Of course, that was easy enough to solve. I just wouldn't do anything that required the cops. Simple as.
Or not.
While Matt and Sue were outside examining the body part, I offered to give Greta Mason Maxwell's number, but she said she didn't need it and informed me that just because she'd known the victim didn't mean she'd had any role in his death.
I knew Mason Maxwell would argue with her about managing expectations and that just because you're innocent doesn't mean the cops won't arrest you—something both my grandpa and I had learned the hard way—but Greta was as stubborn as stubborn could be.
She calmly and quickly told Matt how we'd found the hand and how she'd recognized it as her first husband's. And then she wrote down a phone number she had for Kristof but said the man had no family to speak of so there was no one to corroborate her identification.
"Why was he here?" Matt asked.
She shrugged him off the same way she'd shrugged me off. "How am I to know? It was many years ago we were married. We have not remained friends."
"But you had his phone number?"
"Yes."
"A U.S. number, so not one he would've had when the two of you were married."
She met his steely blue gaze with one of her own. "When we were married there were not cellphones, so no I did not have this number then."
"So how did you get it?"
"A friend gave it to me."
"When?"
"Why does this matter? Why are you asking me these questions?" She crossed her arms and turned away as if dismissing him.
Matt stepped closer. "Because a body was found and you seem to be the only reason he would've been in town."
She scoffed. "This is absurd. I am not the only reason he would be here."
"No? Why else?"
"It is a beautiful town, no? People come here from everywhere in the world. Why would he not come here for the mountains?"
Matt's eyebrows almost rose through the top of his head. "That's what you want me to believe? That your ex-husband was found buried behind the coffee shop where you eat lunch every single day and that it was just a coincidence that he was here? That this has nothing to do with you?"
She stared him down, doing one of the best "uptight rich person who is tired of being bothered by a minion" looks I've ever seen. "Believe what you will. I must go now. If you need to speak to me again, do so through my attorney."
She handed him a card and walked out of the store, leaving Matt open-mouthed in her wake.
Chapter Seven
When I got home that night I plopped down on the old worn brown couch next to my grandpa, shifting my weight until the loose spring stopped poking into my thigh. At eighty-two he was still as trim and tough as men half his age, his hair a faded brown, his face not nearly as wrinkled as it should've been. He wore his standard uniform of faded Levi's and a plaid shirt over a white t-shirt. Only time I'd seen him in anything else was the day of my grandma's funeral when he'd worn an ill-fitting suit that looked like it hadn't been worn since the seventies.
Heck, he even coached baseball in his jeans and plaid shirts.
Which was kind of nice when I stopped to think about it. I liked to know that no matter how crazy the world might get, my grandpa was always going to be exactly who he was.
He was watching the Justice Channel so I had to wait until the commercial to tell him about the day's craziness. Fortunately, that channel has some of the longest commercials known to man. Boring ones, too, unless you have severe acne or a hankering for life insurance. (What do the three P's stand for? Price, price, and price. Ugh.)
When I'd finished telling him what had happened, he just shook his head. "You know, Maggie May, some people go an entire lifetime without discovering a single dead body."
"You sound like Matt."
"How is he?" He glanced at me slyly.
"Well enough. But you should know better than I do since he's helping you out with baseball now."
He nodded. "True. He is. But we don't get much time to talk about anything other than the kids and the schedule. Maybe I should invite him over for dinner."
"Well, let me know when you do so I can make myself scarce."
"Maggie May, you can't run from him your whole life. Eventually he'll stop chasing."
Worked for me.
The show came back on and we fell silent until the next commercial. It was one of my favorites called I Survived, but honestly you'd think they could find one woman who had survived some horrible experience that didn't involve a man doing awful things to her. They had men on there who'd survived car crashes and boating accidents, why couldn't they put at least one woman on there who'd survived a skydiving accident or something? (I knew at least three who'd qualify. Maybe I should write them a letter about it.)
I couldn't focus on it as much as I wanted, though. My mind kept going back to why Greta's ex-husband's body had been dumped so close to the barkery and what involvement she had in it. If any.
I decided I needed ice cream. And lots of it.
As I walked to the kitchen I repeated the serenity prayer to myself. Well, at least my version.
You can't control everything, Maggie, so no point fretting. Let it go.
Okay, so maybe my version is one part serenity prayer and one part Frozen theme song. Same thing.
The next morning the barkery parking lot was full of cop cars and cops working on finding the rest of Greta's ex-husband. It wasn't so bad when we were inside, but the minute I took Fancy out back for her morning constitutional she went nuts, barking her head off until I dragged her back inside.
I have to admit, seeing random people walking through woods when you're not expecting it can be a little disconcerting. I just wish she was a little more stiff-British-upper-lip about things sometimes, you know? Instead she's always frantic-five-year-old.
I dragged her back inside, out the front door, and let her do her business on the little grassy area next to the road instead.
