by J. R. Ripley
‘No.’
‘Oh?’ I scooped nine beignets from the fryer and set them on the drip tray for a minute. ‘In town visiting – that’s nice. Business or pleasure?’ I picked up the shaker and sent a cascade of powdered sugar over the hot donuts.
‘If you do it right, business is always pleasure,’ the tall stranger replied. He ran his tongue along his upper lip as if he’d enjoyed the taste of what he had said.
I plated their beignets and placed them on a tray. ‘You know, even though you’re visiting, we have a weekly giveaway. All you have to do is drop your business card in the jar to enter.’
‘Huh?’ Aubrey whispered.
‘No, thanks.’ His hands reached for the tray.
‘Are you sure? Free coffee and beignets, a twenty-dollar value. Good anytime up to a year.’
I saw hesitation – or maybe annoyance with me – on his face.
‘Fine.’ He set his attaché case on the floor. Long, manicured fingers reached into the wallet in his back pocket. He extricated a business card, white with gold lettering.
I took the card from his outstretched fingers and looked at it quickly: Alan Steven Klopton, President, ASK Financial Services, Las Vegas, NV. There was a website address, an 800 number, email address and another telephone number with a 702 area code.
‘Great. Aubrey, drop this in the jar, would you, dear?’
‘Uh … OK.’ She took the card from me. I hoped he didn’t notice the way she was looking around wondering what to do with it.
‘What about your friends? Wouldn’t they like to enter?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Mr Klopton slipped his wallet back in his pocket.
He reached for the tray. I held on to it by the lip at the other end. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It will increase your odds.’
I could tell by the look on Alan Klopton’s face that he was growing weary of me. He walked stiffly to the table, where they handed him their business cards with amused looks on their faces.
Klopton passed me the additional business cards.
I glanced at the names on the cards before giving them to Aubrey, too. Gary Busby and Stephanie Headley, both with ASK Financial Services. Gary was a VP. Stephanie was a comptroller, whatever the devil that was.
My dead ex-husband, Brian, would probably know, seeing how he used to work in banking. Not that I was about to call him for the answer.
Aubrey had been resourceful. She had gone to the supply room, found an empty glass chocolate sauce jar and carried it out front. She dropped the two cards in with Klopton’s and gave it a shake, looking at me the entire time.
‘Your jar looks rather empty,’ Ms Headley remarked with a touch of suspicion.
‘It’s the beginning of the contest week.’ I grinned. ‘So far, your odds of winning are high.’
He joined his associates at the table. While they ate and drank, the three of them studied some papers that Klopton had pulled from his attaché case.
I grabbed a clean, damp towel. ‘I’ll bus the tables.’
Aubrey grabbed the corner of the towel and held on. ‘I’ll do that, Maggie. It’s my job.’
‘That’s OK.’ I tugged the towel free. ‘I feel like it.’
I strolled out from behind the counter and worked my way toward their table. My only other customers were a pair of college-aged kids, a young man and woman, soaking up the sun and looking at their cellphones while they dawdled over their coffee and beignets.
I was working my way closer to my target when the café telephone rang and Audrey answered. ‘It’s for you, Maggie!’
‘Who is it?’ I called. Only a couple of feet from the threesome and their papers, I could make out a bunch of columns and figures but none of it made sense.
‘It’s Mark Highsmith and he wants to talk to you.’ Aubrey waved for me to come. ‘He says it’s urgent.’
‘Detective Mark Highsmith? Maybe he has some information about that lovely young woman who was strangled in her apartment across the street,’ I said, loud and clear.
I watched Klopton and the others out of the corner of my eye. They had stopped whispering and were eying me intently. I seemed to have struck a nerve.
A frown line appeared between Aubrey’s eyes. ‘Maybe. Are you coming or what?’ One ear was pressed to the phone. ‘He sounds angry.’
I retreated and took the phone from Aubrey. ‘Yes, what is it, Detective?’ My eyes were glued to Klopton and his cronies.
‘Ms Miller, what are you doing there?’
