Divas, Diamonds & Death

by Elizabeth Ashby

  "I know that. Not everyone is as blessed as we are." I repeated one of the older mantras from Jimmy John's Rulebook. "A lot of people in the world spend their whole lives just trying to survive from day to day."

  We drove through Danger Cove, making a stop at Buckley & Sons livestock supply store on the outskirts of town.

  Buckley's was in a long, low building with a clapboard porch that stretched across the entire front. Rough-hewn timber beams at strategic intervals supported the overhang, keeping that area dry for the items placed there: bags of feed, buckets, seed spreaders, shovels, rakes, brooms, bags of manure, and a few other items I couldn't even pretend to recognize. A red and white checkered banner hung across the front, advertising Purina Feeds.

  Buckley's place had been there as far back as I (or anyone I knew) could remember. The Buckleys were the first black Americans to settle in Danger Cove, and the current senior Buckley of the establishment's name had taken over when his father retired, as had others before him.

  The sun had come out from behind the clouds, and a forklift with a couple of hay bales loaded on it was heading from the storage barn to where Henry Atwell stood in the bed of his pickup. Peter Buckley, the eldest son, steered the forklift, leaning out sideways to see around the bales. Peter and I had gone to high school together. He was behind me a couple of years, but I remembered him well. All three Buckley boys—the other two were still in high school—were strapping, good-looking dudes.

  The tailgate on Henry's truck was down, and Henry was trying to get Peter to come at the truck from a different angle by waving his arms around like an air traffic controller.

  Jimmy John waved at Henry, but didn't call out. I figured loading the hay bales looked to be such a strategic operation and Jimmy John didn't want to be a distraction.

  We stopped at the edge of the porch to kick the mud off our shoes against the weathered porch boards. I couldn't help but think of the trouble my granddad might be in as I watched him knock the edge of his shoes against the worn timbers. It only served to strengthen my resolve to get to the bottom of this thing—the sooner, the better.

  Inside, Theo Buckley was at the back, piling shovels, rakes, and bags of equine feed onto a flatbed cart. Jane Buckley, a full-blooded Chinook woman with satiny skin and stunning cheekbones, sat on a stool behind the counter, working on a laptop. We crossed the store to her.

  She looked up as we approached. "Lizzie," she said.

  Most of the ranchers and farmers and, consequently, the Buckleys knew me from the many times I'd been called out with Adam Whitaker, the town vet, to help with a sick horse or sow. Doc Whitaker had been really generous to allow me to go out with him. I'd learned almost as much from the reserved veterinarian as I had from my veterinary science studies. His successful practice and his extreme generosity in allowing me to learn at his knee, so to speak, was one of the reasons I'd probably have to leave Danger Cove once I was licensed to practice veterinary medicine. I didn't want to even entertain the idea of going into business against him, and as far as I knew, he didn't need an associate.

  Jane Buckley closed the laptop and pushed her raven hair behind her ears. "Good to see you two Joneses."

  "How are you, Jane?" Jimmy John asked.

  She smiled and lifted her hand, thumb up. "Just about as fine as anyone could hope to be," she said. "What brings you over this way?"

  I showed her the photo of their receipt I'd taken back in the motel room. She squinted at it then looked back up at me, a question on her unlined face.

  I showed her the photo we had of Carlos. "Is this the guy who bought this stuff?" I asked.

  She thought a minute before nodding. "Yes," she said. "Kind of a fancy dude? Spoke with a lisp and a heavy accent?"

  Jimmy John and I looked at each other. "Carlos Ramirez," he said.

  I nodded. "This definitely wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing then, was it?"

  Jimmy John shook his head. "Not if he bought this stuff two days before he snatched Rosie."

  Jane sat up straighter. "Rosie? You don't mean Rosie the Pink Pig? Sabrina Ramirez's Rosie? Oh my goodness! He bought this stuff for Rosie? I should make a plaque or something. Hang it on the wall. Everyone will want to know that Rosie the Pink Pig shops at Buckley's."

  "Sure," I said, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

  We walked out and got back in the pickup.

