Candy Canes and Criminals
Page 5
Wierzbowski had stopped flipping pages and rested a hand on Troperman's shoulder.
I suspected my thirty seconds were up. “The only question left, Joseph, is...why?”
He didn't answer me, but Joseph Troperman's eyes glistened with unshed tears.
The sergeant asked, “And that Persimmons guy, how did he figure into this?”
Joseph said, “During the fight, after I'd been thrown, I got back up in time to see Persimmons knock Doug to the ground with his cane. When I saw Doug was gone, I accused him of killing my brother. Said I was going to the police. He accused me in return, said he saw me doing something I shouldn't have. He threatened to expose me if I didn't agree to pay him off and protect his job,” Joseph finished, his eyes cast at the concrete. Then he shook himself and straightened his back. Resolve was restored. “I want to see my lawyer.”
“We haven't mentioned if we wanted to take you in,” Wierzbowski said.
Joseph scoffed. “Enough games for one night, gentlemen. Tell me I can go home or tell me which patrol car to get into.”
Sergeant Jones nodded. Wierzbowski lead Joseph Troperman toward an empty police car.
I watched them go. To my surprise, Sergeant Jones was staring at me.
“What?”
He said, “You may have solved another case. Wanna become a cop?”
I laughed despite being mentally exhausted. “No. I like being my own boss. You wanna become a baker?”
“If it'll help me close cases like that, heck yeah. Sign me up.”
“But it's not closed, is it? Joseph didn't admit to anything. Not really.”
“This is when police work comes in,” Jones said. “Detectives will be assigned, they'll figure out method and motive. But I think you filled in most of the blanks. And I can guess motive right now.”
I just raised my eyebrows to ask the question, what was his motive?
The sergeant sighed. “It's always the same with these one percenters. Greed. I'd bet you Doug Troperman was in the way of something Joseph Troperman wanted—and wanted bad.”
Jones said his goodbyes but not before ordering me to hang around so Wierzbowski could get my contact info. The detectives responsible for doing the full investigation would want to be in touch with me.
I folded my arms around myself and stood alone in the cold night air. Above me, the sky was cloudless. A few stars, brilliant enough to be seen despite Manhattan's monstrous light pollution, peeked out of the infinite darkness. I thought them a fitting send off for a man who loved playing Santa Claus.
HoneyBun
A little while later, I approached the rear door of the HoneyBun. To my surprise, I heard the muffled thump of music. Thankfully it wasn't 'Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.' I might've run away if it had been that particular diddy. Instead it sounded like Rick James singing about girls he couldn't take home to mama.
I opened the door. A party was going on in my kitchen.
“There she is!” my mother hollered. She hoisted a plastic champagne glass in the air, “Whoop, whoop. Let's eat!”
Was I supposed to be having a party? I didn't recall. It had been a long day.
My best friend, Isabelle, shoved a champagne glass in my hand. “Stop stressing your brain, hon. Your mom put this little impromptu soiree together. The bazaar was shut down early, and the head chef over at Mrs. Claus's Kitchen had tons of leftover food that was going to go to waste. The head chef told your mom, your mom called Al and when you couldn't be found, she called me, and here we all are. We know how you get grumpy around the holidays and thought this would perk you up.”
Yeah, that sounded like my mom. She always managed the best hookups.
“Hola, chica!” my employee extraordinaire Oscar screamed from across the room. I waved and smiled and looked around my cramped kitchen. I recognized quite a few vendors from the bazaar.
My prep table was covered with aluminum chafing dishes, bottles of wine, and a few plates of HoneyBun mini-cakes. I had protested stepping foot in Mrs. Claus's pavilion on general principle since other food vendors couldn't sell at the bazaar. That had been a mistake on my part. Apparently they sold some top grade stuff. Right away I spotted turkey and gravy, sliced roast beef, and lasagna. Further down the table there was jumbo shrimp, chicken cutlets, and rice and beans. The other pans hid their delights under covers, but from the smell, it was going to be a feast.
Mom came over and kissed me on the cheek. “You weren't answering your cell. Al said you called about getting caught up in what happened over in Santa's Magic Land.”
I filled in my mother and best friend on the adventures I had endured this evening. Al came over, and I had to start over again. When I finished, Mom hugged me. Izzy shoved another sparkling apple juice in my hand. “That's over. Now it's time to eat and be merry. So merry-up.” She clinked her refreshed glass against mine. “Oh, they started dishing up the food. I'll get us some plates.”
An Usher song came on. “Oh, that's my jam!” My mother grabbed Al and didn't let him say no to joining her on the small section of kitchen that had become a dance floor.
I let the beat flow over me, loving how the rhythm begged for my hips to move and how the bass thumped in my chest. Around me, smiling people ladled up food, refilled glasses, and laughed at jokes.
Almost everywhere I looked, I saw someone I loved and who loved me. I lifted my glass in the air, “Happy holidays, everyone!”
The intensity of their reply made me beam with delight though it almost blew me off my feet.
Everyone in the room raised a glass or fork or even a plate up high and screamed, “Happy Holidays!”
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