“But—”
“No one calls me that, except Barnes. And he and I are going to have a few words about his terminology as soon as this case is over.” He put the cruiser in drive and began to weave his way around the pedestrians wandering down the middle of Main Street.
“Isn’t that a compliment? Making note of your status?” I watched his reaction in the rearview mirror as the stones in his necklace and tribal bracelet glimmered in the afternoon sun.
“Oh, gee.” Sometimes I’m clueless and other times I’m just stupid. “I get it.”
“‘Bout time,” he said under his breath.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. That kind of thing must drive you nuts.”
“Nah. It rarely happens.”
I smiled at him in the rearview mirror, but he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road. For a few minutes we traveled in silence. Gold Rush Lighting was north of town, on the way to Fort Davis. “The ME called me,” he said finally.
I leaned forward, caught up short by my vigilant seat belt. “It was murder, right?”
This time he scowled into the rearview mirror. “Lucky had a medical record card in his pocket with his doctor’s information on it.”
“What could the doctor say? I still think he died of electrocution.”
With a clench of his jaw and a slight shake of his head, he made a right turn onto Agave Road. “I don’t understand why you keep saying that. You have no evidence.”
True—but my gut was telling me I was right. “Okay, so what’d he say?”
“She told me he wears a pacemaker—”
“Which we already know.”
He met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Well, now it’s confirmed.”
I sighed. “All that buildup over nothing.”
With a jerk, he braked and took the next corner. “That’s not the good part. Hold your proverbial horses.”
“Consider them held.”
“He had a weak heart. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to have keeled over on a good day.”
“Of course he had a dotty heart. The guy wore a pacemaker.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re about to keel over just because you wear one.”
I couldn’t remember Lucky wheezing or being short of breath. He certainly had plenty of hot air when he complained about his missing gluten-free foods at the reception. “So he wasn’t long for this world?”
He shrugged. “Can’t say.”
“Well, say something.”
“Forget it.”
“No, no. I apologize.” I undid the seat belt and leaned forward between the front seats. “You need someone to talk things over with. I get that. Someone who thinks outside the box.”
“On another plane, more like it.”
My wheels started to turn. “Lucky Straw was murdered. Admit it.”
He nodded slowly. “I could tell that’s where you were headed.”
“Don’t you think so?”
“No. But you do and I’m curious enough to want to know why.”
“One. Burn marks from a stun gun could’ve been hidden by his chest hair or all those freckles.” I counted on my fingers. “Two. There were enough extension cords in that place to choke him to death even if he wasn’t electrocuted.”
“You’re saying someone entered his tent and jimmied the electricity so that he’d be killed if he turned anything on.” Lightfoot’s brow furrowed.
“That or they created a short so that there would be a power surge and he’d be electrocuted, or fried like a fritter.”
“Hah,” Lightfoot chuckled. Then he immediately made a face as if surprised he’d laughed at one of my silly colloquialisms.
My wheels slowed. “Hmm. I don’t know. That’s an awful lot of trouble to only maybe kill someone. The killer could’ve easily been seen.”
“In the middle of the fairgrounds?” He shook his head. “With everyone still in bed? Not if they were an experienced electrician.”
“You’re telling me we need to beat the bushes for anyone with electrical experience?” We turned the corner and Gold Rush Lighting appeared at the end of the block. “Good thing God created the Internet.”
As we stepped onto the pavement, Lightfoot gave me a bemused smile. “How could we live without learning how to electrocute someone and sell their brain for medical research in New Guinea?”
“Look at you.” I grinned. “You made a joke.”
He hitched his belt. “Let’s go. And remember to keep your comments to yourself.”
I mimed locking my lips and throwing away the key.
Pleasant and Barnes had parked near the front door. Closer to the corner, the owner had parked a black luxury sedan across two spaces. Who else would buy a vanity plate that read 2BRIGHT?