‘Working,’ I said, confused. ‘What would you expect? Tell me,’ I turned and whispered into the phone, before he could interrupt with another dumb question, ‘what do you know about Alan Klopton and ASK Financial Services?’
‘I don’t know anything about him or it.’ He sounded vexed. ‘What I know about you is that you promised to go spend a little time with VV.’
‘And I will. You have my word.’
‘Your word was that you would be there at two o’clock. It is two-thirty now.’
‘Oh.’ I glanced at the clock. ‘So it is.’
‘I told VV that you would be there in ten minutes. Don’t make me look bad.’
‘I’m leaving now.’ I handed the telephone back to Aubrey. Klopton and his companions had disappeared. ‘Can you handle everything alone until closing, Aubrey?’
‘I guess. Where are you going?’
‘I promised a certain somebody that I’d spend some time with my BFF.’
Audrey arched her brow. ‘Who might that be?’
‘Veronica Vargas, of course.’
Audrey chuckled. ‘Oh, ’course.’
I grabbed my coat from the back and rolled my bike to the front of the store. ‘Thanks, dear!’
‘Wait!’ Aubrey called from behind the counter. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ She held up the jar that held the business cards.
‘Can you make up a little sign and tape it to the jar? We may as well make it a real contest.’
‘Sure.’ She set the jar next to the smaller tip jar at the register.
I leaned my bike against the wall. I went to the jar, grabbed Alan Klopton’s business card and slipped it into the pocket of my coat. ‘See you tomorrow!’
SIXTEEN
Casa Mirasol was an elegant estate in the toniest neighborhood in town. It was located within steps of the Table Rock Hotel and Convention Center, the town’s popular upscale resort.
Most of the Spanish-influence adobe homes in the enclave were barely visible to the naked eye, except for sculpted, earth-toned rooflines and their upper stories where they had them, unless their driveway gates were open, because these sprawling homes were built in the courtyard style with walls running all around the properties.
The people who lived in these homes had money and lots of it. They also placed a high value on their privacy.
Casa Mirasol was no exception. The house sat against the edge of the hills and had million-dollar red rock views.
I coasted to a stop outside the massive, intricately carved wooden gates at the driveway to Casa Mirasol. Each gate contained a carved, two foot in diameter sunflower.
Straddling my bike, I pressed the intercom.
‘Yes?’ came the tinny voice.
‘Maggie Miller. I’m here to see Ms Vargas.’
‘One moment.’
A minute later the gates lurched, then opened wide. I walked my bike inside. The courtyard was huge and filled with a variety of plants. I recognized prickly lettuce, golden rod, scarlet creeper and black foot daisies along with enormous cacti and other succulents. A couple of gurgling fountains added nature’s music to the surroundings. Stone benches provided seating.
The big gates eased shut behind me and I was isolated from the world. But not nature. I’d never seen anything like it.
But I could get used to it.
I’d have to sell a lot of beignets, though …
The top half of the door to the main house was stained glass, the bottom some sor
t of exotic wood. I left my Schwinn at the side of the long drive and walked up the flagstone path to the entrance.
A rotund man in a creamy guayabera opened the door on my approach. ‘Ms Vargas will be with you in a moment.’
He instructed me to wait in the foyer and disappeared down a long hall with a Saltillo tile floor.
The interior of the house was all stucco walls and Southwestern décor. I strolled to the entrance of the dining room. It was big enough to hold a troop of Girl Scouts. Two identical sculpted bronze chandeliers hung from the tall ceiling.
A telephone rang someplace far off and I heard a muffled voice answer it. There was still no sign of VV. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the man who’d let me in returned to tell me she was unavailable or unable to see me.
I wouldn’t have cared if he had.
I heard low voices on the other side of the house and wandered toward them, admiring artwork that looked like it had been collected from exotic locales the world over.
Peering obliquely through a pair of highly-polished double doors with glass inserts, I saw Mayor Vargas seated at a plush brown leather sofa at an angle to a massive fireplace of river rock and flagstone. He was smoking a thick cigar. I moved closer under the protection of a pale lavender vase at the corner that contained tall dried cattails.
