by J. R. Ripley
Who did she think she was – Eliza Doolittle? With all that cleavage hanging out, she looked more like a Victorian vixen. It wasn’t fair. No woman should be that voluptuous and that thin all at once.
Especially not while I was dressed as the Crypt Keeper’s wife.
VV’s eyes danced madly up and down the street. Those eyes were the color of hazelnuts, though her shell was twice as hard.
She pointed her finger at me. ‘Do not go upstairs.’ The Latino accent she routinely kept at bay was poking through. ‘Go home, Miller. I’ve got to find Mark!’
With that, she spun away and ran up the street, her feet clopping like horse’s hooves and echoing off the brick walls and stone pavers.
I stood transfixed for a minute, clutching my bag of pumpkin spice beignets. ‘What the devil has gotten into her?’ I’d always thought the woman a bit mad. Had she made that fancy hat herself? Had she been sniffing too much glue?
More likely she was drunk. Hours of Haunted Halloween Hopping could do that to a person.
I looked at the bag of beignets growing cold in my fingers. Whatever was bothering VV was no concern of mine. She was a grown woman and could take care of herself.
I trudged prudently up the steep, unlit wooden steps to the third floor. The stairwell was unlit. Wasn’t that some sort of safety violation?
The door to the apartment stood partially open.
I had never been inside. Nancy and I were not exactly friends. What would she say about me barging in on her this late at night?
I probably should have turned around and gone home, but VV ordering me to stay out had only had the opposite effect. Now, more than ever, I was determined to deliver the pumpkin spice beignets to Nancy. Whether she liked it or not. If Nancy didn’t like my stopping by unannounced, she could ask me to leave, beignets and all.
I rapped my knuckles lightly against the gaping door. ‘Nancy? It’s me, Maggie Miller. From the café.’ I held my breath for a moment, listening. ‘I brought you some extra beignets.’ I peeked through the crack. ‘Can I come in? Nancy?’
Nancy had to be home. VV had just come from the apartment. Why wasn’t she answering?
I squeezed through the door and found myself in a tidy little apartment. The living room, no more than a fifteen-by-twelve-foot space, contained old yet serviceable upholstered furniture in unremarkable shades of green and brown. A small, walnut-stained coffee table with turned legs held an assortment of books, magazines and regional tourist information.
To my left, the orange glow of a nightlight revealed a compact bathroom with subway tiled flooring. Straight ahead, a small galley kitchen with white cabinets stood empty, although the unmistakable smell of cumin hung in the air. I knew the bedroom was to my right on the street side. Light spilled out from there onto the worn gold carpet.
‘Nancy?’ I moved through the living room and into the bedroom.
The twin bed cut the front left corner. A six-drawer bureau was on the wall opposite the window. Nancy Alverson sat at her desk against the wall to the right of the window, her left arm dangling limp, her right arm stretched out.
Her unmoving hand rested on the keyboard of her dark-screened laptop.
I stepped closer. Her head slumped. Her eyes were half-lidded. There was a bluish tinge to her complexion.
The young woman was clearly dead.
The bag of beignets dropped from my hand to the carpet and I struggled for my cellphone, which was deep in the bowels of my purse.
My eyes on Nancy, I dialed 9-1-1. I reported where I was and what I’d found.
‘Don’t worry, Ms Miller. The authorities are already on their way,’ assured the voice on the line.
I slipped my phone back in my purse. Nancy was dressed as she had been earlier in the day at the café, minus the hat and with the addition of a creamy white cashmere scarf that was tied tightly around her neck.
Too tightly was my guess.
I reached out a tentative hand to feel her flesh and check for a pulse – just in case. Maybe I could give her CPR until the professionals arrived. I knew I had a pulse because mine was going a million miles per minute.
Leaning closer to Nancy, I caught a whiff of Joy Parfum. I had a feeling such a perfume, at hundreds of dollars per ounce, was far beyond Nancy Alverson’s budget.
It was, however, VV’s signature scent. I held my nose an inch from the cashmere scarf around Nancy’s neck. The smell of jasmine and roses was strongest there.
