by Sophie Sharp
“So,” he said at last, putting down the file and staring at her over the top of his steepled fingers. She knew from the one psych class she’d taken before dropping out of college—or being pulled out by Lacy, more accurately—that the finger thing was a classic move designed to disarm an opponent. Either that or the detective was supremely confident in what he was about to do. Maybe he was just a good actor.
“Why don’t you tell me where you were between nine Thursday night and noon on Friday when your aunt found you dangling bloody chocks above the body of the victim?”
Did he have to say it like that? It sounded so bad. “Well,” she said, “I had dinner with my aunt and uncle, then went back to my studio.”
“Which is where?”
“At the end of their backyard.”
He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “And what time was that?”
“Around eight.”
“And were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“And did you stay there all night?”
Mia once again had the feeling he already knew the answer to his question. She felt her neck redden and the heat rise into her cheeks. Why did she always have to blush at the dumbest of times? She tried to think cool, pale blue thoughts. “I have nothing to hide,” she said. Well, except that said victim was holding a necklace I designed.
Detective Moat gave her a provocative look—which in almost any other situation might have been flirtatious, but in this case was most definitely not. Unless … was he trying to manipulate her with his good looks? So not appropriate. She wasn’t born yesterday.
“I’m sure you don’t, Miss Casey,” he said. “I’m sure you don’t.”
Now what on earth was she supposed to make of that?
“So tell me again,” he said, pretending to look over his notes as if he hadn’t asked this sixteen ways already, “between what time and what time were you home alone the night before last?”
She thought about Damion’s suggestion to say she was with him all night. It would make things so much easier to have an alibi and someone to back her up. But she was a terrible liar, a genetic defect, considering she was the daughter of an accomplished actress. She probably got it from her father. Of course, her mom always said, “Acting isn’t lying. It’s an art.” Still, lying to the police was just an all-around bad idea.
“I was in my studio from eight until about ten.”
“And then?”
“I went to my boyfriend’s house,” she said, as defiantly as she could.
Moat flipped through the pages of his notebook. “Damion Cullen.”
“Yes.”
“And did you spend the night there?”
Mia hesitated, considering her last chance to tell a tiny fib. She shook her head. “Damion dropped me off around one-thirty.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Just Damion, I suppose.” She was so desperate, she added, “And Henri.”
Based on his reaction—widened eyes, dropped jaw—Mia suspected Detective Mean Goat wasn’t shocked too often. Then she realized: He thinks Henri is another man. Her face flushed as she imagined Moat judging her morals and finding her lacking. He was such a Boy Scout.
“He’s my cat,” she rushed in.
He scowled. “Miss Casey, do you think this is a joke?”
Sometimes, it was best to not say anything. If she said, “Sorry, I’m nervous,” she’d look guilty. Nervous about what? That’s what he’d want to ask. She shook her head.
Detective Moat pursed his lips in displeasure, so it made him look like some of the grumpy old ladies at Silver Linings Retirement Home. “Damion. He’ll vouch for you?”
“Yes,” said Mia firmly.
“And the next morning?”
“I got up around seven. I had breakfast at Aunt Molly and Doug’s.”
“And then?”
Nothing.
“You weren’t at Opal May’s funeral?” he asked.
“No. I’d only met her a few times. Funerals scare me. The energy.” Great, she was babbling again.
“And then?”
And then, and then, and then. Make him stop. Mia sighed. “I went for a walk.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone.” Even she had to admit this didn’t look good and no amount of lavender oil was going to help the worry she was feeling. Besides, she’d used it all up last night when she couldn’t find accurate records about her necklaces.
“But … I did walk by the theater, and I said hello to the nice unhoused resident man. Maybe he remembers seeing me?”
“Unhoused resident man?” Detective Moat asked.
That’s another strike against you, Moat, Mia thought. Sometimes she wondered if she was the only person in San Cosmas who noticed that the town was not perfect.
“Do you mean a homeless individual? Do you know his name?”
Mia didn’t like the label “homeless,” but she bit her lip and shook her head. She didn’t know the man’s name. But I’ll ask the next time I see him.
“What time was that?” Moat asked.
“About nine-thirty-ish. It’s my routine walk, so I know the distance and times. And before you ask, no, I did not have my phone’s GPS on.” There. She’d beat him to the last question on that one.
Detective Moat gave her what could only be described as The Beady Eye. But just as she was sure her goose was cooked, carved, and served up with mashed potatoes and gravy—or whatever you served with goose (she’d have to ask Uncle Doug in two decades when she got out of prison)—there was a knock on the door and a young officer stuck his head around the door.
“Coroner’s report, sir,” he said.
Moat gave him a nod and he hurried in, slid the report across the desk, and dashed out again. Apparently, Mia wasn’t the only one who thought Mean Goat was an appropriate name.
Moat scanned the report and looked up at Mia.
“You say you engaged with the ‘unhoused resident man’ this morning?”
“Yes. Nine-thirty a.m.”
“Ish,” he copied her from earlier.
She pursed her lips.
“Did you see anyone else on your walk?”
