by Lynn Cooper
“That is correct.”
Sheriff Rice widens his eyes. “Well, seeing as how Bluff has been killed on the heels of that threat, I think it might be a good idea if you explained yourself.”
“Tug,” I say, “was Bluff planning to end your partnership?”
Slowly, he rises and walks to the bars. “Yes. I already told you this once.”
“No,” Archie says. “You told us he was in love and needed a lot of money to make his world spin.”
“Same difference. He said he was tired of the rat race. He was going to chuck it all over some woman he just met.” Tug grunts and hitches his pants. “I worked just as hard as he did to build up our brand. Maybe harder. At least I played things straight. Not working that bait-and-switch and smoke and mirrors jive he was always running on people. And then he was just going to walk away with not so much as a Howdy Doody. Leave me with a mortgage, alimony and a prostate the size of a pumpkin. Well, I wasn’t going to let him run his games on me.”
“Ah, Tuggle, son, please don’t tell me you got mad and killed him.”
“Okay, I won’t. I didn’t. I want a lawyer, and don’t mean Darren either. If he represented me, I’d get thirty years in the electric chair. Even if I was innocent. Which I most certainly am.”
“But you threatened to kill him in front of witnesses,” I say. “Both Patsy and Sadie say you were at each other’s throats when you came into her office.”
He shakes his head. “That was about something else.”
“Like what?” Archie says.
“Didn’t you hear me say I wanted a lawyer?”
“I heard you fine. Why did you threaten to kill him, son?”
Tug takes hold of the bars and looks away. “He was planning to kill Marlowe.”
Archie and I look at each other. “Who’s Marlowe?” I ask.
“The tabby cat I gave him sixteen years ago. It developed leukemia, so Bluff wanted to have him put to sleep. I told him I knew this vet out on Highway 16 who’s got an experimental wonder-drug that could greatly extend Marlowe’s life. Bluff said it was cruel to just keep putting off the inevitable. He said euthanasia was the kindest thing we could do for him. So, he had his vet pull the plug on him.” He snorts. “Bluff didn’t give a hoot about what was kind. He just didn’t want an old, sick cat bothering his new love.”
He walks back to his cot and sits down. “Before you ask, I didn’t kill him for that either. But, I’m not going to say I’m sorry he’s dead. I gave him and that business my prime, and he threw me under the bus for some kissy face.” He lies down, facing the wall, and pulls the blanket over his shoulder. “Get me a lawyer who’s not Darren. ‘Bye, Madeline.”
ARCHIE AND I GO back upstairs to the copier room. “Well, we crossed that T and dotted the I,” he says. “Did you pick up any more choice nuggets while you were at the mayor’s office?”
“No. I think I covered it all, Sheriff.”
He rubs his chin. “What’s your particular read on this Lonnie fellow, Miss Madeline? Does he move to the top of our suspect list?”
“From where I stand, it’s pretty crowded up there. Anyway, I’m sure your detective has a much better take on things than I do.”
“Oh, he’s a good man, I’ll clue you. But, he’s got other things on his mind these days. I’m thinking Lonnie might be our boy.”
“He could be,” I reply. “I think strength was a key ingredient in Bluff’s murder. By all accounts, Lonnie Burke has that in spades.”
“I just wonder if he has the mental ingredient. From the way Bluff was killed, it would seem the murderer would have to be a pretty smart cookie as well as strong.”
“Oh, he or she is.”
“Maybe cold and calculating, right?”
“Calculating, yes. But not cold. The killer’s like a seething cauldron. I think this is a crime of passion, Sheriff. But it’s not some flashing flare of temper followed by quick, reckless revenge. It’s premeditated revenge.” I suddenly notice Archie is shaking his head and chuckling. “Did I say something funny?”
“This is the third time you’ve walked smack-dab up onto a dead body. So we’ve all gotten to know you pretty good over the past eighteen months or so. I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around how a lovely young woman who makes cute, little stuffed animals makes such a fine detective.”
