by Patrice Lyle
Next up was Charles, the psychic surgeon who had claimed not to know Babette, which was clearly a lie. And he'd fibbed about the woman wearing the yellow sandals in the parking lot. Definitely an item for additional review.
I cleansed the pesky area on either side of my nostrils as I considered Garnett. She'd certainly been incensed over Mystic Ming's die-alone curse, so much that she'd stated death would nullify it. Plus she'd planted a voodoo doll in his jacket, physical evidence of her rage. I rinsed my face and blotted it dry, happy my PI mind was on fire.
I applied my four nightly layers of anti-wrinkle defense, all SO, of course, and hurried back to my laptop. After creating a new file called Suspicious Peeps, I captured my earlier thoughts on Norman, Charles, and Garnett. Then I tackled the Vegan Vixen.
Living a lie, I typed. Has every reason to want to protect her future and reputation by killing Mystic Ming. An image of the take-out bag marked with the words "large pork burrito with x-tra cheese" flooded my mind. Anyone who could chastise Norman over a pork burrito in public while scarfing one in private would have no problem lying about murder.
She deserves another look. But she did give me Mystic Ming's journal. Hmm.
Then I arrived at Babette. I recapped her lie about not knowing Charles, as well as the conversation with her mother and the disturbing information about Luther's death. As well as her theatrical psychic performance designed to implicate Aunt Alfa. Definitely need to follow up. She could have killed Luther and Mystic Ming.
I tipped my head back. Who else was a suspect? Think.
The hotel manager, Wilbur. What if his performance rating is tied to bookings? He stated the hotel was sold out now because of Mystic Ming's death. Could he have orchestrated the killer kung pao to get a bigger Thanksgiving turkey or Christmas ham?
Who else? I bit the inside of my cheek as my mind whirled on the events of the last day. The psychic phenomena I'd encountered. The new faces I'd seen. The people I'd met.
Uh-oh.
A trickle of dread slid down my spine. As much as I hated to consider him, a good PI had to review anyone with a tie to the victim or murder weapon. Unfortunately that meant Tattoo Tex. He'd admitted to having a run-in with the victim and working at a peanut plant.
Two definite connections I couldn't ignore.
I pushed back from my laptop. Even though I knew Jock Cowboy couldn't really be the killer, in the name of fairness, I had to add him. I begrudgingly set my fingers on the keys and began typing. He had access to the murder weapon and the victim told him he hated his cowboy ha…but he kisses too well to be a murderer. Plus he's totally hot, the girly part of me noted. Yeah, but that doesn't mean he isn't trying to woo you into overlooking him, the PI in me countered.
I stared at the laptop, shocked at myself. As an ND I had lots of experience being objective and clinical, but was I going too far? I reread the entry about Tattoo Tex, and a new question popped into my mind.
Was I really prepared to let my dislike of Western things go? Holding Tattoo Tex's Western lifestyle against him seemed wrong, yet I hated rodeos. They were cruel and, if I had my way, should be outlawed.
But I'd never thought cowboys were sexy before now.
A sick feeling flooded me. I typed furiously, Must find out if Jock Cowboy has a history of frequenting rodeos. I hope not. If he does, do I really want to be in a serious relationship with a cowboy? I wish he didn't wear a stupid cowboy hat.
When I started giggling, I knew it was time to stop. I'd never been a night owl, and late nights tended to turn me into a giddy mess. Exhaustion was settling in, and I glanced at the clock. Oh no. It was almost two o'clock in the morning, and I'd forgotten to call Aunt Alfa.
I saved the document and retrieved my cell phone. I dialed her number and heard the familiar melody of her Sex and the City ring tone outside the door.
I hurried toward the peephole and peered into the hallway. A gray-haired lady wearing a floral muumuu was leaning against a walker outside my room. She stared at her orthopedic shoes while clutching Aunt Alfa's teal-colored cell phone in her gloved hands.
Holy sequins. Some crazy old lady from the séance must have jumped Aunt Alfa and stolen her phone to obtain murder evidence.
My heart pounded as I yanked the door open and grabbed the woman's surprisingly toned arm. "Why do you have my auntie's phone?"
