Assignment Denver: The Case of the Eccentric Heiress: Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mystery One (Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Lucey Phillips

  “Anyway, she grew up an only child. That was back when the affluent parents weren’t too involved in their children’s lives. It was always nannies and boarding schools. I think that’s why Aunt Bunny sometimes came across as … well … cold.”

  “She was never nurtured?” I asked.

  “Exactly. And she really was a tough business woman.” Pat raised one finger. “Not everyone agreed with her style of doing business.”

  “I heard that some people had a problem with her as a landlady. They say she raised the rent a lot.”

  Pat spun a palm upward. “Well, yes, she was a shrewd real estate investor.”

  “So it wasn’t a surprise that she had enemies?”

  He shook his head. “Not a surprise. She did make enemies. And she inherited some, too. Her parents were second-generation gold mine barons. They certainly didn’t win any popularity contests.”

  I nodded. Colin walked across the room and began photographing Pat while we talked.

  “Mr. Malone, did the police question you?”

  “Well yes, of course,” he said. “I know what it looks like. I stand to inherit a fortune. But I loved Aunt Bunny. Besides, my new startup—Pup Pops—is going to do great. I won’t need her money.”

  “Pup Pops?”

  “Frozen meatsicles for dogs,” Pat said, smiling. “Meatsicles wasn’t really well received in the focus groups, so we’re going with Pup Pops. It’s a great business model because we’re using fast food meat byproducts. Very inexpensive.”

  “Oh.” That was my well-rehearsed polite response for bizarre remarks like this. It was for times when I wanted to roll my eyes, or gag, but couldn’t risk offending my interview subject.

  I needed to know if Pat had an alibi, but didn’t want to ask him yet.

  “How did you find out about your aunt’s death?” I asked. I remembered him coming to the scene soon after I found the body, but I didn’t want to mention that. Pat didn’t seem to know I was the person who found his aunt, murdered on her office floor.

  “I was in the book shop—right next door,” Pat said. “I saw the police cars. I came right away.”

  Pat shook his head and wiped his eyes. “I’d just seen her, less than an hour before. I stopped by to tell her about Pup Pops and invite her to lunch. But she didn’t want to go out. Said she’d already eaten.”

  “You were the last person to see her alive?”

  “No,” he said sharply. “Whoever killed her was the last person to see her alive.”

  “Right, yes. I meant to see her in, you know, normal circumstances.”

  “Yes,” Pat said, looking resigned now. “That was the last time I saw her.”

  After a moment of unwieldy silence, I asked Pat, “Did the police talk to you about the break-in this morning?”

  “I was here. Sleeping,” Pat said. He was replying to the implied question—not the question I’d asked.

  “Did they tell you if anything was stolen? It seems like they didn’t really know if something was missing.”

  Pat shook his head. “They don’t keep me in the loop on those things. Even though I’m the closest relative, they say they can’t give me any information. They’ll only talk to my aunt’s attorney downtown. He’s the executor of her estate.”

  “I see. What’s his name? I guess I should try to get a statement from him.”

  “Bachman. Edgar Bachman,” Pat said. “Kind of a weird guy, if you ask me.”

  Colin coughed. I looked down at my notebook while I bit my lip.

  “Do you think theft would be a motive for the break-in or for your aunt’s murder?”

  Pat shrugged. “It’s possible, but you would really have to know what you’re looking for. Aunt Bunny never kept any cash around. And she didn’t deal in jewelry or anything like that. But I suppose some of the antiques might be valuable—if you’re into that sort of thing. Your standard thug wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between common junk and priceless antiques though.

  “Other than a few locked drawers and a broken safe, I don’t think she really bothered much with security. So maybe there wasn’t anything particularly special in the shop.”

  I tried to glean some colorful stories about who Bunny was by asking Pat about his favorite memories of her, but I didn’t get very far.

  When Pat insisted, for the third time, on steering the conversation away from Bunny and toward the Pup Pops scheme, I decided the interview was over.

