by Patrice Lyle
What the fennel?
"Actually, Bridget, I heard you used to be rather challenged in that area." I hated to be mean, but I had to stand up for myself. Plus I had a case to solve.
"Duh, I already told you that I lost 150 pounds."
"That's what's so curious because I heard you lost over 350 pounds via the stomach staple diet."
Her face reddened to the color of a good merlot. "I lost weight with wheatgrass!"
"I don't think so. I heard you had a secret surgery that Dr. J knew about." I rose from the couch and stared at her. "Now that we're talking about it, I think you had a 350-pound chip on your shoulder. Or was it a five-million-dollar blackmail chip instead?"
Take that!
A twisted expression commonly seen on the faces of psycho killers in horror movies crossed Bridget's face. Her cheek twitched along with her upper lip. "You have no idea what my life was like when Dr. J found out. I broadcast one show for my diet book on CSN, and Dr. J started snooping. Paid off some nurse at the Mexican clinic where I had my surgery. Then she demanded all that money."
"No offense, Bridget, but it sounds more like a 350-pound motive for murder."
"You think I killed her? Why would I waste this figure?" She ran her hands up and down her hips. "I worked hard for this body, and I'd never waste it on some disgusting prison guard."
Eeww.
Time to cut to the chase. "Where were you during the diversion?"
"What diversion?"
"The naked surfer." Duh.
Bridget adjusted her cowboy hat and peered at mine. "I watched the whole thing from the balcony. It was pretty entertaining." Her gaze moved to Tex. "But it would have been hotter if it would have been a naked cowboy instead."
Tattoo Tex's face remained expressionless, but mine twisted into a mask of all-out war. How dare she make a move for my boyfriend right in front of me? Is this what cowgirls did?
"It wasn't a cowboy, Bridget. And I'll follow up on your claim of being on the balcony the whole time." She could have slipped in and poisoned the Carat Cream. She certainly had motive.
Bridget glared at me. "Who made you the police?"
"I moonlight as a PI sometimes." I didn't want to tell her about Aunt Alfa's fingerprints on the jar.
"Then you're missing the person with the biggest motive. She was bawling on the couch earlier." Bridget's tone was very know-it-all suddenly. "Winnie, or better known as Wartnie. She hated Dr. J and told me on more than one occasion that she wished Dr. J was dead."
Tattoo Tex and I exchanged glances.
"You have any idear when Wartnie, er, I mean Winnie, last made a death threat?"
Bridget turned toward Tattoo Tex with a demure smile on her face. "Last week when I called to arrange my monthly blackmail payment."
That couldn't be ignored, obviously, but Bridget wasn't off my suspect radar yet either. Especially with her psycho-horror-movie face flare-up.
"See you later, cowboy." Bridget undulated down the hallway and glanced over her shoulder when she reached the door to the stairwell. "Don't forget. Room 302 anytime you want to experience a real cowgirl."
I'd so love to see that stupid fitness tart in an orange jumpsuit.
"Can you believe her?" I asked, shaking my head. "The nerve of her to bust a move right in front of me."
"She's a floozy for sure, but I'd love to go to that Monster Truck event. You want to come to Dallas?"
I smiled as he rose from the couch and cradled my hands in his. "Sure, I have enough notice to reschedule my patients. It sounds fun as long as we stay away from you-know-who."
He laughed. "I'll get us a club suite."
"Do Monster Truck events have club suites?"
"Only one way to find out." He pulled out his phone and tapped away on the screen. Seconds later he smiled. "There are two club suites left thar, so I'll get us one now." His fingers danced across the screen until he sat on the couch and retrieved his wallet. "Let me just pay for this thang."
I sat beside him and grabbed my phone. "I'll check my calendar so I know how many people I need to call."
The week in question didn't look bad. My patients were local and most were wellness follow-up appointments. I was going to start the online cancellation process when my phone dinged with a new text message.
"Is that Ming thar?"
I glanced at my phone. "Nope. It's Aunt Alfa." I read the message and leapt from the couch. "Oh no! The police want to talk to her at the station."
