He’d clearly fallen out of the truck backward, landing flat mere steps away. His arms were spread out beside his body, suggesting he hadn’t even tried to stop his fall. His face troubled me the most; the cheese was beginning to harden over his skin in the sun, turning dull, while bits of jalapeño stuck to his nose and cheeks.
As the police began to move people along, I noted for the first time a man in the very back of the crowd, his youthful face a mask of pain, as though he were on the verge of crying. His eyes were a startling green, shimmering with unshed tears.
Handsome, with deep chestnut hair and chiseled good looks, he looked away, his wide football-player shoulders trembling when the paramedics finally covered Tito’s body after placing him on the gurney.
“Titooooo!” a woman wailed, her agonizing sob slicing through the warm breeze as said woman pushed her way through the parting crowd.
Everyone turned to see Tito’s estranged wife, Magdalena—or Maggie, as we called her here in town—stumble toward the gurney, a tissue in her hand, her long black shawl with the red fringe falling from her rounded shoulders.
“Didn’t she throw Tito out just last month?” Win wondered.
“I thought she and Tito were getting divorced?” Chester mirrored Win’s thoughts.
“I knew there was trouble. I was right outside here, changing the sandwich board, just before she confronted him about something. She caught him upside the head with a broom, yelling and carrying on, crying too—left in a real huff. Next thing I heard from the gossip mill was she’d told him she wanted a divorce and was staying with her daughter, Bianca,” Forrest said.
I hated hearing there’d been trouble between Tito and Maggie, but I hated it worse because they hadn’t mended fences before he passed. “Do you know what happened?”
“Forgive my crassness. I’m simply repeating what I’ve heard. Word around town is, Tito put his enchilada in the wrong oven,” Win provided in my ear.
I had to fight a gasp. No. He wouldn’t…
“Heard he was cattin’ around,” Chester supplied, running a hand over his stubble-littered jaw.
Tito? My Tito was a bandito? Naw. He loved Maggie. Adored her. Talked about her like she was the second coming. I couldn’t imagine he’d cheated on her. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding.
Maggie’s cherubic face was tearstained, streaking her thick makeup and leaving dark circles around her usually vivid coal-black eyes. “Mi amor!” she howled, her voice raw and scratchy. “Como pudistes dejarme asi? No, mi amor, no, no, noooo!”
Bianca, her daughter, ran behind her, catching her by the waist as Maggie fell on Tito’s body, clinging to his prone hand.
“Mama, please!” Bianca begged, tears of her own streaking down her gorgeously high cheekbones.
Bianca was every man’s dream. Svelte, with curves in all the right places, and full lips filled in with a raspberry gloss. Thick, straight hair the color of a raven’s wing fell down her back to almost her waist, accentuating olive skin so clear, if I were the jealous type, I’d hate her hot tamale guts.
Her waist was tiny, her hips full in her brightly colored mini-skirt, accompanied by a white, off-the-shoulder peasant shirt and big gold hoops in her ears.
She caught Maggie’s shoulders, her ringed fingers gripping at her mother, tugging to pull her away from Tito. “Come, Mama. Shh-shh, now,” she crooned in a hoarse whisper. “Come with me. No mires, por favor.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and gripped Chester’s hand tighter, sorrow filling my heart.
“Folks, I’m gonna have to ask you to move it on out, please!” ordered my favorite local law enforcement officer, Lyn Paddington, a.k.a. Sandwich (because he once ate a sardine and mayo sandwich with sweet pickles on a dare).
I shifted out of the way but I didn’t leave as directed. I was riveted, my eyes scanning the surrounding area where Tito had fallen, looking for anything that would tell me he didn’t have a heart attack. Which was a little insane. I’d far prefer Tito left this world that way than by way of a murderer.
“Stevie?” Sandwich said, looking down at me.
I glanced up at his normally happy face, now tight with concentration. “Yes?”
“I said move it along, please. Remember the last time you were at a crime scene?”
