“When did you speak with her last?”
“How should I know? I probably ran into her at Shannon’s house or something. Could have been a year ago, could’ve been longer. It’s not something I’d keep track of. Why?”
“Are you acquainted with Bradley Fostmeier?”
“Never heard of him. Seriously, why are you bugging me with all this stuff, man?” Tony demanded.
“Are you aware that Ms. Markham was murdered last week?”
“Yeah, I read about it in the papers. So?”
“I just find it a rather interesting coincidence that two members of a family were killed in the same town.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed, and Chas watched his muscles to see if he was preparing to spring.
“Don’t even try to tell me that you think I had something to do with whatever happened to Maria. I ain’t even got a suit to wear to get into a fancy-schmancy place like an art gallery.”
Tony’s tone was menacing and he leaned toward Chas, fists clenching and unclenching. The PI didn’t flinch.
“Relax,” Chas directed. “Do you think I would’ve come out here with you alone if I thought that you were a suspect?”
That seemed to resonate with the younger man, but he still eyed Chas with suspicion.
“Look, I told them back then, and I’m telling you now. I didn’t kill nobody. I’m just a regular guy, trying to live his life.”
“Sure, I get it,” Chas nodded, seeing a further need to de-escalate the situation. “Any thoughts on who might’ve done it?”
Tony paused for a moment, staring at Chas as though trying to determine whether or not he was genuine.
“Which one?”
“Either, or both.”
“With Shannon… I wish I knew. I see how people look at me. I know what they’re thinking. Maria… no clue. Like I said, I didn’t know her real well. She seemed nice. I don’t know why somebody would kill her, but then Shannon was nice too.”
“One last thing. Where were you last Tuesday night?”
“Why?” the menacing tone was back in Tony’s voice.
Chas just stared at him, completely unintimidated. The fishing guide answered his own question.
“Because that’s when Maria got killed,” he guessed correctly. “Fine. I don’t even know, lemme look.”
Tony reached behind his back, and Chas reached his own hand back to the waistband of his shorts, where he kept his pistol, just in case.
“Relax man,” Tony put his hands up, the cellphone in his right. “I was just getting my phone,” he waggled it at Chas, then tapped on the screen to access his calendar. “Okay, Tuesday… I was at a party.”
“Whose?”
“Guy named Teddy Beekman, over on LaPuerta Drive. It was his birthday.”
“Nice area,” Chas commented.
“Yeah, I got nice friends,” Tony growled.
“What time were you at Mr. Beekman’s?”
“Got there at six, left around one-thirty.”
Chas nodded, saying nothing. Tony shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable.
“So… you wanna fish or what?” he asked finally.
Chas briefly considered the idea, but figured that the least amount of time he spent with Tony Calizzi the better.
“Nah, I need to get back.”
“Whatever, man,” Tony commented, turning the boat back toward the marina. “We don’t do refunds.”
“No worries.”
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Beulah McCallister made her way to the back door of Cupcakes in Paradise well before the sun came up, humming a tune that was as old as the hills. Her sight wasn’t what it used to be, but she could’ve sworn that she saw a dark figure darting away from the side of the building as she approached. Staring off in the direction of the fleeing figure, she slipped her key into the lock, to unlock the door. The lock gave easily, but when Beulah tried to open the door, it barely gave way. She pushed harder, to no avail.
“Well, I’m gonna be getting inside, whether you want me to or not,” she scolded the stubborn door.
Lowering her shoulder, with a look of stern determination, the older woman slammed her considerable bulk against the door, which finally gave way. Catching her balance and her breath, Beulah stood upright on the stoop, tucking her keys into her behemoth shoulder bag, and never saw the gutter above her that broke loose from the roof’s edge and smashed into the side of her head.
Crying out in pain, she staggered backward, but didn’t fall, raising a hand to her forehead and feeling a touch of wetness where her scalp had begun to bleed. The gutter swung to and fro beside her, and Beulah stepped back to look up at the roof, feeling slightly dizzy.
“That ain’t no accident,” she muttered, pursing her lips. “Somebody done got up on that roof and sawed off them screws.”
She looked around her, hoping to catch the vandal and give them a piece of her mind, but nothing stirred in the cool morning air. Wiping a trickle of blood that had run down her cheek, Beulah headed inside, muttering about no-good miscreants. She didn’t want to bother Missy with the incident, knowing that it would shake her up, so she found the first aid kit in the storage room, cleaned up the cut on her scalp, and held clean white gauze on it until it stopped bleeding, then she washed up thoroughly, donned her apron and gloves and went to work.
Half an hour later, Missy rushed in, her face pale. “Beulah, oh thank goodness… I saw blood on the back step, and the gutter hanging down and… oh no! What happened? Are you okay?”
She rushed to Beulah’s side, her eyes on the scalp wound under Beulah’s hairnet.
Joyce’s aunt looked up from scraping frosting away from the sides of the bowl and folding it back in on itself.
“Child, I’m up to my elbows in frosting, ain’t nothing wrong with me,” she blinked at the distraught shop owner.