“No sign of any intruders, boss.” Deputy Pleasant tipped her hat in my direction.
Inside the store, it was brighter than a desert sky laced with diamonds. I nodded as if I belonged there without question.
Barnes and an elderly woman in luxury loungewear and an expensive mink coat met us inside. The redheaded deputy tipped his hat. “Miss Callahan?”
“Community police academy,” I said without a flinch.
He shot Lightfoot a sideways glance. “Didn’t know we had one.”
“Trial run,” Lightfoot said.
The elderly woman with Barnes was wound tight as a two-day watch. She thrust a bejeweled hand at Lightfoot. “Melissa Gold. And it’s about time.” The rings almost camouflaged her painfully swollen knuckles.
He took her hand gently. “Ma’am, it’s a pleasure. I was sorry to hear of your loss. Mr. Gold was a fine man.”
The Bugle had run an expansive obituary back in January. Mr. Gold and his wife had retired to far West Texas from New York. At first, citizens had scoffed at the idea of anyone making a go out of a stand-alone lighting store, but it hadn’t taken long for the successful businessman and his wife to prove their business acumen.
“He wasn’t fine, young man. He was brilliant.” She cocked her head like a wary bird, her eyes bright and shrewd. “If Albert were still alive, God rest his soul, no thief would dare to break into our place.” She shook a finger at Lightfoot. “My husband had a way with people. They respected him too much to harm us or our business.” Her sad gaze swept the room. “I am grateful he did not live to see this day.”
She took Lightfoot’s arm and led us, like ducklings, into a store overflowing with desks, tables, and shelves. “Why is everyone here?” I murmured to Pleasant. It was unusual for both deputies and Lightfoot to make an appearance at what appeared to be a simple burglary.
“She claims to be afraid that someone is still on the premises,” Pleasant whispered. “If you ask me, she called the sheriff and reminded him of her many donations to the officers’ retirement fund.” We passed lamps of various shapes and sizes, including a children’s section with garish clowns, a Spider-Man knockoff, and a cowboy with a lasso-shaped lampshade.
Mrs. Gold caught me, my forehead wrinkled in bewilderment, as I tried to make heads or tails out of a lampstand that looked impossibly like a bowl of spaghetti.
“Isn’t it a beauty? I found that one on the Internet and had to have it.” She touched it tenderly. “Reminds me of my late Albert.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, vowing to keep quiet as Lightfoot had demanded. But I was dying to ask how a spaghetti art lampshade could possibly resemble her husband. Perhaps he loved a plate of pasta more than life itself?
“Mrs. Gold, would you take a closer look and double-check nothing is missing from the premises?” Lightfoot reached inside his jacket and removed his ever-present notebook. He flipped it open and waited expectantly.
She raised her chin and studied his raised pencil. “I will do what you ask after this deputy searches every nook and cranny where a criminal cou
ld be hiding.” She patted Barnes on the arm.
The detective nodded his agreement, and Barnes walked across the store and into a back room. “Why don’t we look around while he’s gone?” asked Lightfoot calmly.
Barnes stepped out. “All clear. I’ll check the bathroom.” Though he didn’t roll his eyes, his tone revealed his skepticism.
“I don’t know. Everything looks the same.” Her expression clouded. “Oy! Albert’s office!” We followed her into a small room with a desk, rolling chair, four tall filing cabinets, dusty wooden bookcases, and a hanging Tiffany lamp. Her gaze passed over each shelf, her arms reaching toward each item. “Let’s see.” She tried the filing cabinets, but they remained locked and untouched. “Such a relief.” She placed a hand over her heart. “If anyone disturbed Albert’s files, I’d never get our taxes completed.” On a pristine desk sat a new laptop. She ran her fingers along the desk. “Something doesn’t feel right, but I can’t quite place my finger on it.” Pursing her lips, she stepped back a few paces, placed her chin in her hand, and stared. “Do you see anything out of place, young lady?” Along the edge of the leather desk blotter, she’d lined up a brass pencil holder and matching letter opener.