Gary Busby and Stephanie Headley occupied a smaller leather sofa and Alan Klopton was seated in a leather chair with a wooden frame. Klopton was doing most of the talking. The mayor nodded, adding an occasional word. I did not notice any animosity among them. It all seemed rather cozy and friendly. I couldn’t hear a sound.
What was their conversation all about?
What did Mayor Vargas, Nancy Alverson’s murder and the Sacred Church of Witchkraft have in common? Where did ASK Financial Services fit in?
I felt a tug on the back of my coat.
‘What are you doing?’
Veronica Vargas glared at me.
‘Hi,’ I stammered. ‘There you are.’
‘What are you doing snooping on my father?’
‘Snooping? No.’ I extricated myself from behind the plant. ‘I was admiring the pot. I wanted to get a look at it from the other side.’ I glanced at the window. ‘Is that your father in there?’
‘Come on,’ VV said with a world-weary sigh, as if entertaining me in her familial home was a heavy burden.
Dressed in gray velour pants and a white cashmere sweater with slip-on shoes, VV was far more casually dressed than I was used to seeing her. Her hair fell luxuriously around her face. Though that face did look a bit drawn and tired. Even VV’s fancy makeup couldn’t cover the worry lines.
I followed her out the front door. Was she getting rid of me so soon?
‘I’m staying in the casita,’ she explained as we stepped along a flagstone path beside the house. The path led to a small adobe bungalow near the swimming pool.
Like the main house, the door to the casita contained a beautiful stained-glass insert. The interior of the guest house was every bit as fancy and immaculate as the main house, too. A hint of flowery perfume hung in the air. The room’s décor continued the distinct Southwestern flair.
A painting over the stone fireplace showed a woman in a black dress with white lace trim. The mature woman had dark hair piled high on her head and looked a lot like VV.
‘My great-grandmother,’ VV said, catching my gaze. ‘Granddaddy built the casita for her.’
‘Your grandfather built Casa Mirasol?’
‘Yes. It’s been renovated and modernized over the years but the bones are the same.’
And lovely bones they were. The casita’s open kitchen was nearly as large as my whole apartment and appointed with chef-grade appliances.
‘Does the name mirasol have any particular significance?’
‘Mirasol means sunflower in Spanish. The sunflower is native to Mexico, which is where my family has its roots.’
‘Do you still have family there?’
‘Of course, but Table Rock has been our home since the eighteen hundreds.’
‘Wow. I’m still working on year one.’
‘Have a seat.’ VV crossed to the bar and poured herself a drink. ‘Would you care for a Bloody Mary?’
‘OK, sure.’ I wasn’t particularly thirsty, but a girl should never have to drink alone. I accepted the drink and took a sip. ‘This is the best Bloody Mary I’ve ever had.’ I stirred the thick, dark red liquid with my celery stalk.
‘The trick is to let the ingredients marinate for twenty-four hours or more.’
VV slipped off her shoes, picked up her drink and carried it to a butter-colored leather sofa that looked out over the pool patio. ‘Have a seat.’ She set her drink on a low glass table, curling her legs under herself as she sat.
I claimed a pillow-backed rocking chair near the sofa. Remembering that I was there to provide solace, as Highsmith requested, I asked, ‘How are you holding up, Veronica?’
‘Fine.’
VV didn’t sound fine.
‘Good.’ I stared at the floor for a moment. ‘Mark was concerned you might be depressed.’
‘I don’t get depressed.’
‘Right. Still,’ I shifted in my seat, ‘you must be tired of all the questions, the police, the reporters …’
‘Reporters are toads.’
‘Right,’ I said again. ‘Then you aren’t worried about—’
‘I don’t get worried,’ interrupted VV.
‘Of course not. Why would you?’ I felt sweat building up under my armpits. We were both finding this awkward. I set my Bloody Mary on the tile-topped iron table beside the rocker. ‘I’m sure we can both agree that this has been a mistake. I should probably go.’