The presence of the cops did improve our business, at least on the café side. I'm pretty sure we had every cop in the county drop by at some point or other. I asked one of the officers I didn't know what they were all doing back there and he said they were looking for other bodies.
I raised an eyebrow at that. I mean, honestly, how likely was it we had a serial killer in small-town Colorado? Especially one that was targeting middle-aged white men? Didn't they watch true crime shows like my grandpa and I did? We could tell you the typical victim of a serial killer, and it was not Greta's ex-husband, not unless he'd made a living in ways that didn't seem likely for where we were.
And even then, he was still probably too old to be a likely choice.
I was well-behaved, though. I just nodded and smiled and didn't tell him they were a bunch of fools. Plus, this way I could rest assured that no other bodies would turn up in our backyard anytime soon. If I was really, really lucky this would be the last random dead body I ever had an involvement with.
At least they were gone by the time Greta came by. She took her place at her usual table as if nothing had happened. I was making a bunch of barkery bites, so it was a good hour before things slowed down enough for me to join her.
I sat down at her table with a reheated cinnamon roll and a Coke. (My third of the day, but who was counting.)
We made small talk for a minute or two, discussing the upcoming charity event and how she was looking forward to the chance to introduce me to some of her husband's friends. (She still firmly believed that my first marriage should be to someone old and obscenely rich. I didn't have the heart to tell her that if I got married it was only going to be once and not for money. There was no amount of money on the planet that could make me fake a relationship.)
To change the subject I asked, "So, have you heard anything else about what happened to your ex-husband? How was he killed? Do the cops want to talk to you again?"
She shrugged, as if the whole thing was completely boring and
not worth discussion. "Probably."
"Any idea why someone would kill him? I mean, you knew him better than anyone here. You have to have some idea. Money? Love triangle?"
The way she stared at me I was reminded of how Matt's stare could sometimes drill a hole right through me. "Maggie. This is not your business. I do not come here to talk about these things. Talk to me about dogs or leave me alone."
"Sorry. You know me. I was just curious." I leaned back in my seat. "Dogs is it? You want to hear what Fancy has taken to doing the last week or so?"
She nodded.
"Each morning I let her out back like normal when we get up. She has a dog door that she is perfectly capable of using and has been using just fine since we arrived. But for the last week instead of coming back inside on her own she stands there and barks once to be let back in. It's the most ridiculous thing in the world. I've started calling her my vampire puppy because of it. You know, because she has to be invited inside?"
She laughed. "Why do you think she does this?"
"Honestly?" I winced. "I think it's because I accidentally closed the main door while she was outside a couple weeks ago and when she tried to come in the doggie door she ran right into it. So now she can't be sure that she'll actually be able to go through if she tries."
"Maggie! Why would you do this to her?"
"I didn't mean to. I thought my grandpa had brought her inside. It was late and she'd been barking a lot so I figured it was better to block her in for the night. So I closed the door and turned away and next thing you know, whap, I heard her smack right into the door."
"Poor dear."
"I know. I gave her an extra treat, but, well…Trust with dogs is easy to lose and hard to win back."
(I know. I know. I'm horrible. I swear I did not know she was outside.)
We continued to talk for the next half hour or so, laughing about the craziness that dogs can get up to, but then I had to get back to work. I was dying with curiosity about the whole murdered ex-husband thing, but it seemed I wasn't going to get another word out of Greta.
I wondered if Matt would be able to tell me something. Maybe if my grandpa actually did invite him over for dinner I could drop a question or two into the conversation. After dinner, of course. My grandpa frowned on talking "business" at the dinner table. But once he focused in on the Scrabble board, anything was game.
Chapter Eight
That night I went over to Jamie's to try on gowns for the charity event. I had one or two in my closet, but nothing terribly exciting, whereas Jamie practically had a boutique's worth of fancy dresses. Living in LA will do that to you.
Her place was just around the corner from the barkery. It was a small one-bedroom apartment with a tiny balcony. Remembering my own days of dog ownership while living in an apartment, I shivered slightly. Fancy was actually a great apartment dog—as she proved by immediately curling up in the corner with Lulu at her side—but it was the weather that made the whole experience miserable.
Me, if it's raining or snowing, I want to get outside, get the business done, and get back in. But Fancy loved being outside, especially in wet weather, so she'd plop herself down and stare up at the sky while I shivered next to her, wishing I'd remembered to grab my gloves on the way out the door.
Ah, the good old days. Missed them sometimes, but I was also glad they were in the past.
Even though we spent almost every day at work together, Jamie and I rarely had a chance to just talk about things. There was always some customer coming in or we needed to talk business logistics or were just too tired for chit-chat.
So before we tried on the dresses, we fixed up a meal of tossed green salad with cranberries, walnuts, and blue cheese and grilled salmon. (Jamie is so healthy compared to me it's almost sad.) It was a delicious meal. I don't know why I don't eat that way more often, but there you have it.
As we drank our pinot grigio and dug into our yummy food, I asked, "So, things are really heating up with Mason Maxwell are they?"