“After the theater, I walked along the river and fed the ducks some of Uncle Doug’s stale bread, and then I walked to Tabitha’s Café to get Damion’s key so I could pick up my bike and head to Glam Van.”
“Thanks for the tour, now answer the question, please. Did Tabitha see you?”
Mia shook her head. “She wasn’t there. She had a personal thing to do.”
“Her daughter’s anniversary commemoration.”
Mia nodded. Tabitha had lost her daughter three years ago, and she’d asked Damion to cover while she took some personal time away. “When I got there, Damion had just arrived and was out back composting coffee grounds.”
“What time was that?”
Mia shrugged. “About an hour after I saw the unhoused resident. Ten-thirty.”
“So your boyfriend,” Moat said, adding way too much emphasis to the word for Mia’s tastes. “Your boyfriend is the only one who can vouch for your whereabouts?”
Mia said nothing. Even she could see her alibi was weak. But she had been to the cafe. Damion had been on his phone texting when she’d arrived, and she’d startled him. But he’d recovered quickly and pulled her into a huge warm hug. She had felt instantly better and had pulled out her own phone and taken a picture of them together, her head cradled on Damion’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around her.
“Wait,” she said, suddenly thinking of something. “I took a we-fie.” She hadn’t posted it anywhere because it was too intimate a shot, plus the background had been a hot mess with the cafe’s dumpster and street traffic behind them. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through to the picture, flashing a picture of herself and Damion to the detective. “The time stamp says 10:52.”
Detective Moat glanced at the photo and Mia felt another flush of embarrassment about sharing the cuddly shot
.
“Then I got my bike and rode to Glam Van. And you know the rest.”
“When you arrived at Glam Van, did you see anyone else about? Did you see Asil?”
Mia hesitated before answering. What did he know about Asil? She didn’t want to throw Asil under the truck. She hadn’t technically seen him, just the smoke coming from his truck’s vents. She was sure he’d been there.
“He’s not a killer,” Mia said.
“Answer the question, please.”
“No, I didn’t see anyone. But his truck was up and running. I could smell his delicious food.”
Detective Moat swiveled in his chair, turning back with Veronica’s pink ostrich boots in a large evidence bag. They had drops of blood on them. “Notice anything unusual about these boots?” Moat asked.
Mia thought that pink, feathered ostrich boots spattered with blood were unusual enough, but she said nothing and just shook her head.
“Despite yours and your aunt’s efforts, I did see your note about the boots on the Glam Van sign.”
Mia tried to stop herself from gulping, but that only made it worse. She was sure Detective Moat had heard it.
“You obviously have a strong opinion about these,” he said. “Anything different, other than the blood, about these boots today versus when you saw them last?”
Yes. There was. Last time, each boot sported an obnoxiously long ostrich feather dyed pink, not just one. So she told him so.
Detective Moat nodded, snapped closed his folder and said, “I think that’s all for now. You’re free to go.”
Mia was too surprised to move. That was it? She was free? Just like that?
Detective Moat sensed her hesitation because he tapped the report the young officer had left and said, “Coroner’s report put the time death somewhere around nine-thirty. Assuming Heath remembers seeing you, I can eliminate you from my enquiries.”
“Heath?”
“Your unhoused resident man.”
Okay, so Detective Moat wasn’t blind to San Cosmas’s issues.
Mia let out a huge sigh of relief.
“It’s a pity, though,” said Detective Moat as he showed her to the door. “I was just starting to enjoy hanging out with you.”
It wasn’t until Mia was free as a bird outside the police station and on her way home with Uncle Doug that three things struck. The first was that Asil was in trouble. Second, with this new piece of information about Veronica’s time of death, she and Aunt Molly could eliminate anyone who was at Opal May’s funeral, and that was a lot of people. What made her less happy was the fact that her perfectly lovely boyfriend was not at Opal May’s funeral, and she had no idea where he’d been between the time he’d dropped her off the night before and the next day when she saw him at work.
And the third made the second even worse. Damion had celebrated his birthday just a few weeks earlier. She had been broke and so she’d given him a homemade gift: one of the necklaces she made. She’d been worried he would think it was too girly, but he’d said it was perfect.
She glanced quickly at the we-fie again, zeroing in on Damion’s throat, but she already knew what she would see. He had been wearing his necklace when she’d been with him the night before, but he was not wearing it the following morning. Maybe he took it off, she thought. Or maybe he lost it, came another thought. She pushed that one aside. There was no way Damion—her Damion, her kind, gentle, peace-loving, animal-protecting boyfriend—could have killed Veronica Corsello. No matter how much he had despised her.
Mia wished Aunt Molly was there so she could confess her fears for Damion and Asil, but her aunt had rushed off to do Danika’s hair right after her interview with Moat. They just had to solve this murder. They had to find out who lost their necklace to Veronica’s greedy clutch.
Chapter Nine
Molly set Doug’s homemade biscotti next to the tea in the van, trying to distract herself from Mia’s interview. She glanced at her empty phone. No updates from her husband or niece yet. She hadn’t wanted to leave them before Mia came out of the interview, but it was just too perfect and timely that Danika had an appointment this morning. She and Mia had a crime to solve.