‘Go?’ VV appeared surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. Mark gets some crazy ideas sometimes.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I quipped. Getting me to come comfort VV and act like her bestie had been his craziest yet.
‘He’s a good detective.’
‘The best.’ I picked up my purse.
‘You know, I believe he actually thinks I might be guilty.’
‘You don’t say.’ I moved to the door.
I heard her chuckle softly behind my back. ‘He thinks I’m keeping secrets.’
My hand went to the doorknob and I froze. ‘Secrets?’ I turned around. ‘Are you? Keeping secrets, I mean?’ Was Veronica Vargas about to spill her guts?
The corner of VV’s lip turned down. She extended her legs and stared up at the beamed cathedral ceiling. ‘I wish I had never gone to Nancy Alverson’s apartment that night …’
I hurried silently back to my chair and sat. I picked up my unfinished Bloody Mary. ‘Tell me about it. Why did you really go see Nancy on Halloween night?’
VV’s prior claim that she had been jealous that Mark Highsmith and Nancy might have been having an affair had always seemed absurd and false to me.
VV swiveled her head my way and wiggled her toes. ‘I was helping her with her research.’
‘Research? You mean the book she was writing?’
‘That’s right.’ VV sat up. ‘You know about that?’
‘Yes, I heard about it. Nancy used to come into the café.’ I wasn’t about to tell her that at one time I’d had a copy of that work-in-progress. I’d let VV think that Nancy had told me herself. Since Nancy had sent me the flash drive, she had, in a sense, done just that. ‘What did she want from you?’
‘Oh, the usual, background about the town and its history. As you know, the Vargas family goes way back. She wanted to pick my brain for ideas and stories.’
‘Did she talk to anybody else in your family?’
‘She might have talked to Daniel. You’d have to ask him. She originally tried to talk to Daddy but he was too busy to talk to her. That’s how Nancy and I originally met.’
‘Did you read her manuscript? Do you know what sort of book she was writing?’
‘A history of the region, I suppose. I never rea
d it, although she promised me a copy when it was published.’
‘So, on Halloween night, you went to see her because she wanted to interview you some more?’
VV finished her drink and crossed to the pitcher at the bar. ‘Care for a refill?’ She broke off a couple stalks of fresh celery.
I did and said so. She brought the pitcher to me and refilled my glass. ‘Thanks. You were saying?’
She slid a fresh celery stalk into my glass.
After filling her own glass, VV crossed to a wide picture window overlooking the pool and gazed outward. She pulled out the celery stalk and took a small bite before speaking. ‘Nancy had been … interviewing me earlier. When Mark got the call while we were at Hopping Mad and had to leave, I thought I would run over to Nancy’s apartment and continue our conversation there.’
‘So Nancy was not expecting you?’
‘No.’
‘When you got there, did you see anybody else?’
VV turned, a wan smile on her face. ‘You sound just like Mark now. He questioned me a lot. Too much. I told him I might never forgive him.’ Her smile turned coquettish. ‘I will, though. Just don’t tell him I said so,’ she added with a wink. ‘To answer your question, the only person I saw was you.’
‘You didn’t see Jakob Waltz?’
VV’s pert little nose wrinkled up. ‘Who?’
‘He and Nancy were seeing each other.’
‘Oh, yes.’ VV resumed her seat at the sofa. ‘Nancy mentioned him a time or two. No, I’ve never met him. I got the impression that it was not serious.’
I took a generous drink before asking my next question. ‘What were you and Nancy arguing about at lunch the day she was murdered?’
VV’s eyelashes fluttered quickly. ‘Arguing? What makes you think we were arguing?’
‘Hopping Mad is a busy place. There were witnesses.’
‘We were having a lively discussion,’ replied VV. ‘Anybody who implies anything else is flat-out wrong. And,’ she said, leveling her gaze on me, ‘liable to be sued.’
I had a feeling my visit was coming to an end, and an ugly one at that. Therefore, I had nothing to lose in asking my next question. ‘Who are those people in the house talking to Mayor Vargas?’