopes up. You think this will prove something. You think it will give you some kind of insight. An instant family, like those sponges you put in water and out pops a big dinosaur. But it won’t. We shared some time together. I’m glad I have that memory. But don’t go digging up graves, because you know what’s down there. Skeletons. And don’t go fishing in any black lakes, because somehow, I think…no, I know for sure…my gut knows what’s down there. A monster.”

  Joy’s eyes didn’t blink. “Like a kraken? A leviathan? Max, I live every day with skeletons and sea monsters.” She turned and walked away. “I’m not trying to raise them up. I’m trying to squash them down.”

  The next day, Joy showed up at the station with a bag in-hand. “Jayda clued me in to your crumble donut fetish. Truce.”

  Max reached out for the bag. “To make a truce, you have to have a war. But I gladly accept your donuts.”

  Kevin approached Max and Joy. “Max, this is Lisa Nguyen. She is Anne Martin’s supervisor.”

  “We met.” Max remembered that she was Deon’s supervisor on the medical-surgical floor. She still wore blue scrubs, but now she also carried a white purse.

  “She has information regarding the Anne Martin case,” Kevin added.

  Max pulled up a chair. “Please.”

  As she sat, Ms. Nguyen apologized. “This is probably nothing, but I got to thinking maybe it would help. I told my husband, and he said I had to come see you. He said what if it helps and I said nothing. So here I am.”

  “What can you tell us?” asked Max.

  “A little over eight months ago—I checked the hospital database to be sure—Anne had an accident. That’s what she said, ‘an accident.’ She broke her wrist. She took a couple of weeks off work, and when she came back, she had to be on desk duty until the doctor cleared her for normal duty.”

  “What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?” asked Joy.

  “She had bruises on her face too. She said she fell down some stairs, but she…”

  Max gave her a moment. Witnesses felt guilty if they gave inaccurate information or slandered a dead person, but without the facts, pieces of the puzzle stayed blank. “Look, we need to know the smallest details. Anything you tell us might just be the clue to finding out what happened to Anne. She’d want you to tell us.”

  Lisa nodded. “Everyone knows she dated Dr. Grant. On and off. He has a temper. She never moved in with him, but he wanted her to. She just couldn’t seem to ever really break up with him.”

  “You think he broke her wrist?” asked Joy.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe she fell,” said Lisa. “But the two weeks she took off to heal, she gave me a phone number for where I could reach her. She didn’t go home. She made me promise not to give it to Dr. Grant or anyone else.” Mrs. Nguyen reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper that had to be Anne’s handwriting. It had the name “Hammer” and a phone number.

  Max took the note. Nothing stirred cops more than a new lead, because each one could be the piece needed to break a case. “Lisa, you did the right thing. This will help us, I’m sure of it. Thank you for coming in.”

  Mrs. Nguyen rose to her feet. “I miss Anne. She never said ‘no’ when someone needed help. I forgot all about that number until I was cleaning out my purse yesterday, and there it was. Like I was meant to find it. I swear, it was like I heard Anne’s ghost say to me, ‘Lisa, you go give that to the police.’”

  Joy put a hand on her arm. “The dead talk to me all the time. To Detective King too. But not everyone, like you, stops to listen or to help.”

  Lisa nodded. “I appreciate your saying so. I’m glad I came in.”


  After she left, Max shook his head. “Hammer? I thought ‘Pride’ was a weird name.”

  “It is,” said Joy. “It’s a little arrogant.”

  “We’re talking about my name still, right?”

  Joy smirked. “Of course, Pride.”

  19

  Max located the address associated with the telephone number from Mrs. Nguyen. He and Joy drove to Lake Elsinore, a town situated around a small lake nestled in the Santa Ana Mountain range and bordered by Temescal Canyon and Temescal Mountains. The town had stayed small from its 1800s inception until about 1980, when it had less than six thousand residents. After that, it exploded to ten times that number and developers swarmed to the area with modern home designs on smaller parcels.

  Max drove through an old section of town. The homes, a combination of ramshackle and spruced up, sat on decent-sized pieces of land. He parked before a well-kept house: it had fresh white paint with yellow and green trim. The front yard was manicured dirt and decorative rocks and cactus plants—many rising from brightly colored Talavera pots—which gave the lot a cheerful face.

  Max knocked on the green door, hand-painted with bright yellow sunflowers.

  A middle-aged Hispanic woman opened the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Detective Max King, and this is Dr. Joy Burton. Does a Nico Torres live here?”

  “That’s my husband. He’s working, but I can give you his cell phone number. Is there a problem?”

  “No,” said Max. “We just have a few questions for him.”

  Max called the number. As soon as Max said, “I’m calling in reference to Anne Martin,” the man asked to meet. Max and Joy met him at a small cantina in the heart of town. The place was brightly painted inside. Colorful sombreros hung from the walls.

  Nico Torres had medium-length dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, a thick mustache, strong facial features, and determined eyes. He sipped on a Coke.

  Max and Joy sat opposite him.