Sweet Ginger Poison

by Robert Burton Robinson

  “What do you know about Cash Crawley?”

  “The Donut King?”

  “Yeah. Have you heard anything new lately?”

  “Only that he’s started selling muffins. But I understand they’re nothing to write home about.”

  Unbelievable, thought Ginger. Cash had just started selling the muffins that morning. “How did you hear about it?”

  “I had a customer early this morning who told me she tried one. He’s only got one kind apparently. She said it wasn’t bad. It was just kinda bland.”

  “I see.”

  “You think Cash is trying to compete with you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’d stand much of a chance, Ginger. Nobody can top your coffee cakes.”

  Ginger smiled. “Thanks.”

  “The only business Cash usually tries to compete with is his brother’s.”

  “Really? I’ve never thought of them as being in competition with each other. All Cash sells is donuts. Bull’s place has grown into a full-service restaurant. I wouldn’t think there would be much fighting over customers except at breakfast.”

  “Yeah, but for the Crawley boys, everythingis a competition. Remember what a great football player Bull was in high school? He was huge even back then—thanks to the steroids.”

  “Really? He took steroids back in high school?”

  “Oh, yes. Everybody figured he’d get a full-ride scholarship to wherever he wanted to go. But then he broke his ankle in the state game. He never fully recovered from it. Never even went to college.”

  “Yeah, I remember that. It was a shame.”

  “Then little brother, Cash, came along five or six years later and became the star quarterback. He seemed unstoppable. Until one night after a big game when Bull took him to a club over in Shreveport to celebrate. They got drunk and started fighting. One of Cash’s fingers got broken—on his throwing hand. It healed, but he never threw the football quite as well after that. Cash never forgave his brother for it.”

  “So, they’re still fighting it out—in the businessworld.”

  “That’s right. But so far Bull is winning.”

  “I would think so.”

  “But did you hear about Cash dumping a box of mice into Bull’s restaurant.”

  “What? No.”

  “I’m not surprised. Bull did everything he could to keep it quiet. Even Ihaven’t told anybody.”

  “Until now.”

  “Well, yeah. But I know you’llkeep it a secret.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “One of the cooks spotted several mice in the kitchen during the lunch rush, so he ran into the dining room to get Bull. When he pulled him aside and told him about the mice, Bull began to usher his customers out of the restaurant.”

  “He told them about the mice?”

  “Oh, no. He said he suspected a gas leak. He apologized and told them their next meal was free—including dessert.”

  “Wow. That was close.”

  “Yeah. If anybody had seen a mouse run across the floor, Bull would have been out of business.”

  “How did he figure out it was Cash?”

  “He doesn’t know for sure. But he can’t imagine who else would do that to him.”

  “That’s so unethical.”

  “Yeah, but it’s no big shock to me. Neither one of them have any scruples.”

  Scissy had confirmed Ginger’s suspicions. Cash was indeed the kind of man who would have paid Navy to steal her recipe book.

  But would Cash then killNavy—just to cover up the theft?

  **********

  Danny walked into the kitchen. “Have you seen Lacey?”

  Addie pointed to the back door.

  He went outside and saw Lacey with her back and one foot against the wall, taking a drag from her Virginia Slim.

  “Those things will kill you,” he said as he put a Marlboro between his lips.

  She continued to look straight ahead. “Not as fast as a gun.”

  He took out his lighter, flipped it open, and lit his cigarette. “Look, I’m sorry. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have had the gun in the apartment.” He put the lighter back in his pocket and took a long drag.

  She turned to him. “You shouldn’t have had a gun—period.”

  “I know.”

  Lacey punched him in the arm. “Stupid.”

  He hesitated to ask. “What did you do with it?”

  “What does it matter? You don’t need a gun.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t just throw it away. Where is it?”

  “I’ve got it in a safe place. Don’t worry about it.”

  Maybe she had it on her—perhaps it was strapped inside her thigh. Or maybe he’d seen too many B movies. He scanned her body, from head to toe, and got distracted on the way down. Danny never got tired of staring at her long, sexy legs.

  She didn’t seem to notice he was ogling her. “I think I convinced Ginger that I had nothing to do with Navy’s death. Hopefully she’ll convince the police.”

  “Good. What about the panties? They really are yours, aren’t they?”

  Lacey threw her cigarette down in disgust and snuffed it out with a violent twist of her shoe. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  He grabbed her by the arm. “I want to know.”

  She just stared at him.

  “I deserveto know.”

  “Okay, yes—they’re mine,” she said.

  “I knewit.”

  “I put them in his car to make Kayla jealous. It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “So, you still have a thing for him.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Not anymore.” He said calmly. Then he yelled, “You mean since he’s dead?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t love you. I was just confused about my feelings.”

  Danny was so angry he didn’t know what to say. He was about to blurt out something he’d probably regret.

  “But I know you’ll forgive me—just like I’ll forgive you…for the gun.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Do you want me to forgive you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “—no ‘buts.’ Do you want me to forgive you or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have to forgive me.”