“But your head…?” Missy’s eyes were huge, worry etched onto her features.
“It’s fine. I took care of it. Head wounds always look worse than they are. You got bigger problems to worry about, sweet pea.”
“I do?”
“Mmhmm…” Beulah nodded, loading the frosting into a bag with a decorative tip on the end of it. “That gutter didn’t just come down by itself, and I’m about half blind, so I can’t tell for sure, but I could swear I saw somebody sneaking away from here right when I got outta my car.”
A chill ran up Missy’s spine. “Did you see what they looked like?”
“No ma’am, wasn’t nothing but a moving shadow. If I was you, I’d get that clever husband of mine down here to check it out.”
Missy nodded. “You’re right, I’ll text him, but I think you need to go home and rest, or maybe go to the doctor and get that checked out,” she glanced again at the cut.
Setting down her bag of frosting on a sheet of waxed paper, Beulah stared at Missy over the top of her wire-framed spectacles, putting her hands on her hips.
“Honey, I’ll rest when I’m dead, and I ain’t about to go pay no doctor a couple hundred dollars to tell me what I already know. If you want me to go home, you’re gonna have to fire me. Now, the coffee is ready. Go get yourself some, you’re looking a mite pale,” she finished, turning back to her work.
“Are you…” Missy began, but stopped when Beulah turned around and raised an eyebrow at her. “Okay,” she sighed. “Can I pour you a cup?”
“No thank you, there’s work to be done and I’ve already had my daily cup, but you go on and get some,” she shooed Missy away and turned on the mixer.
***
“There’s no doubt about it,” Chas called down from his perch on the ladder. “These screws were cut.”
Missy shielded her eyes with her hand. “Why on earth would someone want to do such a thing?” she worried.
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing that all of the annoying little things that have been happening to you may just be related,” her husband replied grimly, climbing down from the
ladder.
“Well, it’s a relief to know that I’m not just becoming terribly forgetful and negligent. Hey, how did you know about the annoying little things happening to me?” Missy frowned. She’d been intentionally keeping her trivial trials to herself because she knew that Chas was working hard on two cases.
“You’re not the only one who talks to Echo, you know,” Chas grinned.
“That traitor,” Missy scowled.
“She knew that you weren’t that forgetful, even with your current workload. She was worried about what was happening.”
“Fine, I guess I’ll have to forgive her this time,” Missy stood on tiptoe to kiss the dashing PI before he left.
“Well, well, well,” a gruff voice with a Jersey accent intruded into their moment. “You left the police force to become a handyman? Seems like a better fit,” Detective Art Solinsky goaded his predecessor.
Chas glanced at Missy to see if she had called him, she shook her head imperceptibly.
“You’re going to have to hit the gym more faithfully if you’re here because of a cupcake habit,” Chas shot back with a tight smile.
“Very funny, Beckett. If home repair doesn’t work out, maybe you should go into comedy. I’m not here to see you, I need to speak with your wife.”
“About?”
“About what motive she might’ve had to kill Maria Markham,” Solinsky’s eyes were like daggers.
“Why am I not surprised?” Chas sighed. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he kissed his wife and headed to his car.
Missy didn’t register alarm; she and Chas had discussed the fact that Solinsky would probably bumble along with the case and want to question her as a person of interest.
Solinsky took in the dangling gutter, as well as the drops of blood on the back step, eyeing Missy with suspicion.
“Care to tell me what happened here?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but the gutter fell down and clipped my coworker on the forehead.”
“You have an employee? I’ll need to speak with them,” Solinsky frowned.
“Oh, I’ll pay money to see that,” Missy grinned, despite herself.
“How long have you known Maria Markham?” the detective demanded, changing the subject.
“I don’t know Maria Markham.”
“And yet you were conveniently standing right next to her when she was murdered,” Solinsky rolled his eyes.
“The room was packed, and I was standing in a crowd of strangers,” Missy pointed out.
“And yet none of them had clothing that was soaked with blood.”
“Actually several of them did. I saw them, didn’t you?”
“We’re not talking about them, we’re talking about your involvement with Ms. Markham. Did you have any conversation with her before her death?”
“Not that I remember. I said hello to several people whom I didn’t know. She may have been one of them.”
“How well are you acquainted with Bradley Fostmeier?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Really?” the skepticism dripped from the word. “He was standing quite close to you and eating one of the cupcakes that you had provided.”
“And?” Missy was baffled at the accusatory tone. “There were quite a few people eating cupcakes. They were gone within an hour.”
“Sounds to me like maybe the two of you coordinated Ms. Markham’s murder,” Solinsky went for the jugular.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!”.
“A hoity-toity art gallery reception isn’t a place where Maria Markham would show up typically. I wonder why she happened to be there that night,” Solinsky stared at Missy.
“I have no idea.”
“We’ll see about that. The forensics guys have your dress and they’re drawing some very interesting conclusions based upon the blood spatter pattern on it.”
“Are we done here, Detective?” Missy asked, hating to call him by a title that he certainly didn’t deserve, but unable to stomach using his name.