Aunt Alfa's familiar chuckle emerged from the lady's mouth as she lifted her chin. She patted her curly-haired gray wig. "Great disguise, huh? I borrowed Mervyn's dead mom's clothes and his extra walker."
When I could breathe again, I let out a nervous laugh. "I thought something bad had happened to you. Didn't you get my text to stay away?"
She gestured at her hilarious get-up. "Why else would I be wearin' these hideous old bat shoes?"
"What a relief that you're all right."
She pushed the walker inside our room and tossed it into the closet. "Relief is what I gave Mervyn with my herbal movement mix. He'll see what a good bowel movement is first thing tomorrow morning."
As a natural health practitioner, I know the importance of elimination. But eeww.
She stepped up to me and swooshed a lock of hair behind my ear. "I thought you'd be fast asleep by now, dreaming of that hot jock cowboy."
As long as he's not a murderer.
I turned and peeked into the hallway, cranking my head in both directions. "Where's Mervyn?"
"He's got his RV hooked up at a nearby park." She headed for her suitcase on her bed and unzipped it.
I closed the door, flipped the locks shut, and leaned against the door. Thank goodness, my auntie's okay.
"You all right, Pipe? Sorry if I scared you."
"I'm fine." It certainly wasn't the first time Aunt Alfa had almost caused me to stroke out. Probably wouldn't be the last either.
"Mervyn's RV park is real nice."
"I thought he was driving that Caprice Classic?"
"He tows it behind his RV." She dug out her leopard print pajama shorts and matching top. "He's got a real nice diesel pusher. Lots of room for action."
I so didn't want to know what kind of action. "After you get dressed, I'll brief you on the case."
Never one to be self-conscious, Aunt Alfa peeled off her wig and old lady dress in front of me. I looked the other way and headed for the computer. No sense in reminding her—yet again—that the bathroom was a better place to get dressed. At ninety-one, she was stuck in her ways.
"Think these jammies match my thong?"
I stared at my laptop. "Sure."
"You didn't even look, Pipe." She sounded hurt.
Fine. I turned and reviewed her clothing choice. "Yes, the cherry red and leopard print are a perfect match."
For her age, she had a rockin' awesome figure. For any age, actually. Aunt Alfa was my nonagenarian inspiration that stellar nutrition and consistent exercise could pay off. Her sleek frame looked years younger, and it wasn't because she was a skinny old lady.
She was a toned old lady. Way more toned than me.
"Thanks. I was hoping they looked nice. Wouldn't want to disappoint Mervyn." Thankfully my auntie pulled on her shorts and top. "Not that he can see very well. I'm going to have to work on his eyesight herbally."
At least she wasn't working on his Miracle Wood Work.
Happy to have appeased her, I returned to my important PI work. I pointed at my Suspicious Peeps file on the laptop. "Listen to this." I read the entry about Babette aloud and briefed my auntie on Babette's late-night show, as well as Luther's death-by-peanut-butter-cookie.
Aunt Alfa shrugged. "Her former hubby could have deserved it."
"What? No one deserves to be killed." Not even Floyd.
"Never know."
I was too tired to argue. "Regardless, it's curious that her first husband was killed by a peanut-related item." Now to the hard part. "Aunt Alfa, I have to tell you something."
Her jaw tightened. "I'm too old to wear a thong?"
My h
eart melted. "You're not too old to do anything."
"Good 'cause I'm a granny panty wearer in name only, Pipe. I only joined that dating website for fun."
If only Wanna Get In My Granny Panties was all was we had to talk about. But it wasn't. "This is serious." I drew in a breath. "Babette implicated you during the séance."
She made her famous lemon-sucking face. "How?"
The story flowed from my lips, sparing no details. "She faked the séance, Aunt Alfa. You should have seen it. Her accent was worse than Mystic Ming's."
"Of all the lowdown tricks." She opened a container of face wipes, turned to the mirror, and swiped one across her cheeks. "I'm going to teach that bogus psychic a lesson. Maybe I'll spike her coffee with an herbal laxative?"
I think my heart stopped. What a crazy thing to suggest. "No, you're not. You can't be caught spiking anything. That would make you look suspect."