  “Fine. I forgive you.”

  “Good.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, took his hand, and led him back inside.

  Danny wondered if he would get paid for the job. His secret employer had provided the gun. His instructions were to hide in the bushes along the back parking lot of the nursing home on Saturday morning and wait for Navy to arrive with the coffee cakes. When Navy stepped out of his car, Danny was to shoot and kill him.

  But Danny didn’t like the idea of using a gun. And what did it matter now? His employer had gotten the result he wanted. Navy was dead.

  Danny should get paid.

  Chapter 17

  Almando Monet sat in his small, but plush upstairs office waiting on a client who was late for his appointment. Almando was a self-made man, and had no patience for those who didn’t understand that time is money.

  Manny, as he liked to be called, looked like a thirty-year-old Antonio Banderas. He had legally changed his last name ten years ago to that of his idol, Claude Monet. Manny had rejected the family grocery business to become an artist—just as the famous French impressionist painter had done many decades before him.

  Even at the age of twenty, Manny’s oil paintings were magnificent. But nobody was willing to pay hundreds of dollars to a poor Hispanic kid. He dreamed of the day when the wealthy would commission him to paint great works of art that would be passed down from one generation to the next.

  Manny had been desperate to get away from his overbearing father. So, he had written to a distant cousin who operated a small business in an East Texas town named Coreyville. He boldly asked Cousin Hosea for a job and a temporary place to live. Manny
told him he would work hard and help pay the rent.

  To his surprise, Hosea replied that he would be happy to give him a job, and that Manny could live with him until he could afford his own place. He even said he would hang Manny’s paintings on the walls of his business and sell them to customers.

  Manny was so excited he couldn’t sleep. He spent his last few dollars on a one-way bus ticket to Coreyville.

  Hosea’s business was a tiny shoe repair shop, located on town square. Manny’s job would be to shine each pair of shoes that Hosea repaired.

  What would be Manny’s hourly rate of pay? Zero, his cousin told him. He would only get paid if a customer decided to tip him in response to a particularly impressive shoe shine job.

  But there was more. Hosea had recently purchased a shoe shine stand at an auction. He would charge five dollars per shine, which he would keep. But Manny could pocket any tip money. And assuming he could keep the chair occupied for much of the day, he could make a living. Of course, Manny would have to buy his own supplies. Hosea would loan him the money to get started.

  But at least he would have free room and board, right? Yes, for the first two months. After that, he’d have to fork over money for half of the rent and groceries. He would live with Hosea in the efficiency apartment above the shop. There was only one bed. Manny would sleep on the floor.

  What about the promised walls for his paintings? Hosea was a man of his word—and then some. Manny could indeed cover the walls with his works of art. But the previously undisclosed stipulation was that Hosea would get fifty percent of the sales price of each painting.

  Manny decided to go back to El Paso immediately. But he couldn’t. First he’d have to earn some money. It would be hard enough to go home and admit that his father had been right. He just couldn’t bring himself to call and beg for a bus ticket.

  He worked diligently at his shoe shining, figuring the better the shine, the higher the tip. And it paid off. Before long, the word had spread all over town. Manny was swamped with customers, while Hosea sat idle.

  Then Manny began to dream. Maybe he could go out on his own. Then he could keep the five-dollar fee as well as the tips. And if he sold any paintings, all the money would be his. He would just need to save up enough to get his own place.

  But then Hosea got even greedier. One night after dinner, he told Manny that he must start giving him fifty percent of his tip money. That wasn’t fair, said Manny. He had just started paying for half the rent and food. He would not give up any of his tip money.

  They got into a violent argument that ended when Hosea fell down the stairs. Manny grabbed Hosea’s car keys and carried his unconscious cousin to the car. The hospital was less than one mile away. But Manny forgot to buckle Hosea’s seat belt. And somehow, as Manny sped around a corner, the passenger door swung open and Hosea fell out. A police car happened by at that moment and saw Manny trying to pick up Hosea and put him back in the car. But he was already dead.

  Nobody knew Hosea had been treating his twenty year-old cousin like a slave. So they had no reason to suspect foul play. Manny was only known to the men whose shoes he shined. And to them, he was a fine, hard-working young man.

  After the funeral, he took over Hosea’s lease and eventually renovated the shop—transforming the little dump of a shoe repair shop into an upscale shoe shine boutique. His oil paintings were on the walls, but they weren’t for sale. He refused to sell them to anyone for any price. In his mind, this made them priceless.

  He did away with the shoe repair business altogether, and concentrated on building his brand name: Monet’s MasterShine. Before long, he had more business than he could handle, so he hired two employees and let them do all the labor. He kept the shoe shine fee at five dollars and paid his workers minimum wage. But they got to keep all their tips.

  The income from the shoe shines paid the rent. But the real money was in the extras—like the latest must-have electronic gadgets that men love. They would come in planning to spend a few bucks on the best shoe shine in town, and walk out fifty dollars poorer, with their shiny shoes and their new GPS system with built-in metal detector.