I shrug. “Thanks. But I don’t think I am. All I do is watch people. Try to read them. Anybody can do that.”
“You do a lot more’n that, sweetie. What are you—twenty?”
“Twenty-three and a half.”
“Well, for somebody who’s still a baby, you’re awfully sharp about human nature. What makes folks do what they do. You’ve identified the murderer twice before.”
“Just lucky.”
“Once is lucky. Twice is something else.” His tiny, gray eyes twinkle. “I’m going to go ahead and get my deputies to bring this Lonnie Burke in for a powwow. In the meantime, is there anything at all I can do for you?”
My first impulse is to say no. That I need to get back to the shop and take care of my own business for a while. Besides, I’m missing Bear. After making him wait all morning yesterday for me to return and then cutting his walk short to go to Mom’s, I promised I would take him to the park. He loves running around the duck pond, chasing the little train, wagging his happy tail and saying hey to everybody.
But I have to admit—as I did at some point during the previous two homicide cases—curiosity is getting the better of me. It’s not because I want to be a detective. I could never do what those people do day-in and day-out. But I do like the satisfaction of figuring out the whodunit, howdunit and whydunit.
It’s a little like figuring out how to make a new craft. You get your materials together (gather evidence), weave and knit and glue them together (determine method and motive) and then tie it all up in a neat finished product (make that final, satisfying stitch.)
Crime-solving and crafting share something else—the devil is in the details. Miss a stitch, and you’ve got hole.
“Now that you mention it, there is something you can do for me, Sheriff. But I don’t think Detective Worthy will appreciate it very much.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about him, Miss Madeline. As I said earlier, he’s a good fella and a fine detective. But, between me, you, the fence post and Clerk Trish, who’s standing outside the door right now eavesdropping—”
“I am not eavesdropping!” Trish shouts as she stomps off down the hall. “I was just seeing if you were going to be done with the copy machine anytime this year!”
Archie slaps his knee and chuckles. “Anyhoo, Detective Zeke is down here with us on a strictly probationary basis. He messed up pretty bad where he came from, so I don’t think he’s in any position to be voicing what he appreciates and what he doesn’t.”
I lean close and whisper, “What did he do?”
“Well, that’s something you’ll have to ask him, or he’ll have to volunteer. I’m the worst gossip in the whole department, but I have to tick a lock on that. Now, what is it I can do for you? Name it.”
“I’d like to take a look around Missy’s Boutique.”
He cocks his chin and squints. “Officially?”
“Oh, no, very unofficially,” I say with a wink. “On top of the 40%-off discount the mall is offering on everything, Missy’s has agreed to give me an additional fifteen. I had already picked out some things to try on, but—you know. If nothing’s been tampered with, per it being a crime scene, those jeans, blouse and sundress are still back in the dressing room.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
“Thanks.” Before heading out, I turn, hold up his granddaughter’s painting and ask, “Is little Josie psychic as well as artistic?”
“Not as far as I know. Why?”
“Don’t tell her I said this, of course. But she’s drawn a pretty accurate picture of how I think Bluff was killed.”
With
that cryptic remark hanging in the air, I leave him staring at the drawing and scratching his head.
Chapter Eleven
AS I ENTER THE MALL from the entrance closest to Missy’s Boutique and begin navigating through shoppers, I again note the number of security guards I see walking around. Sad, but it’s the world we live in.
Bluff Burrows’ death is just the latest reminder of that.
On my way over from the police station, as I listened to classic-rock songs on the radio, snippets of what I’ve seen and heard over the past twenty-four hours continued to trickle into the section of my brain that sorts information. Filters out what’s not pertinent, synthesizes what is.
I’m sure it happens to everybody. It’s like you see behind the shadow of what initially passed before your eyes without recognition or hear the echo of something that slipped by your ears unremarkably the first time you heard it. Later (it usually happens when you’re sleeping or eating or thinking of something totally unrelated), it bursts through with a clarity that makes you wonder how you could have ever missed it—
I suddenly jerk my head around toward something or someone down the mall a ways. A group of ladies are laughing and sharing what’s inside their shopping bags. Past them, I catch the last step of someone going into J.C. Penney. A little girl catches up with her mother and takes her hand. It’s normal, everyday occurrences for a crowded mall. But, just for a nagging moment, I have the distinct but irrational feeling someone is following me.