  Colin took a couple photos of Pat on the front deck of the condo. Then we said our goodbyes and walked down the stairs toward the car.

  “He did it,” Colin said quietly as soon as we were out of hearing range of Pat’s front door.

  “How are they not arresting him yet?” I said. “He was with her that morning.”

  “The only way he’s not under arrest is if they have physical evidence that it was someone else,” Colin said.

  “Or they’re just incompetent,” I said.

  “Who’s incompetent?” asked a shrill female voice behind us.

  Colin froze. I spun around to see Detective Chamberlain sitting in the passenger seat of a parked car. Her partner was behind the wheel.

  I had nothing to say, so I forced a smile.

  “Oh, hi, Detective. I was thinking about calling you. I just talked to Pat Malone and he said he was with Bunny right before she was killed.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, that gives him means and motive. So …” I trailed off.

  “Means and motive are great. But at the Denver PD, we prefer evidence,” she said.

  I clenched the strap of my messenger bag tightly in my fist. This is why I got out of news reporting—miserable confrontations.

  “Come on, I have to ask these things. Is he a suspect or what? Do you have evidence that points to someone else?”

  “Miss Lovejoy, let me explain something to you: We can’t broadcast all the information we have. If we did that, then we would have no leverage when we question people. And on top of that, if we charge someone, we want them to have a fair trial. In court. Not on your blog or your diary or whatever it is that you write.”

  “I’m not trying to compromise anything, okay? I just need to tell people what happened,” I said, fighting to keep my voice from trembling. “An old woman was killed on her own property, in the middle of the day. People are scared and they have questions.”

  “Well Miss Lovejoy, they’ll be even more scared if we let the killer walk because you decided your career is more important than this investigation. You need to back off.”

  “I am completely within my legal rights,” I said. “And if you have a problem with my methods—or if you plan on impeding me or threatening me, I will put you in touch with Alt News America’s legal team.”

  With that, I stuck my nose in the air and marched off across the parking lot with Colin close behind. By the time we got to the Nissan, I was hoping and praying he remotely unlocked my passenger side door so I wouldn’t have to stand there, like a baby, waiting for him to let me in.

  I heard the click immediately and climbed inside.

  Colin’s face was stony as he climbed into the car, backed it out of the parking spot, and started to drive away. But before he pulled out onto the main road, he tilted his chin down and looked at me over the top of his sunglasses. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  | Eight

  Ieased my legs into the hotel’s indoor swimming pool. When I felt all my muscles become tense from the shock to the cool water on my skin, I promised myself it would be worth it.

  I’m not exactly out of shape, but I certainly wasn’t ready for yesterday’s impromptu parkour lesson, followed by this morning’s drop from a fire escape, and then this afternoon’s surprise hiking trip at Garden of the Gods.

  At one point, it felt like I might have tweaked my right ankle, but some ibuprofen seemed to make that problem go away. Nonetheless, I was feeling worn out all over and hoped a swim would ease my aching mu
scles.

  I took a deep breath, immersed my entire body, and swam the length of the pool. By the time I emerged, the chlorine was already stinging my eyes and making my vision hazy. The late evening sunlight struck the western glass wall of the pool area at an angle that seemed to make the entire room glow. And when the golden light hit the water, it created bright white ribbons that danced against the tile floor of the pool.

  After my interview with Pat Malone and unexpected encounter with Detective Chamberlain, Colin and I spent the rest of the afternoon working on the Assignment Denver travel story.

  I interviewed hikers at Garden of the Gods, a state park that features red rock formations and is a mecca for hikers and rock climbers. Our stop at Garden of the Gods had turned into a hike when Colin kept telling me he wanted to see the light and the shadow on the rocks just around the next bend, then over the next hilltop, and the next.