  But Manny had not been content to sit back and enjoy the success of his little shop. He sought more lucrative endeavors.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” said Manny. He stood up.

  A man in his mid-twenties walked in and closed the door. “I’m sorry I’m late, Mr. Monet. I’m Will J—”

  “—I know who you are, Will. And call me Manny.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Have a seat.”

  They both sat down.

  “So, what can I do for you, Will?”

  “I understand that you make loans.”

  “Yes. Sometimes. But if you need money, why don’t you just go to a bank?”

  “I tried that.”

  “Or get a credit card. They’re pretty easy to get these days.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Credit problems?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Uh…it’s a lot.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten-thousand.”

  “That isa lot,” said Manny.

  “I’m sorry,” said Will, standing up, “this is crazy for me to be—”

  “—sit down, Will. I can do it.”

  Will sat down, grinning. “You can? Great.” Suddenly his smile went away. “What’s the interest rate?”

  “Twenty percent.”

  “Oh, that’s not too bad. So, twenty percent APR.”

  “No. Twenty percent per month,” said Manny.

  “Whoa.”

  “Change your mind? Don’t need the money so bad after all?”

  “No—I really doneed it.”

  “Okay, then. And just so we’re clear: in thirty days your first payment of one-thousand dollars will be due.”

  Will’s eyes got big.

  “So, you still want the money?”

  “Yes, Sir. Where do I sign?”

  “There’s no paperwork. But just so you know,” said Manny, looking directly into Will’s eyes, “nobody’s ever defaulted on me—and livedto tell about it.”

  Will’s chin began to quiver.

  Manny grinned. “Come back at Noon and I’ll have your cash.”

  **********

  Mayor Kassle sat up in his oversized leather chair and reached for his desk phone.

  “Melissa?”

  “It’s Monica, Sir. Melissa was your lastsecretary.”

  “Have you finished typing those letters?”

  “Yes, Sir, I have. Are you ready to sign them?”

  Duh. “Yes.”

  He hung up the phone.

  Monica hurried through the door and shut it behind her. Then she quickly baby-stepped over to the mayor’s desk. The five-inch heels and ultra-tight skirt precluded a normal stride.

  “Here we go,” she said, handing him the two letters.

  “Thank you.”

  She turned and started walking away.

  What a fine butt, he thought. “Wait. Come back.”

  She came back to his desk.

  He signed the letters and held them out.

  She leaned over his desk to take them.

  He could see way down her dress. “That dress is too short and too low-cut.”

  Monica stood up and covered her cleavage with her hands. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  “You’re fired.”

  “But, Sir, it’s my first day. Please give me another chance.”

  “I’ll need you to finish out the day. Hire me another secretary.”

  “But, Sir. Please.”

  “And I’ll pick you up tonight at around seven.”

  “But, Sir, I—what?”

  “You like seafood?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “And feel free to wear that dress.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She grinned. “Thank you, Sir.” She took the
letters, spun around, and scurried happily out the door.

  The mayor smiled. It was amazing what you could get away with if you had power. He’d grown up with the advantages of wealth. But add power to it, and wow. He loved his life.

  The intercom on his phone beeped.

  “Yes, Melissa—I mean, Monica?”

  “The chief is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  “Good Morning, Mayor.” Chief Foenapper came in and sat down.

  “That’s good, Daniel. Let’s keep it formal. I’ll try to remember to only call you ‘Chief’ from now on. So, how’s your murder investigation going, Chief?”

  “It’s going fine, Mayor. Our prime suspect is Lacey Greendale, the young woman I told you about. She works for Ginger Lightley.”

  “So, you’ve brought her in for questioning?”

  “Not yet. But, as I told you on the phone Saturday night, when I talked to her at her apartment she seemed very suspicious—especially when I asked about the panties we found in Navy’s car.”

  “So, charge her.”

  “I’ve been looking at other possible suspects.”

  “You’re just wasting time, Chief. If she looks like a killer and smells like a killer then she’s probably your killer. You’d better lock her up before she skips town.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Sure, you do. I wasn’t saying that you didn’t. But you’re dragging your feet. Let’s get it done.”

  “I’ve been doing research on everyone who had the opportunity to poison him. I particularly wanted to see if any of them had any prior arrests.”

  “And did they?”

  “No.”

  “What’d I tell you? A waste of time,” said the mayor.

  “No prior arrests. But I did find something else. And now I have a second suspect with both motive and opportunity.”

  “Who?”

  “Addie Barneswaller.”

  Chapter 18

  Ginger’s 2002 Buick LeSabre had less than 20,000 miles on it. She’d averaged about 50 miles per week over the past six years. At that rate, she figured the car would last longer than shewould.

  It took ten minutes to drive out to Ellegora Newcomb’s estate, and another minute or so to make it up the long, winding driveway after being buzzed in at the security gate.