Maybe my no-sweets contest with Luisa is causing this paranoia even though I know she’s back at the shop with Bear.
Taking one more cursory glance up and down the mall, I continue to make my way to Missy’s.
I don’t recognize the uniformed police officer standing guard outside the yellow, crime-scene tape draped across the boutique. As I approach, he tips his cap back and grips his gun belt with both hands. “You must be new,” I tell him.
“Officer Lattimore. Greg. You have to be Madeline Shore,” he says, grinning. “Sheriff Rice said to expect a beautiful, voluptuous woman and to give her whatever she needed.” Lifting the yellow tape, he smiles. “You let me know whatever that is, you hear?”
“Thanks,” I say, ducking under. “Is Detective Worthy still here?”
“He left half an hour ago.”
I can almost hear myself deflating. No, it’s not methane. “Oh. Oh, well.”
A moment later, I’m suddenly like a kid in a candy store. I almost drool at the sight of wall-to-wall clothing. Rack after rack of stylish outfits designed to flatter the full-figured gal, I think, doing my own commercial voice-over in my head. Just for a second, I imagine I’ve won some contest in which I get to keep all the outfits I can carry to the cash register in five minutes.
While I can’t do that, I don’t see the harm in setting aside a few items behind the counter. For one thing, I’m on good terms with the manager. I’m confident Yvonne will see it as both good salespersonship and quid pro quo: I help keep her infidelity under wraps during the investigation, and she allows me to get dibs on some cute outfits before the yellow tape comes off the door.
I’m sure there will be a mad rush in here not only because the clothes are uber-stylish but also because of morbid curiosity. Many people will flock to where murder took place. One of the quirks of human nature.
But first—Josie’s drawing notwithstanding—I’d like to go over in my own mind my theory of how Bluff was killed.
I slip through the curtains into the dressing room area. Everything’s been kept just as it was yesterday morning when I came in with my prospective purchases and much-anticipated CinnaCluster. The sundress, jeans and blouse are still draped over the chair just as I hoped they would be. I see a few crumbs of the cinnamon bun beside the leg. The door to the room at the end where I found Bluff is swung back open. Moving closer, I see the faint, black smear about eight inches below the hook.
Hammer handle my big, curvaceous butt.
Since Zeke said the forensics have already been completed, I pick up one of the chairs, step inside the room with it and pull the door shut behind me. I take another whiff of the smear just to confirm what my reliable olfactory already knows. Positioning the chair slightly toward the back of the small room up against the bench, I slip off my low heels and step up onto it.
It’s just as I feared. Even if I could’ve left my shoes on, I’m still too short. Frustrated, I balance on my tippy toes and raise my arms as high as I can, but my fingertips are still a few inches from the drop-leaf ceiling tile.
I gasp and nearly jump out of my skin when the door is suddenly jerked open. My first thought is whoever’s following me has just found me, alone and secluded and vulnerable.
“Good, you’ve got your hands in the perfect position, Miss Shore,” Zeke says, looking up at me. “You’re under arrest.”
“But—”
“Tampering with a crime scene is a major offense. Five years in the pen sounds about right. Hopefully, they won’t put you in a cell with Kuberov and Gandalon.”
“Now, you just hold on a second—”
“It’ll work out okay. Your friend Luisa can run the shop for you on the outside. The prison officials will let you continue crafting in your cell. They’ll see it as therapeutic and rehabilitative. No loom knitting, though. A hook that big could either be used as a shiv or to pick a cell lock.”
Even though I know (hope) he’s kidding, my stomach does a queasy little flip-flop. Lucky for both of us, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. “Okay, Detective, you’ve had your fun, now—”
“The one I really worry about is poor Bear,” he says with a forlorn sigh. “He’ll probably have to be put in a kennel where, you know, they pick up that awful cough. I think it’s actually called ‘kennel cough.’”
