The Trouble with Murder

by Kathy Krevat

  I shrugged awkwardly. “As I said, I didn’t know her very well.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “That’s Mona’s department,” she said. “Not Twila’s. She worked too hard to get her family and loved them too much to risk anything that would hurt them.”

  Mona’s department? “Worked too hard?” I asked.

  “Twila was very open about being adopted as a young child. When she couldn’t have children, she adopted her two boys,” Gina said. “Those kids were everything to her.”

  “Do you know her husband?” I asked.

  “Trent? Not very well,” she said. “He’s some kind of consultant and travels a lot.”

  “I don’t want to be a gossip, but one of our members mentioned that Twila thought one of us was doing something unethical. You know everyone a lot more than I do. Could you, I don’t know, ask around a little?”

  “You mean, help you clear your name and implicate someone else.” Her voice was flat, but at least she didn’t seem angry anymore.

  “Only if that person is the real killer,” I said.

  She thought for a minute, and then nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

  It felt good to have one person on my side, even if she was only helping reluctantly.

  Then she looked me up and down. “You should join one of my classes. We’ll get rid of that paunch in no time.”

  Paunch?

  Chapter 9

  Saturdays were all about getting ready for the Little Italy Farmers’ Market. I was so used to waking up early that I opened my eyes before dawn again. Then I remembered that today was the day. Twila’s funeral.

  Even if I didn’t have the farmers’ market, there was no way I could go to the funeral. If any of Twila’s family members or friends believed I had something to do with her death, I couldn’t even imagine what seeing me would do to them.

  I had drafted an email to the SPM group but never sent it. I hoped they understood why I couldn’t be there. Lani said she was going in my place, which made me feel marginally better. She’d also given herself the task of seeing if anyone was acting suspicious.

  While I was getting dressed, Trouble brought me a puzzle piece covered with dust. What the heck? Where did she find this? She sat staring up at me. What was she trying to tell me? It was almost like she understood how sad it made me to not be able to pay my respects. Or was she trying to tell me something else?

  “Thank you?” I said, which seemed to satisfy her.

  I really had to get out more.

  * * * *

  Setting up in the familiar chaos of the farmers’ market gave me something to focus on besides the funeral. Trouble sat contentedly in her carrier until I had the tables covered and all my products arranged in attractive piles. I set up her cat chair—a tiny little loveseat that Elliott had found on Amazon. It was the same shade of blue as my labels. Trouble graciously allowed me to put her on her perch, but I waited until customers began appearing before putting on her hat. As long as she got enough attention from her fans, she usually didn’t complain about the tiny elastic band that held it in place on her cute little head.

  She sniffed a little as if to say I’m doing this for you, but I don’t like it, and tilted her head at the first group that came by.

  “Is that a real cat?” one woman said, before heading over to pet her.

  I swear Trouble smirked at me.

  Gypsy Sue waved hello on her way to her booth in the next section. The Little Italy Farmers’ Market was spread out over several blocks. Sue stopped by after she was done setting up and before the crowds grew. “Hey, did you get that other nonsense taken care of?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Finding out who killed your friend?” she said.

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. “You think I’m looking into that?”

  She gave me a sardonic look. “How long have I known you?”

  “Wait,” I said. “Are you really psychic? I’ve never been able to figure it out.”

  “Psychic enough to know you’re not answering me.” She went back to her booth.

  Luckily, the market was too busy to allow me to dwell on my problems, although it was harder to be “on” today, especially remaining friendly to one woman who decided to challenge me about why “human grade” ingredients were important for cats.

  People who came to my booth were usually interested in finding out how to help their cats get healthier, not denying the whole need for healthier food. My potential customers were often very educated about what their cats needed. They’d done a lot of research and were hesitant to try something new once they found products that worked. But then I could point to all the research I’d done, and give them information on my formulas. And a free sample went a long way too.

  “Some animals have health issues that are aggravated by the ingredients in bulk food,” I explained, with a lot less patience than I normally had.

  “My cat eats what’s on sale,” she said. “You’re just trying to take advantage of all of the idiots who treat their pets like kids.”

  Trouble turned to her and narrowed her eyes.

  Uh-oh.

  “You’re so lucky to have such a healthy cat,” I tried, turning on the charm.

  But she was on a roll. “And I heard that all that organic crap was just nonsense.”

  “That’s not what our research has found,” I said. “Why don’t you take a free sample and see if your cat likes it.” I handed her a can of Chicken Sauté. “Let me know next week how it goes.”

  Then I turned my back on her to talk to a potential customer who had been watching the exchange. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’d like to buy some of your organic food for my cat who I spoil mercilessly.”

  I looked over my shoulder to make sure Disagreeable Lady was on her way. “You’re at the right place, apparently.”

  “You handled that well,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “All in a day’s work.”

  She bought half a box of my cans, probably more than she intended, to make up for the unpleasant woman.

  During a lull in customer traffic, I checked my phone and saw a text from Lani. Want to meet at Pico’s for an early dinner?