She looked genuinely surprised. "Suspect on what?"
Did I have to spell it out for her? "Like you go around tampering with people's food and drink? Like Mystic Ming's killer kung pao?" Duh.
"That fake psychic doesn't scare me. If you ask me, she deserves a case of the runs."
"Aunt Alfa." My blood pressure was probably approaching stroke level.
She waved her hand as if to say, Whatever.
Now to the really hard part. "There's something else."
She closed the facial wipes and stooped to give Brownie a kiss on his snout. "I love our little piglet."
My poor aunt. At her age, she didn't deserve this stress. I braced myself and told her Babette's claim about the Chinese food delivery kid.
"That's a total lie," Aunt Alfa said. "He wasn't around when I was loading the food into Merv's Caprice Classic."
Had she been alone with the lunch? My heart catapulted. "But Mervyn was with you, right?"
She scrunched her face. "Nope, he was in the john."
"You had no witnesses when you took the food from the restaurant?" That couldn't be good.
Her forehead creased, making her curlers shift. "No."
Aunt Alfa didn't freak out the way I would have, however. She simply rose from her piglet-kissing crouch and did a few back stretches.
"You're not upset about this delivery kid lying to the police?"
"I could be, but you know what? I'm not going waste an ounce of my precious ninety-one-year-old energy on this bunk. I didn't kill that mouthy psychic, right?"
"Of course you didn't, Aunt Alfa. I'm on your side no matter what."
"As Swindoll said, 'Life is ten percent what happens and ninety percent how I react to it.'"
I smiled. "I know because you taught me that philosophy when I turned fourteen." It had stuck with me ever since.
"That's why I'm not worried." Her eyes misted over as she approached me. "Things always work out. With your flashcards, you'll learn the PI biz in a flash. No pun intended. You're on the case, so I'm home free."
No pressure there.
Longing to prove her innocence swelled in my heart. I was proud of her for handling the stress of being a murder suspect so well.
"I'll solve the case. I promise you." I hoped I sounded convincing.
We hugged, and as I wrapped my arms around her lithe frame, I realized something. The kind of love I felt with her—that familiar, deep-seated, unconditional kind of love—was exactly what had flowed through my body when I embraced Tattoo Tex.
He'd better not be the killer.
She kissed my cheek and glanced at Brownie. "He's out like a light. Our little guy loves to travel."
"But he hates getting sand in his hooves, remember? So you have to take him in the grass for his morning walk tomorrow."
"I won't forget." She got into bed and slipped under the covers. "We walked to a funky coffee shop earlier today and, oh…" she said, tapping her forehead. "That's what I forgot to tell you. I saw a woman in those yellow Sparkle O sandals. Remember those?"
My stomach twisted. "Was she a younger girl with dark hair?"
She sat up. "Yes."
I told Aunt Alfa about the two times I'd seen the same woman. Once in the parking lot with the psychic surgeon and once bolting down the hallway from Babette's door.
"And both of them claim they don't know her," I said.
"Pfft. Babette's lying because I saw the sandaled woman arguing with her."
"Really? Where?"
"Outside the hotel. The woman in the yellow SO sandals was throwing up her hands and yelling at Babette. I was going to ask her about the sandals, but I didn't want to barge in on a fight." Aunt Alfa pressed her head against the pillow, and her eyes fluttered shut. "Then Brownie let out a big squeal so we left."
Interesting. My PI mind was on overdrive, and I needed something to tie up this case with a dark chocolate bow. I'd bet my wellness practice that the woman in the Sparkle O sandals was connected to Mystic Ming's murder.
But how?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Too Cute To Be a Killer
Aunt Alfa was emitting dainty zzz's when I hit the lights and climbed into bed. I shut my eyes and tried to fall asleep. But whenever I tried too hard to sleep, it never worked. I rolled over and refused to peer at the clock. Images of the suspects rolled through my mind.
I'm missing something. I know I am.
A few minutes later, I retrieved a bottle of Aunt Alfa's lavender essential oil spray and squirted my pillow. I must have finally fallen asleep between counting dark chocolate almond clusters because my phone alarm dinged at 5:45 AM.