And said appointment should be arriving soon. Did one offer biscotti and tea to a potential blackmailer and/or killer? Molly still couldn’t believe the outgoing graphic design teacher could be a criminal. And what in tarnation could she possibly gain by blackmailing a bunch of truck owners or helping Corsello? What would cause Danika to help her oust the van clan? Or to kill her?
Molly picked up her scissors and snapped them open and closed a few times. Nice and sharp like she always kept them, thanks to Vin, the knife guy. He used to run a sharpening truck but had retired a while back. Thankfully, he still sharpened her scissors on the side.
If Danika was a paranoid murderer upset with Molly’s questions, she would have one hundred pounds and considerable girth on Molly, but at least Molly would have sharp scissors for self-defense. And if necessary, Molly could throw some hot tea at her.
Great. Less than twenty-four hours after Veronica’s death, and now Molly was contemplating murder, albeit self-defense.
She shoved one of Doug’s hard, but yummy, biscotti in her mouth. Her husband had done it again. He was a baking wonder. She was just washing it down with some Earl Grey tea sweetened with some of Doug and Mia’s honey when Danika skipped up the van’s three steps, rocking it with her bountiful self. Her plump cheeks framed a huge smile and her eyes were sparkling in anticipation of “me time.”
Yeah, Danika looked like a real killer. Not.
“Molly, Molly, Fo Folly, Fe Fi, Fo Jolly, Molleeee,” she sang just before she gave Molly a body hug that rattled Molly’s brain.
Danika whipped her lollipop print scarf from her neck, and right there, nestled securely in Danika’s bountiful bosom, was the mermaid tail necklace.
Oh, thank the powdered sugar heavens. Danika wasn’t the killer. But she could still be a blackmailer or an accessory to blackmail. Now, how to warm her up to a discussion about doctoring photos and scamming people. Hmm.
At any rate, she’d have to wait until Danika finished eating the three bricks of biscotti she’d just gathered up. “Biscotti, tea, and me time,” she said as she squeezed herself into Molly’s chair.
Molly draped a cape around Danika’s neck and secured it with an extra-long sectioning hair clip since there was no way in hell-elujah she was going to be able to snap the cape closed.
Once Danika’s hair was washed and Molly had put her heart into pumping the chair, she asked, “Colored tips?”
“Absolutely,” Danika said. “Purple again, please. I’m feeling royal. And we need to talk.” She licked her fingers free of the biscotti crumbs and leaned toward the mirror as if it brought her closer to Molly rather than farther away.
Boy do we. Molly paused, comb in hand.
“I can’t believe Veronica Corsello died here. Right here.” She looked around the van. “Wait, where exactly?” She shivered.
“Outside, behind the van.”
“Good, no ghosts inside.” Danika snapped her fingers.
“I’m still in shock, I think,” Molly said. “Poor Mia is at the station now being interviewed by Detective Moat.”
Danika’s jaw dropped. “Mia killed her?”
Molly almost laughed. It really was ludicrous to hear it out loud, and Danika’s over-reaction only drove it all home.
Danika started shaking her head. “No, not sweet Mia. She’d never.” Danika fingered her mermaid necklace through her cape. “Between you and me, I’d like to be interviewed by Detective Dream Boat, but anyone who can make such beautiful jewelry could never hurt a soul.”
“You’ve got that right,” Molly said. She was glad to have Danika’s vote of confidence in her niece. Just then her phone dinged. “That’s probably a text from Mia now. I need to break my no-cells rule and check it.”
Mia: Time of death 9:30 a.m. Just need to prove my alibi and I’
m clear. Not so much Asil or Damion.
Shoot. The detective must have asked about Asil. She hoped it didn’t mean that Mia had confided in the detective about the photos. Molly put her phone away. “I think she’s going to be okay.”
Danika jumped up from her seat, grabbed Molly’s hands, and forced them to dance in a circle. Mere seconds later, and well out of breath, Danika dropped back into the chair.
Danika leaned back in her seat, signaling it was okay for Molly to start cutting, “You know, that woman had so many enemies.”
Molly trimmed away as if she didn’t have a vested interest. “Did you know her? I mean, did you actually know her?”
“She took one of my classes,” Danika said.
Whoa. Molly paused. “Which one?”
“Photoshop. That woman was so into herself. And she liked freaky stuff.”
Who knew learning about a victim could be so easy? Danika was throwing information in Molly’s lap without any prompting.
“Is—I mean was—she taking your class this semester?”
Danika waved the thought off as if insignificant. “Thankfully, it was last semester. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it otherwise. She didn’t even finish the course. The pain in the arse thought she was too good to finish. Actually said something like, ‘Could have learned this in half the time you take to teach this course, and I did.’”
Sounded like Veronica Corsello. Always thought she was better than everyone.
“But truth is, she wasn’t that good. Just good enough for her own standards, as usual.”
“When you said freaky stuff, what did you mean?”
Danika did some duck lips and raised her penciled brows. “Besides making herself look younger and skinnier in all those dating site profiles, you mean? All those big game hunt photos she was so proud of, she doctored half of those.”
Bingo. So Veronica did know how to doctor photos.