  I was dying to call her and find out everything I could about the funeral, but face to face would be better. I packed up when the flow of customers had slowed, and stopped at home to drop everything off.

  I walked in while my dad was giving another lesson to Elliott.

  “Mom! Listen to my G chord.” He strummed the guitar. “I’m learning ‘On Top of Old Smokey.’”

  As soon as I set the cat carrier down, Trouble strolled out and headed to the kitchen. Probably for a bowl check and to get a snack. Or maybe to escape the excruciatingly slow rendition of Elliott’s song.

  My dad’s eyes carefully watched Elliott’s fingers and he looked up at the end of the song. “He’s really good at reading music,” he said with a proud smile.

  “It’s all that singing,” I said. “Great job, kiddo.”

  Elliott grinned and put the guitar carefully against the wall.

  “I’m meeting Lani for dinner at Pico’s,” I told them. “What do you guys want me to bring back?”

  “Cool!” Elliott said. “Beef burrito grande.”

  “Chicken chimichangas,” my dad said, reaching out for his wallet on the side table. “Here, let me give you some money.”

  “Dad,” I said firmly. “I got it. The farmers’ market was great today.”

  He grumbled a little, but I was pleased that he was hungry enough to order a big meal.

  Since I’d moved to Sunnyside, Lani and I had become regulars at Pico’s, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of the small downtown area. Pico Sanchez had bought an out-of-business diner and didn
’t bother to change the décor. He’d simply plastered a Pico’s sign over the Sunnyside Diner sign.

  Sunnyside didn’t get a lot of tourists, but plenty of people on their way to and from San Diego stopped at Pico’s, expecting burgers and fries. They all left happy with the best tacos, burritos, and quesadillas in Southern California, which was saying a lot. College kids came all the way out from San Diego, and Pico even got his fair share of young professionals who liked the odd setting for Mexican food.

  Pico was the size of a small giant, always wearing a sauce-spattered apron that he must buy in bulk from the Hagrid clothing line at the department store. The first time Lani had introduced me as her best friend, he’d wrapped me in a huge, gentle hug that he repeated every time we came.

  I’d quickly learned that he was as harmless as they come and as gossipy as a mother hen.

  “How you doin’ girl?” he asked as he passed by me, delivering chips and spicy salsa to a table full of men in golf shirts while his son delivered tangy frozen margaritas.

  “Good,” I said, a moment before one of his famous hugs.

  He looked down at me as if trying to figure out how I was feeling. “Lani told me the news. What are those Keystone Cops thinking?”

  I laughed. “Well, one of them seems to know what she’s doing.”

  “That lady detective?” he asked. “Yeah, she’s good.”

  “You know her?” I asked.

  “I know everybody, girl,” he said. “Or at least someone who knows everyone.”

  Pico’s burritos were legendary, filled to the brim with delicious beef, pulled pork, or chicken. Just thinking about them made my mouth water, especially added to the scent of simmering sauce, sautéing onions and peppers, and that bite of hot pepper in the air.

  Lani was sitting in a booth against the wall, a sure sign that she wanted to talk away from Pico and his sons. She had a margarita waiting for me and was already scooping up the spicy salsa with chips. Today she was wearing a white silky top with unicorns painted on the fabric.

  “Hope that’s not what you wore to the funeral,” I said.

  “Funny,” she answered through chip. “I do own one normal black dress.”

  “I can’t imagine that,” I said. “Did Piper make you buy it?”

  She smiled. “Of course. For just such occasions.”

  Pico came by to take our order and Lani asked him, “What’s the latest you’ve heard?”

  “Not much yet,” he said. “For what it’s worth, we got cops here a lot and none of them think you done it.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised and happy that my innocence was being talked about so openly. Or maybe Pico was just good at eavesdropping.

  “Well, all ’cept that Little guy,” Pico said. “He’s like a dog with a bone. Just don’t let go.”

  “What are other people, the ones who aren’t police, saying?” Lani asked.

  He shrugged. “Some of ’em think you hurt that girl, but I always tell ’em off,” he said. “Everyone loves your dad and I told ’em to shut their pie hole. No daughter of Hank’s would do something so terrible.”

  “Aw, thank you Pico,” I said. I think.

  He nodded for emphasis and walked back to the kitchen.

  I dropped a bunch of chips on my plate and squeezed lime on them, and then sprinkled salt on top. “Okay,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

  Lani filled me in on the funeral, which was heartbreaking. Twila’s two boys, ages eight and ten, had seemed all cried out. They were stoic, until the very end of the funeral, when they both broke down and had to be taken into another room by an aunt.

  Twila’s husband, Trent, was tall and handsome. “He should totally be put on the list,” she said.

  “Because he’s handsome?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Maybe he was having an affair.”

  “Did you ever meet Twila?” I asked. “She was adorable. And smart. And nice.”

  “Just put him on the list,” she insisted.