  "She wants to advertise?" I was still kind of incredulous.

  "Well." Jimmy John gave me a bit of a smirk and said dryly, "You can't blame her. Everyone wants their fifteen minutes."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Since things had gone so poorly with Sabrina at Smugglers' Tavern, neither Jimmy John nor I had eaten since breakfast, so we stopped at Bubba Burger just outside of town for a quick meal. Bubba's was a throwback to the 50s and 60s. Art deco lines, neon, speakers by the parking spots, carhops on roller blades.

  Jimmy John had always been a good eater. Mom and I never understood how the Jones men could eat three times what a normal person eats and stay fit and slim—Jimmy, an omnivore, more than my dad, a vegetarian—which was where my eating habits originated. He ordered a double Bubba cheeseburger, a chili dog, large fries, and an orange dream milkshake. I went with grilled cheese and onion rings, and sat in utter disbelief after I finished, watching him polish off his order.

  He belched and rubbed his belly after he'd scarfed it all down and grinned. "Dang, that's some good grub. Takes me back to when I used to go up on Craggy Hill and park on the cliffs to pitch woo with your grandma."

  "TMI, Jimmy John."

  The carhop came for the tray. We rolled up the truck's windows and drove on toward the lighthouse.

  The lighthouse at Danger Cove was built back in the 1800s and had saved many a sailor from a cruel death on an unforgiving shore—as Elizabeth Ashley, our local author would say. It was decommissioned in the 1950s and had been left to a bit of ruin until recently when a campaign to restore the Memorial Walkway and later on, even possibly the interior, had been initiated.

  The sun was low in the sky, and the evening marine layer was closing in as Jimmy John pulled in to the lighthouse parking lot. Crime scene tape was strung everywhere like the Christmas tinsel that crisscrossed Main Street during the holidays. An officer sat in a DCPD cruiser. He opened his door and stepped out when we drove up.

  We got out of the truck and walked over to where he stood, thumbs hooked into his belt, probably trying to look imposing—it wasn't working. I thought about Tino's ambition to work for the PD and how he wouldn't have to try to look badass—he already was.

  "Help you?" The cop, middle-aged and soft looking, had a somewhat nasal, squeaky voice.

  Jimmy held his hands out in front of him, fingers spread. "Jimmy John Jones, Cove Chronicles. I'm reaching for my wallet and my credentials."

  The cop nodded. "Don't bother, Mr. Jones. Detective Lester Marshall said you'd be coming. He left strict orders. Not only am I to prevent anyone from entering this crime scene, I'm specifically ordered to keep you and"—he nodded in my direction—"your granddaughter away from here."

  One side of Jimmy's mouth lifted in what could only be called a smirk. "Lester Marshall." It wasn't a question. "Right. Well, thanks, Officer. You have a good evening now." He turned and started back to the truck, leaving me fuming by the cop. "Lizzie?"

  I'd been about to open my mouth in protest, but Jimmy's summons stopped me. I went with him back to the truck.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed. "Hey, Bud. It's Jimmy." He listened for a minute, then, "I see your compadre old Lester Marshall is gunning for me. Has me on a persona non grata list out here at the lighthouse." More listening. "Well, me and Lizzie been doing a little checking on our own, and we have a few things we can share with you—if you're willing to reciprocate, of course." He was quiet for a minute, and then he laughed. "Well, cooperation is what it's all about, Bud. Isn't that the truth?"

  He told his friend Detective Bud Ohlsen what we'd learned at the
motel and about Carlos's iPad, which we'd left there for the police to check out, and also what we'd been told at Buckley & Sons. "Now since we've been banned from the lighthouse, I was wondering what things looked like when you went in there. Something you can share?"

  I listened and waited. I could sort of hear Bud talking at the other end of the connection but couldn't tell exactly what he was saying. Finally, Jimmy said, "Okay, that's great. Thanks, Bud. Keep me posted, and I'll do the same."

  After he disconnected, he turned to me. "When they went into the lighthouse after the discovery of the body, Bud says they found a kennel—"

  "The one Carlos bought from Buckley & Sons?" I asked.