“For now,” Solinsky smirked. “Might wanna get that fixed, somebody could get hurt,” he pointed at the gutter. “I’ll be back to talk to your employee.”
“Looking forward to it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Bradley Fostmeier sat on his worn cloth sofa, picking at a hangnail, one leg bouncing up and down as Chas walked him through the night of his date’s murder.
“We didn’t know each other very well,” Brad said of Maria. “I met her at a bar. We hit it off pretty well and went out a few times. I was so psyched to get an invitation to Mr. Kellerman’s gallery gala that I called her up to go with me. She was so pretty that I thought she’d help me make a good impression,” the young man explained.
“Did you know her cousin, Shannon?”
“No, I never met any of her family,” Brad replied, his eyes darting briefly to the left.
“Did she tell you anything about her cousin?”
“She told me about one of her cousins who died. I don’t remember what her name was, though.”
“What did she tell you about that?”
“Something like, she was killed and the whole family thought that the boyfriend did it,” he shrugged.
“Did she say why they thought that?”
“Maybe. I don’t really remember. I kinda tune out when chicks start talking about their family, you know?”
Chas stared at him for a moment. “How is it that you happened to be invited to the gala?”
“I work at the art supply store. I deliver canvases to Mr. Kellerman and sometimes bring him pieces of my work to critique.”
“What kind of art do you do?”
“Sculpture mostly. I use found objects.”
“Is that how you got that cut on your forefinger?” Chas looked at Bradley’s right hand.
“Oh, that?” he held up the finger. “Nah, I got that opening a box of polymer clay.”
Chas nodded, not breaking eye contact. “I’d like to see your work sometime. Do you have a studio?”
Bradley seemed stunned and said nothing for a beat. When he recovered, he nodded his head, seeming nervous. “Uh, yeah, man. My stuff is all in the garage, if you want to see it.”
“Sure, do you have some time now?”
“Now?” he seemed confused.
“Yeah, I have a few minutes,” Chas persisted.
“Uhh… okay, sure. Come on out,” Bradley stood and Chas followed him through a tiny, messy kitchen to a door that led to the garage.
To call the area inside the garage a studio was a bit of an overreach, but clearly there was an attempt to make sculpture in the dim, musty space. There was a metal shelving unit against the far side, which held finished pieces, and one next to it covered with works in progress.
“Do you sell these?” Chas asked, studying the finished pieces.
“Uh, I haven’t yet, but that’s what I want to do, yeah,” Bradley nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets and watching Chas carefully.
“How old are these pieces?”
“They, uh, start on the right side, from about six years ago, and they go this way to the newest stuff,” he gestured to the shelves, making a sweeping motion with his arm from left to right.
“These two right here, what would you charge for them?” Chas pointed at two sculptures that were side by side, one made out of what looked like motorcycle parts, the other an interesting combination of household items.
“Wait, you want to buy those?” Bradley was astonished.
“I think they’ll be a nice addition to my office,” Chas replied, staring at the pieces.
“Umm… how about fifty dollars?”
“Each?” Chas was surprised at the low price tag.
“Uh, no. I mean, you can have them both for fifty bucks.”
Apparently Bradley was a better artist than businessperson, but not by much. Chas took out his wallet and handed him a fifty dollar bill.
“That’s… awesome,” Bradley stared at the bill in disbelief, and Chas realized that they were probably the first pieces he’d ever sold, regretfully noting that he just might be going to jail because of them.
“Could you carry them to my car please?”
“Sure, no problem.”
Bradley reached up and pulled the two sculptures, covered with dust, from the shelf.
“Do you want me to wrap ‘em up or anything?” he asked, holding one under each arm.
“No, I’m sure they’ll be fine in the back seat.”
Bradley carefully placed the items in the footwells behind the front seat.
“So, hey, can you like… not tell anyone that I talked to you?” he asked, seeming very nervous.
“Why?” Chas raised an eyebrow.
“Because I wasn’t supposed to talk to you.”
“Says who?” the PI drilled him with a glare.
“I really can’t…” he began.
“I’m looking at you as a suspect for murder, you might want to be honest with me right now.”
Bradley paled. “What? But I…”.
“Who?” Chas cut him off.
“Solinsky,” the timid young man admitted finally. “He told me that you might come around and that if I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t say a word to you.”
“I see,” Chas nodded. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” he said, getting into the driver’s seat.
“Enjoy the art,” Bradley called out as he drove away.
Chas hit speed dial and spoke into his remote phone speaker. “Fiona, can you put Tim on the phone?” he asked the coroner’s assistant. “Eckels, I’ve got something I need to check out with you. Can you meet me at Betty’s in ten minutes? Perfect. See you then, thanks.”
Feeling as if he’d just drastically narrowed his field of suspects, the PI headed for Betty’s Diner, needing a strong cup of coffee and the opinion of the best coroner he’d ever encountered. On his way to the diner, he made another call.
“Ringo. Get online and see what connections you can find between Bradley Fostmeier and Tony Calizzi. See if they’ve worked together, went to school together, were friends together… any connection. Yes, you can put your pizza on the office account,” Chas sighed. “You’re welcome.”
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