  “Were the police there?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see anyone who looked like police,” Lani said. “But there were a lot of people. Maybe I didn’t notice them.”

  She had recognized some of the SPM members from the photos I’d shown her and lurked around them as long as she could without anyone noticing. She hadn’t heard anything worthwhile, except one of them wondering why I wasn’t there. “She made it seem all suspicious,” Lani said.

  I couldn’t help but feel hurt. “Which one was it?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I heard it but couldn’t tell whose voice it was.”

  “Why would anyone say something like that?” Maybe I should have sent that email. I filled her in on my conversation with Gina.

  “Two down—Gina and Daria,” she said. “Who are you going after next?”

  “The others are hard,” I said. “But I have a plan for Fawn.”

  “Do you want me to talk to her?” Lani asked. “I have a board meeting for that foster youth nonprofit with her next week.”

  “Was she at the funeral?” I asked.

  “Yep,” she said. “We said hi, but she left right after the service.”

  “I could make an appointment with her as a life coach,” I said. “So it won’t be so obvious.”

  “That’s a way better idea than me trying to grab her after the meeting,” Lani said. “You can figure out some stuff while you ask her questions.”

  Wait. “What stuff?”

  “Um,” she said. “You know. Life goals and stuff. I heard she’s good at making you write them down and figure out how to achieve them.”

  That made me pause. Thinking about my goals made me very uncomfortable. Like if I made plans, that meant I automatically jinxed them, and they’d never happen. “She also handles our group website and a bunch of the members’ sites.”

  “Ooh,” she said. “Good thought. Maybe she can see if one of the moms was up to something.”

  “She’s not going to hack anyone, for heaven’s sake,” I said. “But maybe she knows stuff.”

  “What about the rest of your list?”

  The other members were harder. “What reason could I use to talk to Mona? Or Bronx?” Then I had an idea. “Wait. Doesn’t your mother-in-law have dogs? Do you think she’d let me borrow one for a grooming?”

  “That’s a great idea,” she said. “Let me text her.”

  Her mother-in-law texted right back that anytime Sunday afternoon worked.

  “Tomorrow?” I asked.

  “May as well get it done,” Lani said.

  I brought up Bronx’s website. “I can schedule it right here.” I put in Sunday’s date and three openings popped up. “How about one in the afternoon?”

  She texted again. “That works for her,” she said. “And she’ll pay you back for the grooming.”

  I finished filling out the information just as Pico delivered Lani’s quesadilla and my chicken enchiladas. Both were piled high with melted cheese, guacamole, and sour cream. We dove in.

  My phone lit up and I picked it up, expecting a confirmation email from Bronx. It was an email from Twomey’s Health Food.

  I felt cold. And then hot. And then cold again. “Oh man.”

  “What is it?” Lani asked. She jumped up and slid into my side of the booth while I clicked on the email and waited as the little widget spun for what felt like an eternity. Then the email appeared.

  Dear Ms. Summers,

  My heart started pounding.

  We appreciate your interest in becoming a supplier for Twomey’s Health Food. You have been selected—

  Oh. My. God.

  …to be one of several local organic pet food suppliers asked to submit business proposals outlining how your company would be able to work with Twomey’s.

 
; Please submit your proposal by 5:00 pm on Friday, June 16.

  A week?

  We will let you know our decision on which, if any, of the selected businesses were chosen in approximately two weeks.

  Thank you for your interest in joining the Twomey’s family.

  “Wow,” I said at the same time Lani squealed.

  “That’s so exciting!” She hugged my arm.

  “Yeah, it is,” I said, my mind spinning.

  “How’s that proposal going?” she asked. “You started on it, right?”

  I nodded, wondering if my efforts were too amateurish for a real company like Twomey’s.

  “Okay,” she said, moving back to her own side of the table. “I know you like to be a lone wolf and all, but hear me out. I have a business advisor who is a genius at all of this. I think you should meet with him.”

  “I can’t afford—”

  “He’s a volunteer with SCORE, you know, that organization of retired executives who help out new businesses?” she explained. “I’m telling you, he could help.”

  “What do I need him for?” I asked.

  “He’s a freaking genius,” she said. “Just talk to him. He’s like a combination of one of those Shark Tank guys and Oprah.”

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “Like really smart and nice and encouraging. If you’re lucky,” she continued, “he’ll take a real interest in you and become your unofficial business advisor like he is with me.”

  I bristled. “I don’t need that.”

  “Actually, you don’t know what you need to take it to the next level.” She paused as if choosing her words carefully. “He’ll help you in ways you can’t imagine right now.”

  I must have been feeling particularly unsure of myself because suddenly I was agreeing and she was typing an introductory email on her phone. “He’s brilliant, really. And he’ll love you—he has a soft spot for single moms because of his own mother.”

  She looked up, worried that she’d offended me. “But that’s not why he’ll help you. He really likes entrepreneurs. He was very poor as a kid and created a bunch of businesses. He’s rich now, like really rich. He wants to help people who have overcome difficulty as he did.”