Blinking, I feel the front edge of a tear seep into the corner of my eye. Zeke’s serious demeanor softens, and he raises his palms. “Hey, I went too far, didn’t I? I’m teasing you. Sheriff Rice called me earlier to let me know you’d be here.” He hands me his handkerchief.
Sniffing, I wipe my eye. “You don’t tease me about Bear.”
He smiles. “Lesson learned. Be assured I’ll never do it again.” Reaching behind him, he pulls the door shut. When he steps so close his chest touches my thighs, my breathing goes shallow, and the walls close in. He’d have to be as deaf as Graham Perkins not to hear my heart pounding. “Now, if you’re doing some sort of stretching exercise to make yourself taller, I wish you wouldn’t. You’re the perfect height already.”
“Actually, I’m the perfect weight. I just need to be six-foot-seven.”
He laughs. “As long as the adjective perfect stays, I’m willing to agree to disagree.”
Easy legs. Don’t quiver now. “So,” I say, swallowing, “is the medical examiner still sticking to his story Bluff fell and hanged himself on the hook?”
“Actually, he’s amended it. Especially after he looked at the ligature marks on Mr. Burrows’ neck more closely. They were made by leather, the sort used to make a garrote. It’s a—”
“Thin strip of leather with two metal or wooden handles at the end. The garrotter loops it around the garrottee’s neck from behind and twists the handles. Or, he loops it and then gets back-to-back with the victim in order to get more leverage.”
“Uh, yeah. I think the second option was used in here. During the struggle, Bluff kicked the mirror and cracked it. So we know the murderer was over six feet and very strong. Our suspect pool is getting even deeper. He’s a professional criminal, maybe a mobster type. Or, he could be someone with military training. Now, before we go on—”
My breath catches when Zeke rests his hands on my waist. My palms automatically drop atop his strong, broad shoulders as if they belong there. “I can’t have you getting hurt,” he says, starting to pick me up.
“No, wait! I’m too—”
He lifts me easily, even holds me in the air for what seems like forever before ever so slowly, e
ver so gently setting me down. “Too what?” he whispers close to my ear.
I swallow, my lips dry as toast. “Too eager to find out what’s above the ceiling tile.” Shamelessly, I let my hands slide down from his shoulders onto his biceps. Seventh Heaven, they do feel so good.
To my surprise, Zeke doesn’t seem any more inclined to let go of my waist than I do to let go of his arms. When I feel his warm breath flutter the hair on top of my head, my knees start to buckle. “Why do you want to know, Miss Shore?”
My eyes close involuntarily as my mind swirls with the pleasure of this moment. Coherent thought becomes an effort, but I soldier on. “Don’t you want to know how Bluff Burrows was killed?”
Chapter Twelve
I STUMBLE FORWARD SLIGHTLY when Zeke releases my waist and takes a step back. His dark eyebrows furrow. “What the devil are you talking about?”
Zeke is gone (sigh), and Detective Worthy is back.
Nice going, Madeline. Way to not leave a tender moment alone. I fluff my hair and smooth my sweater dress as if I’ve just been ravaged. “It’s how the murderer was able to kill Bluff without being seen coming into the mall.”
“We couldn’t see him or her because there was a power outage. No electricity means no security cameras, remember?”
“I do. Even the back-up generators didn’t kick in the way they were supposed to.”
“How would you know that?”
“The point I’m making is, there was nothing freakish or random about the outage. It was sabotage; the killer caused it. He or—listen, for the sake of brevity, let’s just use the masculine pronoun, okay?”
“It’s your show.”
“Good. Even though he made sure the back-up generators failed as well. He’s very slick in the way he’s gone about this.”
Zeke shuts his sensuous eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. It’s so cute. But, then, I’m starting to find everything he does to be adorable—except, of course, when he’s condescending. Or when he generalizes about women. Or when he gets in his big-boy, I’m-in-charge detective voice.