  He kept offering to walk with me back to the car, but I refused. It was a beautiful place. Colin had the air of an eager child the way he kept rushing to take the next photo, then the next. The Garden had to be a photographer’s dream. I didn’t want to spoil the only enjoyment I’d seen him have on this trip.

  After that, in Colorado Springs, I interviewed a beloved bicycle repairman who founded an apprenticeship program for at-risk youth to learn to ride and repair bicycles.

  “How do you find all of these interesting people?” Colin had asked me while we ate burritos at an outdoor table after the last interview was done. He held a burrito in one hand and his camera in the other while he scrolled through the day’s photos.

  “It used to be real work,” I said. “Actual reporting, where you talk to people in the grocery store line and on the street. You get leads, look around. But it’s not like that for me now.”

  I sipped my lemonade and continued. “Now I have a blog and a bunch of social media accounts. ANA even has a separate email address where people can send in suggestions of places I should go, people I should talk to. An admin back at headquarters sorts through some of them for me.”

  “I don’t have an admin,” Colin said, slathering guacamole on his burrito.

  “He’s not my admin,” I said. “I think he just handles a bunch of big email accounts.”

  Colin gave me a side-eye glance that told me he wasn’t sure if he believed me.

  “I’m not a big deal!” I said, my voice becoming slightly shrill. “I don’t have like, staff.”

  “I know,” he said with a teasing smile. “Don’t be so sensitive.”

  I felt my cheeks burn at the word sensitive. That was one label I did not want and I did not deserve.

  “I like this one,” he said, his voice soft now—all the teasing tones gone. “You’re really in your element here.”

  He turned his camera around so the screen faced me. It was a picture he’d taken without me knowing. I must have been interviewing one of the hikers when he took it.

  I had my notebook in one hand with a pen poised over the paper. The wind was blowing wisps of my hair softly to the side. And, behind me, a red, rocky valley stretched out for miles. In the distance was Pikes Peak with a halo of gray clouds around its summit.

  I smiled. “Thanks. I like it too.”

  “I’m gonna tell Mike to use this one,” he said, his gaze on the screen, softening. “It could even be a feature.”

  I shook my head. If the photo saw publication at all, it should be tiny. Despite a mouthful of burrito, I insisted, “Thumbnail!”

  Colin shrugged. “That’s up to the editors.”

  “The story isn’t about me,” I said. “It’s about the people here.” I tapped the picnic table with my index finger for emphasis.

  “You know, you’re one of the very few reporters I’ve met who isn’t a raging egomaniac.”

  “Really? I know those types are drawn to broadcast, but writing? Maybe I could see that.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Now, in the water by myself, that conversation seemed far away. And our morning adventure, sneaking into Bunny’s apartment, seemed like a lifetime ago.

  So many questions about Bunny were still nagging at me. I swam a few more laps before climbing out of the pool, wrapping myself in towels, and curling up on a lounge chair with my phone.

  Quinn had sent me several notes and documents about Bunny and the suspects. I’d asked her to try hacking into the Trieber Florist records to see who had ordered those roses with the “XOXO” card for Bunny.

  In her response, Quinn had told me that online security for the florist was basically non-existent. She had found the order for the roses to be sent to Bunny’s shop, but it was a cash transaction. The sender wasn’t listed.

  When I read that, I let my phone drop to my side as I gazed out the window at the lowering sun. I really needed a break in this case so I could get to Las Vegas.

  If I missed that trip, I would probably have to go home until I got things lined up for my next travel story. That was something I didn’t want to do. But most of all, I had some great plans for the Vegas story, and they couldn’t be changed.

  I had been determined not to write yet another trite “behind the scenes of Vegas” story, all about the police officers and the cab drivers. But I also wanted to avoid a bland “visitor’s guide” style story.

  I’d found a great subject for my story—the fiercely private Olympian McKenna Johnson. She won a gold medal in gymnastics when she was thirteen years old. McKenna later returned to the Olympics when she was seventeen, but she didn’t win a medal.