Had Veronica Vargas signed her confession to murder by employing the scent-laden scarf to kill Nancy Alverson?
Was VV on the run now and halfway to the Mexican border? What would the Mexican authorities say when Lady Victorian Vixen showed up seeking asylum?
The desk held assorted brochures, pamphlets, books, papers, pens and pencils. A nearly empty Karma Koffee cup sat in the left-hand corner nearest the wall. I smelled chamomile.
‘Don’t touch anything!’
I nearly jumped out of my skin. ‘Detective! I – I didn’t hear you!’
Detective Highsmith stood at the entrance to the bedroom in full London bobby glory: navy-blue trousers and a high-necked, navy-blue tunic-style jacket fastened with big silver buttons along each side. A wide brown leather belt with a big silver buckle attested to the trimness of his waist. A foot-long wooden nightstick hung from the belt. There was an officer number pinned to the collar of the jacket and a silver police badge over his heart.
Highsmith was breathing heavily. He bounded into the room and grabbed me gently but firmly by the shoulders. I noticed he was favoring his right foot. ‘Step back, Ms Miller.’
I nodded and let myself be pushed away. A team of EMTs followed, squeezing past me, their arms laden with medical equipment, as I exited the bedroom. Highsmith sat me on the sofa and pointed his truncheon at me. ‘Don’t move.’
I nodded once again and folded my hands in my lap. It looked like it was going to be a long night for Little Dead Riding Hood.
As time passed, more police entered but there was no sign of VV. Pictures were taken, voices conferred and eventually Nancy Alverson was taken from the premises.
Detective Highsmith came forward, rubbing his hands over his face. I noticed he had removed his hat, probably in an effort to look less farcical.
‘Can I go now?’
The detective laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you up to answering a few questions?’
‘I guess so.’
He smiled. ‘OK. Give me a minute to wrap up. Then we can talk.’
Highsmith returned to Nancy’s bedroom with a couple of uniformed officers, Officer Ellen Collins and Officer Ravi Singh. I knew them both, sort of. I’d had the misfortune to be around a dead body or two in Table Rock already. The two officers had had the misfortune of having been around them with me.
A third officer, Chip Kurkov, a pleasant young fellow relatively new to the force, offered me coffee. ‘Here you go, Ms Miller. I hope you like it black.’ He carried a cardboard tray holding half-a-dozen lidded paper cups.
Chip was a frequent customer at Maggie’s Beignet Café, despite having been one of the first responders on the scene the time I’d discovered a dead body there. A lesser man might have found it off-putting.
‘Black is fine. Thanks.’ I took a sip. It was blazing hot. I wrapped my hands around it. I had a chill, more from fright and sadness than the cold, I was sure. The heat coursing through my hands was soothing. Nancy Alverson had seemed like such a lovely young woman. She hadn’t deserved to have her life cut short and in so hideous a fashion.
‘Of course,’ I said, looking at the logo, ‘I’d like it better if it wasn’t in a Karma Koffee cup.’ They had definitely been closed for the day when I crossed the street. ‘How did you get this?’
Officer Kurkov seemed embarrassed as he explained. He knew how I felt about my competition. ‘The Gregorys opened up when they heard about the incident.’
‘They heard about it already?’
‘
Kurkov!’ shouted Highsmith. ‘Get in here!’
‘Be right there, sir,’ he said over his shoulder. Turning to me, he explained, ‘The Gregorys were the woman’s landlords. They own this apartment.’
I sighed. I should have known. The Gregorys were my landlords too, not of my café, but of my apartment. The fact that they owned the apartment Nancy Alverson had been renting directly above their business wasn’t surprising at all.
I took another sip. The coffee was delicious, not that I’d ever admit it to a living soul. Why did everything they brewed or baked have to be so perfect? I was a particular fan of their Heaven’s Building Block muffin, a pumpkin flour-based, maple-glazed miracle containing raisins, walnuts, cinnamon and something I hadn’t been able to identify – probably crushed angels’ wings.