Underneath the desk was a power strip with cords leading to the lamp and an electronic pencil sharpener. “No, sorry.” I shook my head in frustration. “If this were my office, which obviously it’s not, I’d have my laptop on a charger, but that’s because I always forget to charge mine.”
“Oh, my dear.” She placed a soft hand on my arm. “So do I. Yet, where is my charger?”
“Are you sure it was here? Not at home or in a drawer?” Lightfoot glanced at the desk drawers she’d yet to open.
“I never keep it there, but if it convinces you I’m not a forgetful old loon, then by all means, I’ll check the drawers.” After she and Lightfoot—at her insistence—had checked all the way to the back of both drawers, I crawled underneath the desk to make sure it wasn’t hidden from sight.
“Nothing there, ma’am.” I wiped a cobweb from the end of my braid.
“Is it possible you left it at home or in a briefcase?” His gaze took in the room again, lingering on the corners and the open closet.
With quiet dignity she said, “I don’t take it home and I don’t use a briefcase . . . not anymore.”
He made a note, but I had a feeling we both were asking the same question. Who would bother stealing someone’s laptop charger? What would be the likelihood that the brand would be the same as your own? And why leave the laptop?
“Let’s continue.” Lightfoot led the way back into the main room.
Cruising slowly around the showroom, Mrs. Gold’s eyes grazed the shelves and end tables, the lamps and lampshades, the bulbs and fixtures.
“See anything out of place?” Barnes’s brow was low, like a bull. Not an attractive look on a red, freckled, baby face. Made me wonder why he was in such a snit. Did he have plans? A romantic liaison? Wrestling on the DVR and beer in the fridge?
Mrs. Gold ignored him as she continued her perambulation. “Nothing here . . .” She raised her two knotted index fingers and began to point at each item on each shelf.
I shot a glance at Lightfoot, who was making notes while Mrs. Gold did her counting thing. Pleasant caught my eye and wiggled her eyebrows as if to say, Ain’t she a piece of work?
“Ma’am.” Barnes did a lousy job of sounding neutral. “You don’t have to count every item on every shelf at this very moment. You can check what’s here against your inventory records at your leisure and give us a call. See?”
Worry settled across her brow. “Tomorrow?” She glanced at the shelves and swallowed hard.
Barnes straightened, his expression lightening. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned toward the door.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday. You’re going to take my call on a Sunday?”
“We could return your call on Monday?” Lightfoot made his way to her side from across the room. “But if you prefer to give us your report this afternoon, I’ll stay with you.” He gave Barnes a meaningful glance.
Straightening her narrow shoulders, Mrs. Gold declared, “I would prefer it.”
“You two go back into town,” he said to Barnes and Pleasant. “Make sure everyone’s minding their manners.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnes was out the door, faster than a jackrabbit running the hundred-yard dash.
“I’ll have my radio handy, if you need me.” Pleasant touched her hat and gave Mrs. Gold a big smile. At the door, she took one last glance around the store and shook her head in bemusement.
Mrs. Gold moved into another back room. Lightfoot and I dragged behind. “You think someone actually broke in?” I didn’t see anything out of place other than the amount of time we were spending following the old woman around her store.
Lightfoot looked thoughtful. “Doubtful. Though I figure someone or something did make the alarm go off.” We entered the windowless storeroom, which was lit by a large bank of fluorescents, and observed as Mrs. Gold made her way through the stacks of unopened boxes. Shelf to shelf, item to item.
“The perpetrator might be closer than you think.”
Maybe she wasn’t truly afraid. Perhaps the call to the sheriff’s department had more to do with being alone since the death of her husband. My throat tightened. I understood loneliness that would make someone act that way. In the darkness of my apartment with Lenny curled up beside me, I sometimes thought of how close I’d come to being married, someone’s other half. And though those times were rare, those memories still caused me to shed a tear or two if I’d had a glass of wine with my tamales.