  After enduring brutal public scrutiny—one announcer called her a geriatric by Olympics standards—she fell into the typical post-adolescent trap of drugs and alcohol. That trap ensnares many young people who have been overwhelmed by success and its hasty disappearance at a young age.

  Now twenty-six years old, McKenna managed to get cleaned up and secure a starring role in Dream Myst, a headlining water-themed acrobatic and diving show on the strip.

  McKenna would be the perfect subject for my Vegas story—she actually transformed her life and made her dreams come true in Las Vegas.

  And my story would be an exclusive. Ever since her lackluster second Olympics performance, McKenna didn’t just avoid reporters—she bitterly despised them. But the casino resort that owned the show had been pressuring her to do some publicity.

  Apparently McKenna Johnson is a fan of Assignment America. The way I understand it, she told the resort PR team that she would only talk to me. She also said she would only answer pre-approved questions.

  Still, it had taken me weeks of emailing and chatting with her to gain her trust. Finally, she agreed to take me backstage and allow me to attend a rehearsal with her.

  If I needed to cancel or tried to reschedule with McKenna, all of that would have been for nothing. I would lose her trust.

  I tried explaining that to Lance in an email I’d sent after I had turned in my story about the break-in at Bunny’s shop. He didn’t care though. He simply replied, “The Malone murder story is bigger. Stay in Denver.”

  If there were an arrest though, Lance would probably let me move on. After that point, the justice system moves slowly and public interest starts to wane. It wouldn’t be cost-effective for ANA to keep me in Denver after that. They could just use wire stories for sporadic updates.

  My ringing phone pulled me out of my scheming to get to Vegas. The screen said “Mom.” I dropped my head back onto the lounge chair and squeezed my eyes shut.

  I’d avoided her calls for the past few weeks. Every time I didn’t answer her or deleted her voice mails without listening to them, I told myself I’d call her back soon. But making myself do that was impossible.

  The longer I ignored my phone, the more the guilt outweighed my desire to avoid my mother.

  Finally I touched “accept” on the screen and said hello. I held my breath while I waited for her voice to reveal which version of my mom I would be speaking with—Drunk Mom or Sober Mom. />
  “Hi, Jameson! I’m so glad I finally got ahold of you!”

  I cringed at the sound of my legal name. It’s exactly what it looks like: My parents love Irish Whiskey. I can only assume my dad was half in the bag when I was born, and he insisted on the name. Maybe my mom was stoned on morphine or something, so she just agreed with him.

  Mom’s voice was bright and her speech was crisp. She was sober. It was five in the evening at her house. Making it that late in the day without falling into a bottle was an accomplishment for my mother. But if she was on the wagon, I knew it was only temporary. I’d learned—repeatedly—not to get my hopes up when it came to that woman.

  “Yeah, they’ve got me covering a couple different things now so…”

  “Oh sounds exciting. Where are you now?”

  “Denver.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Then, silence. She wanted something, and it wasn’t family bonding. I wouldn’t make it easy for her though. I would make her ask.

  “Honey, I’ve been having a little car trouble,” she said. “They cut my hours at work, and I was hoping you could help me out. You know, for the repairs.”

  “You’re working now?” I asked. I was stalling. I wanted to say no, but that’s so, so difficult sometimes. Sometimes it actually hurts to say no. The irony is that children of alcoholics often grow up to be pathological people-pleasers. They have absolutely no ability to set limits with the family members who hurt them the most.

  “Oh, just over at the mall,” she said. “It’s one of those kiosks. Well, it’s like a little cart, that sells phone chargers and headphones and stuff.”

  Okay, so the present moment’s sobriety was just a fluke, or a straight-up deception. Because that job in the mall—working alone with zero oversight—is pretty much an alcoholic’s dream. I could just see her sloshing vodka into her Orange Julius when no one was looking.

  After another long two seconds of silence, I tried to craft myself an out.

  “Well, Mom, I don’t really have extra cash right now,” I lied.