"Maggie, you can just call him Mason, you know. You don't have to use his full name every single time."
I grimaced. "I know. I just…I prefer to call him by his full name."
She paused for a long moment, as if trying to decide something. "Please start calling him Mason."
I narrowed my eyes at her. "Why? Is he sticking around?"
She blushed and took a sip of her wine.
"Jamie? Is there something you want to tell me?"
"I don't know. I don't want to ruin it. And you…"
"What?"
She sighed. "You always see the flaws, Maggie. You don't see the good parts."
I pursed my lips. "I'm not saying you're wrong…"
"But you think I'm wrong."
"No." I tried to figure out how to explain it to her. Finally, I leaned in. "Okay. Look at it this way. Lucas Dean."
"Do you have to use him as the example?"
"Yes. Because he's a criminal. Even if he never served a day of time, we both know he broke the law. Right?"
"Yes." She rolled her eyes.
"So it doesn't matter how great he was to you, assuming he even was great to you, which is debatable. And it doesn't matter how much he gave you butterflies or what a great kisser he was. He was not a good man. Right?"
She glared at me. "He has good qualities, Maggie. He's very funny. And open to adventure. And so complimentary."
"But the bad qualities outweigh all of that. He is a lying, cheating sack of you-know-what. If you only focus on the good you don't see the deal-breakers."
"No one is perfect, Maggie. There will always be a negative. If you look hard enough, you can come up with a reason to say no to anyone."
"Luke is a criminal!"
"He's not violent or a killer or…He just made a bad decision, that's all."
"He drove a girl to murder. By putting her in an adult situation she wasn't prepared to handle."
"That wasn't Luke's fault. How was he supposed to know she was unhinged?" She threw her napkin on the table. "Come on. Let's look at the dresses. I have an early morning."
"Jamie…"
"No. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
I did. But I let it go and followed Jamie into the bedroom where she was busy throwing various gowns onto the bed.
She studied the pile of sequins and satins and sorted them again until she had a trio of gorgeous gowns for me to choose from. There was a long, sleek black number that looked like falling water, a white sequined dress with a frilled bottom and V-neck, and a red fitted dress that looked like it would barely cover what needs covering.
"What do you think? Which one appeals the most?"
I did like the look of the black one, but honestly what I really wanted was to spend the evening sitting on the couch with my grandpa while eating potato chips and watching old episodes of The Closer. Far better than some snooty charity event where I'd worry about holding my fork wrong. Or how to eat a lobster, for cryin' out loud.
I didn't tell Jamie that, though. Especially not after our little blow-up over Mason Maxwell.
Friendship. A necessity, but not always easy to maintain.
I picked up the black dress and held it against my body as I studied myself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I tried to stretch the fabric, but it was at least an inch smaller than I was. On both sides. And I hadn't even put it on yet.
"Uh, Jamie. What size is this thing?"
"I don't know. A four, maybe? It's a little loose on me."
I laughed as I threw the dress back on the bed. "And the other two?"
"One might be a six. Why? What's so funny?"
"That you thought any of those would come even close to fitting me."
"What? We're about the same size, aren't we? At least try it on."
I laughed again. "Jamie, you crack me up. I am not even close to a size four. If I tried to put that dress on it wouldn't even make it over my head let alone my hips. So, thank you,
but it looks like I'm stuck with the little black dress I have at home."
I threw an arm around her shoulders and steered her back to the living room. "Come on. Let's finish off that wine and you can tell me just how wonderful and fabulous Mason is."
"He really is great, you know," she beamed.
"I'm sure he is."
And even if he wasn't, I wasn't going to say a word to my friend about it. Because she was happy. Happier than I'd seen her in a long time. And—compared to the other men she'd shown an interest in in the past—Mason Maxwell was a heck of a step in the right direction.
Chapter Nine
Two nights later, Matt came over for dinner (T-bones and grilled asparagus, yum) and I finally had my chance to ask him about the Greta matter, but he and my grandpa were not the least bit cooperative in turning the discussion in that direction.
As we sat around the dining room table eating off of my grandma's fine china they wouldn't stop talking about baseball and who was doing well that season and who wasn't.
Since I was focused on eating my steak, I didn't really care, because who needs the distraction of entertaining company when you're eating a really good meal, but once I'd polished that off I felt like a pot of water about to boil listening to them go on and on and on about every single player in town.
All I wanted to know was, had my new friend Greta killed her ex-husband? And, if so, why?
I set my fork and knife down on my napkin and handed my plate to Fancy for a final polish and then turned on them. "Honestly, I think it's great that you guys volunteer your time to coach these kids, but could we talk about something else please?"
"Such as?" Matt grinned at me and I realized he'd been keeping the conversation away from Greta and the dead body on purpose.
"Greta and the severed hand that Hans dropped at her feet, maybe?"
"You're not a cop, Maggie."
A Buried Body and Barkery Bites Page 3