Lightfoot shadowed Mrs. Gold while I took the opposite side of the room. On my half, the shelves were filled with boxes, and inside the boxes were odd bits and pieces. One held filaments, another cords. Then there were the paper bags filled with nails, screws, magnets, and clamps. My nose began to itch and I sneezed. If anything or anyone had disturbed this junk, it was most likely a spider.
“Here’s where it should be.”
I shook my head to clear my hearing. “What?”
Lightfoot raised a hand to quiet my chatter. “Are you positive? Do you remember when you last noticed it there?”
She held her hands in the air as if holding an imaginary box. “So wide. About eighteen inches by twelve inches. Impossible for it simply to evaporate into thin air, Detective.”
“What was inside?”
I inched closer.
Rubbing her chin, she closed her eyes briefly. “It wasn’t bulbs or knobs.”
“Yes?”
Was that Lightfoot allowing his voice to exude impatience?
“They were yellow, red, black, and green for Christmas and the holidays.”
“Hmm.” Lightfoot was making notes.
“The green ones are for use in one’s garden or greenhouse. That kind of thing.” She smiled at me kindly.
“What are we talking about?” I asked.
Brow furrowed in disapproval, Lightfoot gave me a narrow-eyed glare. “Continue, Mrs. Gold.”
“Dear girl, we are discussing extension cords. High quality, long lasting, durable, made in the U.S. of A.”
“Extension cords like you pick up in the hardware store or Brookshire’s.”
Her mouth tightened as she placed her hands on her hips. “I just explained that these were not those. These were highest grade, premium—”
“Extension cords.” Lightfoot thrust his notebook and pencil in his jacket’s outer pocket. “That’s it? You’re sure.”
“I didn’t say that was all. I said that box and its contents are missing for sure.”
I glanced at my watch. We didn’t have all day, not if I was to make it back for dinner service, which was strictly nonnegotiable. Unless I wanted my name whited out of the family Bible. I pulled out my phone to do an onl
ine search of high-grade, premium extension cords.
“Make your call in the other room.” Lightfoot’s scowl reminded me of my favorite English professor at UT, who had no patience with phones in his classroom, often belittling the guilty party in front of the entire lecture hall.
I gave him a look that I hoped conveyed I was up to something far more serious than a missed text message. I returned to the main room and found a strong signal. Could these better-made cords electrocute someone? And in what circumstances?
My phone was taking forever to load. As I stood cursing modern technology, Lightfoot and Mrs. Gold joined me. Mrs. Gold was stifling a yawn behind her hand. She tightened her fur coat and flipped the collar up around her neck.
“You can call me tomorrow, if you like.” Lightfoot locked the back door.
“You’re too kind. Of course I won’t call you tomorrow. Monday morning is early enough, dear boy.”
I wanted to laugh at her “dear boy” comment and Lightfoot’s expression of embarrassment. I contented myself with a grin.
“Mrs. Gold?”
“Yes, dear?” She took a tissue from her clutch purse, delicately wiped her nose, returned the tissue to her bag, and snapped it closed.
“How would someone go about deliberately electrocuting someone with an extension cord?”
Lightfoot’s eyes narrowed. “That’s enough excitement for one day.” He took her arm and led her slowly to the front door. “Why don’t you head on home while we dust for prints and take some photos.”
She halted in the open doorway. “It’s easier to shock someone with a faulty wire at the base of an old lamp. We repair lamps for that reason time and time again.”
“Yes, but if you wanted to do it with an extension cord, how would you go about it?”
A smile spread across her wrinkled face. “Oh, I see. You’re tagging along today because you’re a crime writer like Castle.”
Lightfoot chuckled. It was a running joke between us, the fact that he watched Castle and had previously refused to let me tag along on his investigations.
She clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m right, aren’t I?”
Cinco De Murder Page 17