Not wanting to wake Brownie or Aunt Alfa, I glided across the hotel room and into the bathroom where I had my workout clothes ready. I carefully brushed my teeth, finger-styled my wavy hair, and, because I was seeing Tattoo Tex, spritzed myself with Sparkle O's body spray.
At 5:59 I slowly undid the locks and backed into the hallway, tugging the door shut as silently as possible.
"Mornin', doc," Tattoo Tex said behind me.
I whirled around, my heart thumping. "You scared me."
He quickly calmed my nerves with the sweet, heart-pounding kiss he pressed onto my lips. "Sorry, thar."
"No apologies needed." I melted into him and realized I'd been smart to use an extra dollop of ginger mint toothpaste. Morning breath wasn't attractive on anyone.
Especially Floyd with his penchant for garlicky hummus.
I traced my finger down Jock Cowboy's cheek and admired his Texan good looks. "You ready to hit the beach?"
His black shorts and turquoise wet-dry shirt told me he was. As did the cowboy hat perched on his head. "Ready for my first lymphatic walk."
Gotta love a man who listens and learns. And who's totally hot at 6 AM.
He took my hand, and we strolled through the quiet hall, taking the steps to the lobby. No one was milling around the free coffee cart as we exited the hotel. The sun was making its daily debut, and Florida balminess surrounded us as we turned toward the beach.
"I love the ocean," I said. "I can't imagine not living by it. The Maryland shore's beautiful."
"I'd love to live by the beach." He halted near a giant cobalt blue truck decorated with black flames and white gemstones, along with the words, Tattoo Tex. "Need to grab my shades."
"Your truck, I take it?" How had I missed that last night? "The diamonds are gorgeous."
Gotta love a man who loves jewelry.
"My diamond tattoos got me a name in the industry, so I had them custom painted." He slipped his keys out of his shorts and opened the driver's door. He grabbed his sunglasses and beeped it shut. "I'm real proud of my truck."
"It's pretty." I gazed at the artwork. "What an incredible shade of blue." The flames were a little much, but I knew better than to insult a man's truck.
"The paint job's cool, but it's how I've altered the mechanics that makes my truck a one of a kind."
Not wanting to deny his bragging rights I asked, "What'd you do?"
"I rigged this here truck to run on peanut oil
instead of gas." A proud grin spread across his face. "And it's saving me a bundle because I get a killer deal at work."
Funny choice of words.
"You all right, doc?" His eyebrows drew together in concern. "You look worried?"
I was terribly worried my romantic interest in him was in serious conflict with my PI mission. My mind raced back to the trifecta of murder. Motive, means, and opportunity.
Which one did peanut oil fit?
Means? As in he had access to the murder weapon?
"Sorry, I was thinking about…Aunt Alfa." My chest tightened, but as a PI I had to inquire about his peanut oil access. "Do you like working at the peanut plant?"
"Now I do. I used to get bored with the same old job until I found a way to make it fun." He tapped his truck, all smiles. "Rigging my ride to run on peanut oil was a real challenge."
I tried to look impressed, but my mind was on overdrive. Previously, I thought he'd only worked at the plant, which meant he didn't carry peanut oil on him.
Now things had changed. But he's too cute to be a killer.
The most compelling evidence of my theory about his innocence, however, was the way pure friendliness glistened in his eyes when he smiled at me. No one could fake that.
Tattoo Tex gazed at his prized truck. "She drove like a dream all the way here. And the canopy on back lets me carry enough peanut oil to make it home."
Which means you have 24/7 access to the murder weapon. Isn't that as lovely as a silver sequin?
I played it cool, however. "That's impressive. How'd you get the truck to run on peanut oil?"
While he explained his engineering feat, I wished I'd had time to review the flashcards again. Specifically any advice on motive. Would the self-disclosed run-in with Mystic Ming be reason enough to make Tattoo Tex want to kill him? I needed to steer the conversation that way if I wanted to clear him. And get on with our future.
But how?
Yes. The idea came to me in an instant. The Body, Mind & Spirit Expo's ban on doctors next year. Perfect.
"I'm impressed," I said, once he was done with his peanut-oil-for-gas spiel. In addition to being cute, he was obviously quite intelligent.