"It's all right." Tex set his phone on the couch and rose, pulling me into a quick hug. "We'll deal with it. She's been questioned before and everything was fine."
I groaned. "I know, but this is going to flare up my PMS. I can already feel it coming on." I stepped away from him and pressed a hand against my stomach. It was flipping like a Boca burger in a skillet.
"You need me to go get some Midol? And some, um, feminine products?"
Aw. He's so cute.
I tossed my phone on the couch beside his and tugged him closer. "You know how much I love you?"
"Not as much as I love you. Any man willing to shop for feminine stuff really loves his lady."
I laughed. "You're off the period hook, Tex. I meant PMS as in Post-Murder Stress, not the monthly kind of PMS."
He wiped his forehead in an exaggerated manner. "Phew, I lucked out, Doc."
"No, I lucked out, Tex, when I met you." I gazed at him and knew without any hesitation that he was The One.
And I wished he would have gotten me a bling ring instead of the bling dung kickers.
He pulled me in for a kiss, and my legs turned to cornmeal mush when I pressed against his hard chest. The man was Florida-in-August hot. Our kiss deepened when my cell phone buzzed again with the receipt of a new message.
"I hate to break up a good thing, Doc," he said in a husky voice. "But that could be Aunt Alfa."
Holy chocolate babka! "You're right. The police station." I was such a terrible niece when my hormones got in the way.
I dove for my phone and blew out an exasperated breath when I read the message. I showed it to Tattoo Tex.
You and cowboy should get a room. Plus, tacky to make out when the cops called your auntie!
Tattoo Tex looked rather mortified. "Guess he's got a point."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Aromatherapist or Psychic Therapist?
A short while later, Tattoo Tex pulled the Escalade into the Annabelle Island Police Department parking lot. Two cruisers and an unmarked police car sat on the pavement along with a few civilian cars. The brick building didn't have any black bars over the windows, which was a promising start.
"Wonder if they're working overtime on this murder case? Senior Sweet Talk is willing to shell out the OT if we want to keep taking calls." Aunt Alfa glanced at her phone and tapped the screen. "Guess I should turn this on vibrate. Wouldn't want to take a work call in there."
"About your job, Aunt Alfa." I turned in the front passenger's seat so I could see her. "I don't think you should mention your new profession to the police."
Aunt Alfa scrunched her face? "Why not? Shows I can handle myself in a demanding situation, so I wouldn't be likely to snap and off someone."
Tattoo Tex mulled that one over. "Seems reasonable."
I shot him a be quiet look. "No, it's not."
"Plus, the first rule of marketing is recognizing that any publicity's good publicity." Aunt Alfa leaned down and rubbed Brownie's chin. "Isn't that right, Mr. SST?"
"Mr. SST?" My pulse surged. "Please don't call him that."
"Why? It stands for Super Sweet Treasure."
I narrowed my eyes at her. "Are you sure?"
"Just joking, Pipe. It's an advertising jingle for my new employer." Aunt Alfa pushed open the door and hopped out with Brownie in tow. She set him on the pavement and pointed at his new harness.
His new red harness with the letters SST embroidered in gold, along with an 800 number!
Tattoo Tex laughed as I fumbled with the cl
asp of my seatbelt. Darn rental car! Once I released myself from the SUV, I hustled after my auntie, but it was too late. She'd already darted inside the police station.
Oh, for the love of dairy-free dark chocolate sauce, she's going to tell them about her job! As a dutiful niece, I had to stop her.
I wrenched the door open and burst into the police station. Aunt Alfa was showing Brownie off to a couple of twenty-something girls who worked there. They oohed and awed and rubbed Brownie's cute little snout, which he loved.
Wwwweeee!
If it weren't wrong, I'd call him a ham.
Tattoo Tex came through the door and draped his arm around my shoulder. "See? Everything's good so far."
I smiled. And just when my stress ratcheted down several notches, Aunt Alfa reached into her purse and handed the girls a couple of red business cards.
"In case one of your pops wants to sweet talk a senior," Aunt Alfa said. "Tell your uncle, grandpa, or cousin. Heck, why not tell your aunt or grandma too? SST doesn't discriminate."