To kill time, I picked up a supple, leather-bound book the color of burnt umber. It was titled The Sacred Church of Witchkraft: Our History and Mission.
I idly flipped through its thick pages, which were accompanied by frequent full-page, four-color illustrations. Someone had spent a pretty penny publishing the arcane tome.
Come to think of it, much of the reading material in the apartment, at the table and at her desk revolved around the topics of witchcraft and New Age religions.
I had a hard time reconciling the quiet, studious young woman I had known with such quirky interests. Then again, I hadn’t really known Nancy Alverson.
Detective Highsmith appeared several minutes later. He opened a small spiral notebook and took a seat at the other end of the sofa. ‘Thanks for sticking around.’
He pulled a pen from his pocket and jotted down a few lines. ‘So,’ Highsmith began, ‘let’s start at the beginning. What were you doing here, Ms Miller? Were you friends with Ms Alverson?’
‘You can call me Maggie, you know. You have before.’
He dug the fingers of his left hand into his thigh. ‘Let’s keep this professional for now and save the first names for social occasions, shall we?’
I shrugged. ‘If you say so.’ Better to be called Ms Miller than Cueball. ‘Nancy, Ms Alverson, had been coming into the café regularly, mostly in the mornings. We weren’t friends by any stretch. In fact, I feel like I hardly knew her.’
Glancing at the coffee table, I said, ‘I certainly had no idea of her interest in witches and witchcraft.’
Highsmith frowned. ‘It wasn’t witchcraft that killed her.’
‘She was strangled, wasn’t she?’
‘The coroner will give us something conclusive, but yeah, it seems pretty definite.’ He tapped his pen against the pad. ‘What were you doing here?’
‘Bringing her a bag of beignets.’
‘The bag on the floor in the bedroom.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You deliver now?’
‘No.’ I explained how I’d had some leftover when we closed up for the night. ‘Nancy had never stopped by for some. From the café, I saw the light on up here and thought I’d bring them by.’
‘She didn’t call the café and order them?’
‘No.’
‘You used the stairs off the street?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Highsmith must have noticed my confusion because he explained, ‘There’s a second door over there.’ He waved his thumb over his shoulder.
‘I had no idea.’ I leaned past him for a look. There was a door on the far wall. I had assumed it was a closet. ‘Where does it go?’
‘Down.’
‘And?’
‘Up,’ he said rather drily.
‘Fine. Be that way.’ I’d find out from somebody else where that second staircase led. ‘Yes, Detective, I crossed the street and knocked on the door at the street.’
Highsmith nodded as if following my steps. ‘Go on. Did you see or hear anything unusual when you arrived?’
I hesitated, drinking coffee while I considered my next words. In the end, I had no choice but to say, ‘I saw VV.’
A pained expression crossed Highsmith’s face before he got his emotions under control. ‘Yeah.’
I gulped and continued. ‘I knocked on the downstairs door and said something.’ I scratched my scalp. ‘My name, I think. Then I heard sounds, like running.’ I swiveled and faced the detective. ‘Then the door flew open and …’ I shrugged helplessly. ‘There was Veronica.’
‘She told me she ran into you.’
‘Literally,’ I added with a chuckle. ‘How is she, by the way?’
‘Holding up. She’s at home.’
That explained why she wasn’t hovering around the crime scene making everyone nervous. ‘Do you think she …’
The corner of Highsmith’s mouth turned down. ‘Murdered Nancy Alverson?’
I nodded.
‘No.’ Highsmith came to his feet, towering over me. ‘Why would she?’
That was what I wanted to know. I stood and lifted my black cloak over my head. ‘Is it OK to leave?’
‘Sure.’ He walked me to the door. ‘Would you like one of the officers to give you a ride?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve got my bike.’ It was a good thing it was late. What were passers-by going to think as they saw Little Dead Riding Hood pedaling through the dark streets on Halloween night? Hopefully, I wouldn’t get mistaken for a witch and tossed in a deep well or burnt at a stake somewhere in the desert.
‘OK. One more thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What are you supposed to be, anyway?’