  "Likely," he said. "There was kibble there too. He'd been hiding Rosie there, feeding her, keeping her hidden."

  I thought about it. "Until someone else discovered them and murdered him."

  "Looks like it."

  I thought about it, about what we'd seen on the beach in the wee hours of Sunday morning. "And whoever killed him didn't want Rosie."

  "Not necessarily," he said. "Maybe it was a rescue mission, to start with anyway, Carlos interrupted them, and after he was killed, they got scared and ran off."

  "Leaving poor little Rosie to wander around. Naked and alone," I said, thinking of her missing diamond collar. "What if the person who killed Carlos wasn't after him or Rosie? What if that person was after the diamonds all along?"

  He thought about it a minute. "Maybe." He started the truck. "It's one theory."

  "Yeah," I said. "One of several possible theories."

  He pulled the truck around and headed back toward town. The fog had rolled in, and he had to use the fog lights to see the road. The yellow light shone through the dense haze. The sounds of the truck's engine and the tires moving over the road were muted. No other cars were around, and I felt as though we'd passed through some slip of time, and we were the only two people left on the planet. A strange sense of sadness rolled over me. Was this the way I'd feel if I moved away from Danger Cove—as if I was isolated, alone? I shook it off.

  "What's next?" I asked.

  "I think maybe one of us ought to talk to Sabrina's nephew," he said.

  "Paco?"

  He nodded.

  "Good idea," I said. "Let's see if what Carlos did to Paco's parents was bad enough to kill the guy for."

  "How about if you get with Tino and the two of you do it? Those two young guys ought to be all kinds of simpatico. Don't you think? Something else I need to take care of anyway."

  "Oh," I said. "Sure. Let me give Tino a call and see if he's still mad at me or if he's willing to go with me to talk to Paco."

  It was nearly seven by the time we pulled into the parking lot of the apartments where I lived.

  Tino was already there, waiting, leaning against the hood of his car.

  He straightened away and came forward to greet us, shaking hands with Jimmy John and, to my relief, giving me a sweet kiss on the lips. "I missed you today."

  I sighed. How did this man always know the perfect thing to say to melt my heart?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  While we took a few minutes to walk Vader and feed him, I'd brought Tino up-to-date on everything, including how worried I was that Detective Marshall might actually be successful in building a case against Jimmy John.

  He'd patted my hand. "I'm off until Wednesday night. They've got us on four ten-hour shifts now. Maybe I can be of some help to you."

  And as it turned out, he was.

  First he called Paco, which impressed me. I didn't even have his number.

  He spoke to Paco in Spanish. Friendly. Laughing. Like, Jimmy John said, "simpatico."

  When he disconnected, Tino said, "He's jonesing for a break from being stuck up at the Ocean View B&B. Said Evan has the keys to the SUV, so Paco's kind of at his mercy. And Evan just isn't into hanging out."

  "So Paco's going a little stir crazy," I finished.

  "Sounds like it," Tino said.

  We drove over to Cliffside Drive and the bed and breakfast at the edge of town. Paco was waiting on the front porch of the big old Victorian. He looked young today, wearing a Nike brand T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of slip-on sneakers—much more carefree than he'd been when I'd last seen him. Of course that had been on the beach the night of his uncle's murder.

  I opened the car door and stepped out so he could climb into the miniscule back seat of Tino's Hyundai. He squeezed right in and shifted sideways to accommodate his legs but didn't seem to mind.

  He and Tino fist-bumped. "¿Qué tal?" he said. "What's the plan? Let's go someplace hot, someplace that rocks."

  Tino and I looked at each other, both at a loss. This was, after all, Danger Cove.

  I spoke slowly. "Well, we'll do our best to find one."

  * * *

  Tino had said he knew of a place where Paco could get all the action he wanted, and he drove us south of town for about forty minutes.

  Paco went on and on about how much he appreciated the break, how working for his aunt was such a drag, and he never got to do anything, and he didn't have real friends, and on and on and on. I hadn't heard that level of negative output in quite a while.