One of the girls pushed her glasses up against her nose and squinted. "Senior Sweet Talk? A hotline with flirty senior counselors? What kind of business is that?"
"Is it even legal?" The other one asked.
Aunt Alfa wrapped Brownie's leash around her tiny hand. "As far as I know, Uncle Sam doesn't police the phone lines."
I rushed over and snapped the business cards away from the two girls and gave them an apologetic half-smile. "Sorry, my auntie's a little goofy sometimes." Behind her head, I mouthed the words most of the time.
I felt bad being ageist, but I had to protect her. They returned to their desks but cast questioning looks our way. Great. Just what we need at a police station.
"Why'd you do that, Pipe? They might have known someone who wanted to call. Businesses don't expand themselves, you know."
I took in a breath and released it slowly. "I'm aware about how to run a business with my wellness center. You need to keep your new job to yourself. Trust me."
"You don't keep yours to yourself." Her little jaw jutted out, and if it weren't for the perilousness of our situation, I would have laughed.
"Mum's the word." I made a key-locking motion in front of my lips.
I turned and saw Tattoo Tex sitting on a wooden bench near the front door. I tugged Aunt Alfa and Brownie along with me, and the three of us joined Tattoo Tex. I had just sat down when Detective Franks strode into the waiting area, followed by the girl who had questioned the legality of SST.
"Alfa Sprout?" The detective had a pinched look on his face.
Aunt Alfa shot up faster than wheatgrass grown in expensive soil. "Right here, detective. I'm ready to tell you anything you need to know."
I rose and took Brownie's leash from Aunt Alfa and handed it to Tattoo Tex. Then I looked at the detective. "Is it all right if I accompany my aunt as her guardian?"
The detective shrugged. "Don't see why not."
I turned to Tattoo Tex. "Are you okay to sit here with Brownie?"
"Sure thang, Doc."
The detective motioned us to follow him down a hallway into a small interrogation room. A chipped Formica table dominated the room surrounded by padded folding chairs. I sat down and glanced at the darkened glass window behind the detective. Was anyone watching?
Detective Franks set a small paper bag and digital tape recorder on the table. "Just letting you know ma'am that I'll be taping this interrogation."
"Interrogation?" Aunt Alfa sounded surprised. "I thought this was a voluntary questioning?"
I leaned forward and anchored my elbows on the table. "Me too. Do we need an attorney present?" Not that I knew one, but I was resourceful enough to locate one quickly.
"Questioning is a form of interrogation." His faced pinched tighter as he sat down and pulled a notebook from his pocket. "What's your full name and address?"
"Excuse me, but didn't my aunt already give you that information?"
He shot me an annoyed look. "I'm asking the questions here."
Aunt Alfa shifted in her chair. "My name's Alfa Sprout." Then she rattled off our address in Sea Spray, Maryland.
"No middle name?"
"It was Bertha, but I legally changed it to nothing a long time ago." Aunt Alfa was all business. "I'm not sure what my mom was thinking with Bertha. It's too old lady-ish."
He looked at her. "Don't mind me asking, but how old are you, ma'am?"
"Ninety-one, but I'm telling you now, detective, it's much better to act younger than your biological age." She leaned forward and tapped her temple. "Staying energetic's all up here and in how you live your life. Eating garbage and not exercising ages a person."
My gaze landed on the small paper bag. Were those greasy stains creeping up the edge?
The detective's stomach grumbled, and he, too, looked at the bag. Then he stuck his hand inside it and pulled out a breakfast sandwich. Eggs, cheese, and greasy bacon protruded from the buttery white-flour croissant. A fast food funk permeated the small room.
Eeww. I'd never liked fast food.
Aunt Alfa pointed at the man's sandwich. "That's what I'm talking about, Detective. You'd be much better off having a green smoothie for breakfast. You'd digest it a lot better and absorb the nutrients from the greens."
"I don't need anyone telling me about nutrition." He frowned as he scarfed the entire meal in a few bites. Then he wrinkled up the wrapper and tossed it in the trashcan, missing the shot by a few inches. Instead of getting up to put the wrapper in the can, however, he just sat there and stared at us.