‘Huh?’
He tugged at the black cloak. ‘The costume.’
‘Aubrey made it. According to her, I’m Little Dead Riding Hood.’
That brought a smile to Detective Highsmith’s lips.
‘Smirk all you want,’ I said, pulling myself together. ‘Let me know when you catch Moriarty, Copper.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Moriarty, from Sherlock Holmes.’ I gave him a quick up and down with my eyes. ‘In that getup, you do look like you ought to be rubbing shoulders with the great detective and Inspector Lestrade.’
Highsmith rubbed his solid jaw. ‘Not a bad idea. Next year I just might dress as Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Great, although I can’t picture VV dressed like Doctor Watson.’
‘True,’ Highsmith said with a wink, ‘but I think you could pull it off.’
I was pretty sure there was an insult or a compliment in there someplace but I was too tired to figure out which he had intended.
‘Goodnight, Detective.’ I headed down the stairs and back to the café to collect my bicycle, feeling more like the Grim Reaper than Little Dead Riding Hood.
FIVE
Because Aubrey and Kelly had worked extra hours for Halloween and planned to attend the Halloween costume party afterward, I had promised them the morning off. That left Mom and me to open the café. The young ladies were due in at noon.
As a business owner, I had one assigned parking space behind the store between two garbage bins. Because I didn’t own a car, Mom had parked there. At the sound of her honk of arrival, I went to the storeroom and let her in the back door.
‘Good morning, dear.’
‘Hi, Mom,’ I said, returning her hug, the tone of my voice unable to match my mother’s own cheerfulness.
Mom peeled off her black-and-gray-checked coat and hung it on a hook. ‘Everything OK, dear?’
‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘Let’s get some coffee and I’ll tell you about it.’
Mom tied on her apron. ‘That sounds ominous.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s nothing you should be alarmed about.’ I followed my mother out front and poured us each a cup of coffee. I’d already had one strong cup at home, along with a cinnamon and sugar toasted pastry. It may not have been the breakfast of champions, but it had been all I could stomach.
‘I’ve got some frozen bagels in back,’ I said, adding sugar and milk to my cup. ‘Would you like one?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘OK.’ I lifted the hinged countertop. ‘Let’s sit.’
Mom preceded me and went to the table and the exact seat that Nancy Alverson had favored.
‘Not there.’
Mom froze, her butt hovering over the chair but not landing.
I plopped down at the middle table with my coffee. ‘Let’s sit here.’
My mother gave me a look signifying that she recognized funny behavior when she saw it but joined me nonetheless without saying a word. She sipped quietly, her gaze following the activity on the street, which wasn’t much at this hour. There was a Table Rock police car sitting across the street in front of Karma Koffee. Nancy’s Land Rover rested two spaces away.
Finally, I spoke. ‘Remember when I asked you about Nancy last night? Jakob was looking for her.’
‘Yes. He’s a nice young man. A good artist, too. I don’t think I know her, though.’
‘I’m sure you’ve seen her.’ I described her briefly.
‘Yes, I remember now.’ Mom turned and looked behind. ‘Always sits at that table with that laptop of hers.’
‘She won’t be sitting there today.’
‘Oh?’
‘She was murdered last night.’
‘Murdered!’ Mom’s hand shook and she set her cup down.
‘Yes.’
‘Not here?’
‘No.’ I clamped my hands over my mom’s. Anyone knowing the history of Maggie’s Beignet Café would know that her question wasn’t all that unusual. ‘Across the street. In her apartment.’
Mom played with her wedding band. ‘I didn’t see anything in the newspaper about it.’
‘It happened late last night. There will probably be something in it tomorrow.’
‘How did you find out? Is that what the police car is doing there?’
We both looked at the empty squad car.
‘Yes. I mean, I guess. I found her last night.’
‘You did?’ Mom’s eyes grew wide. ‘Oh, Maggie!’
‘Sort of.’ I explained how after locking up I had gone across the street to give her the leftover pumpkin spice beignets. ‘Veronica Vargas came running down the stairs. I went up.’