  As we passed by Cheap & Clean Motel, and I thought of the emails we'd read on the iPad, I turned around in my seat as far as the seat belt would let me.

  "Paco, I'm sorry to bring it up, but we've been following every lead we can. Would you mind if I ask you about a couple of things?"

  He looked puzzled but shrugged and said, "Sure. I'll help if I can."

  I told him about finding Carlos's iPad at the motel and about reading the email exchange between the two of them. "What did your uncle do to your parents?"

  Paco's engaging smile vanished, and his expression was serious. He didn't answer right away, and I stole a look at Tino to see if I should ask again, but Tino's eyes were on the rearview mirror, watching Paco.

  "Paco?" I prompted.

  "Uncle Carlos was always in on this big business deal or that one. You know, how to make millions without actually working? I often wondered if he was like, maybe, addicted or something. I mean it was always just one thing after another with him. A condo project in the Ukraine. A diamond mine in Northwest Territory in Canada. A newly discovered oil field in Western Australia. When Sabrina quit financing his pipe dreams and they got divorced, he started going to my parents, asking them for money for this hot ticket or that one."

  "Are your parents wealthy?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Not like you mean, no. They had a wine distribution company out of Seville. They had some money put aside. My mother begged my father not to give Uncle Carlos any of their money, and for a while he listened. But Carlos came to him with a deal to get in on the ground floor of this social media start-up. 'Bigger than Instagram,' he said. 'The next Facebook.' And he must have had something to back it up. It wasn't like my father to just take things like that on someone's word."

  He stopped and looked out the window at the heavy forest. I waited, not saying a word. This was obviously hard for him to talk about, and I didn't want to say or do anything to stop him from telling his story.

  After a moment he went on, still looking out the car window. "Over my madre's objections, my father gave all their liquid assets to my uncle. I'm not sure exactly what happened. All I know is that the company never came to fruition. When blight hit the region and the wineries had no product, my parents' business needed the cash they no longer had to stay operational. But the money was gone and with it, my uncle. No one could get in touch with him. My parents lost everything—their business, their home—everything. And my mother lost her health. She couldn't stand up to the cruelty of the creditors, and she grew weak. Her heart gave out." He stopped again and struggled to maintain composure. When he started talking again, his voice was hard and cold. "She died, and if I'm asked what killed her, I always say she was killed by my uncle's greed."

  He clamped his lips shut, folded his arms acr
oss his chest, and sat back in the seat, no longer seeming to find anything to enjoy in the scenic beauty surrounding us.

  I didn't have much to offer except, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Paco."

  Tino said something in Spanish that I didn't understand, but it must have been the absolute perfect thing to say because Paco leaned forward, laid his hand on Tino's shoulder, and squeezed. "Sí," he said. "Gracias, amigo."

  We were quiet for the rest of the ride. Paco was probably sad and introspective to have been reminded of the loss of someone so dear to him. Tino was concentrating on his driving. And I was going over every word that Paco had said. It had been a sad story, a terrible thing that his uncle had reaped upon Paco's family, whether it had been intentional or not.

  Was Paco's hatred of the man he deemed responsible for the death of his mother strong enough to kill him? According to Tino, Paco had knocked his uncle down Saturday afternoon during the fund raiser. But attacking someone in rage and stalking them to murder them were two different things entirely.

  I didn't want to believe that Paco, so quiet and seemingly innocent, was someone who could have picked up a piece of driftwood and bashed in his uncle's head.

  "Paco, what were you doing the night Rosie was taken and your uncle was killed?"

  When he didn't answer right away, I looked back at him. He was staring at me in disbelief. "You think I killed Uncle Carlos?"

  "No, of course not." That was mostly the truth, and I was hoping he had a solid alibi.

  "The police have already asked me that. I'll tell you the same thing I told them. I was exhausted from running around all day at the beck and call of Aunt Sabrina. I came back here, and I went to sleep. And I don't think anyone saw me come in. I didn't have any love for Carlos after what he did to my parents, but I didn't kill him. And that's the truth."

  There wasn't much to say to that. It was a flat-out denial. And because I liked Paco, I hoped he'd told me the truth.