So crass.
"Now where were we?" He reviewed his notebook. "Do you have an occupation? Oh, I guess you're retired?"
I wasted no time stopping this potential train wreck. "She's an aromatherapist."
"A what?"
"I make essential oils for all sorts of ailments," Aunt Alfa said. "You name it, and I can fix it with aromatherapy."
Phew. Glad that was done.
He stared at his notebook before lifting his chin, which was dotted with grease droplets. "Is that all you do?"
I gulped. Oh no! That girl out front must have told him about the SST card! How should I best handle this?
"I help my great niece at her wellness center." She crooked her head toward me. "I'm her assistant."
He turned a shocked gaze to me. "You make her work for you?"
I jerked back in my seat. No one made Aunt Alfa do anything. "She wants to work, detective."
"No offense, but shouldn't she be sitting around knitting an afghan?"
Aunt Alfa laughed. "Shows what you know about hot women in their nineties. I'm too busy to knit some dumb afghan."
"She actually doesn't like knitting anymore." I winced at the memory of Aunt Alfa's knitting club incident where she'd accidentally punctured the arm of another member with a knitting needle.
She'd been booted out of the knitting club and ordered to stay away from hooks.
"I liked knitting, Pipe. It just didn't like me."
"What I find interesting is the level of deception you two are displaying." He looked from Aunt Alfa to me and back to Aunt Alfa. "Apparently you gave some kind of business card to one of the girls out front. A card for some flirty senior sweet talk hotline that your pig's advertising on its harness? Care to tell me about that?"
My stomach roiled. This was not going well.
Aunt Alfa elbowed me. "I told you I should just tell him. It's better to be up front and honest."
"Honest about what?" His tone had developed a razor-sharp edge.
Aunt Alfa leaned forward. "Honest about my new job that I'm making bank with. I'll be able to afford a new pimped-out scooter in no time."
Why'd she mention the word pimp at a police station?
"Detective, she's not breaking any laws with this new phone thing." I searched for the right words. I wanted him to see Aunt Alfa as a sweet grandma, not a geriatric dominatrix.
"Maybe so, but it sounds a little shady."
He was mistaken.
"My new job's more like a counseling hotline," Aunt Alfa said. "Guys call in and want to talk. Take Snookums and Carl for example. Snookums feels like he doesn't belong, and Carl's hurting for money."
"And she butters up their egos by calling them Stud-biscuit," I said, making air quotes. "That's the extent of the physical nature of her job."
"It's no different than when I worked at Madame Esmerelda's hotline as a psychic therapist in England." Aunt Alfa anchored her chin on her bony little hands.
What the fennel? My jaw fell open.
He flipped back a few pages and scrunched his face. "I thought you were an aromatherapist, not a psychic therapist?"
"You live long enough, and it's all therapy."
I swiveled in my chair to face her. "When did you do this?"
"Remember when your mom took off for London?"
I'd tried to block it, but the memory of my mother abandoning me during high school to become a holistic healer in London was hard to forget. But a psychic hotline? That was news.
"It was short lived 'cause I got fired when the place got busted," Aunt Alfa said. "Turns out Madame Esmerelda was running some kind of crime ring and someone ended up getting whacked. I was the one who discovered the body. It was a big mess and yadda yadda yadda, I can't go to England again."
No wonder she'd passed on that holistic expo in the English Riviera.
"I'd probably get arrested if I came through Heathrow. I didn't want to chance it."
Holy cocoa nibs! I massaged my forehead with shaky hands. Aunt Alfa's trip down memory lane was going to tank us. Or end with my auntie in handcuffs.
And not the fuzzy pink kind.
Detective Franks leaned back in his chair and placed one ankle on top of his knee. "You're not welcome to travel to England? That's interesting." He took a few notes. "What about Asia? You ever been there?"
"What does Asia have to do with anything?" I asked.
Aunt Alfa scrunched her face. "Not unless you count China Wok. It's one of those strip-mall Chinese joints, but they make the best Szechuan shrimp. And they're close to our place in Sea Spray."