I planted my hands on my hips and nodded, my turban tilting awkwardly to the left. “You mean the time I was accused of a crime I didn’t commit, and Starsky and Hutch questioned me like we were remaking Silence of The Lambs? You bet I remember, buddy. Weren’t you the one to take me to your place of business like a lamb to slaughter?”
Sandwich sighed, a brief look of remorse on his face before he hitched his rounded jaw toward the other side of the street. “I apologized a hundred times for that, Stevie. Now please, go back to the store and tell fortunes and let us do our job.”
Lifting my chin, I narrowed my gaze at him. “I do not tell fortunes. I communicate with the dead.”
He chuckled. “Yep. And I’m Walker, Texas Ranger.”
Rolling my eyes, I didn’t bother to try to defend my afterlife activities. No one believed me anyway. Everyone in town humored me, despite several gushing testimonials on Yelp.
But I did as I was told. I just didn’t do it in a rush. I’ll admit I was reluctant, so I lingered for a few moments until Sandwich became distracted by another thrush of gawkers who’d stopped to form a cluster by the ambulance, and then I scurried on past him, heading straight for Tito’s truck.
“I knew you couldn’t resist,” Win remarked with a chuckle.
Okay, so I couldn’t resist. I swatted Win out of my ear, inching my way around the back of the truck, peering around the corner to be sure no one was behind it.
There was a shadow crossing the sharp midday sunlight, making me look up at the chain-link fence backing the food court area. I caught only a glimpse of a plaid flannel shirt, and what appeared to be an inhaler sticking out of the back pocket of the jeans worn by whoever it was, before they climbed through the ripped opening in the fence and the sun blinded me.
It was probably one of the local kids playing hooky from school. Not everyone’s a suspect, Stevie Cartwright. Get it together.
When I saw the coast was clear, I made a break for the back door of the truck, near which I knew Tito kept the pot of cheese he ladled with such love. I don’t know why I had to see the interior of the truck or what I hoped to find. I don’t know a lot of things. Like what compels me to speak impulsively or connect dots one wouldn’t necessarily connect. I just had a feeling—a tingle of awareness something was off.
A strong one.
Trying not to contaminate anything in case my gut was right and this genuinely was a crime scene, I stepped around the trail of cheese leading to where his body had ended up and peered inside Tito’s truck, a vast wonderland of taco shells, the mouthwatering scent of spicy meat, and an overturned pot of hardening cheese on the floor.
I leaned in just a little, noting the interior was clean as a whistle with the exception of the overturned pot. Utensils hung neatly above the long counter of burners and prep space. A tall fridge where he housed his dandelion leaves and juicy, locally grown, farm-fresh tomatoes shone as though someone had just waxed it. The credit card machine sat at the window and there was even a small stack of bills right next to it.
So if foul play was involved, it wasn’t a robbery. None that was visible anyway.
“How could someone have murdered him in a crowd of people, Win? If someone dunked him in some nacho cheese, don’t you think he’d have made a whole lot of noise banging around? He didn’t just go quietly. Not if he managed to get out of the truck. He was running away if this was murder.”
“It was quite noisy outside. The music is always loud. Surely loud enough to cover up a struggle.”
I glanced around again, but it was all quite ordinary. “Nothing,” I muttered, squeezing my temples. “So maybe we’re wrong. I think we’re just on edge after Madam Z’s mur
der and we’re seeing shadows that don’t really exist.”
“Some would say I don’t really exist, Stevie.” Then he snickered. “Maybe I’m just a figment of your imagination. Maybe neither of us is really here. Maybe this is all a dream.”
“Hah. If only they could hear you yapping in my ear all the time. No one would doubt your realness, Spy Dude.”
“I do not yap. Every bit of information I pass on to you is culled to within an inch of its usefulness. It’s one of the first things they teach us in spy school. Less is more.”
“They really have a spy school?”
“Well, not a school per se, but certainly there’s rigorous training. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your super-spy skills are unmatched. But I hate to tell you, I don’t think there’s really anything to see here…”
That was, until I saw it.
“What are you seeing, Stevie?”
Tilting my head, I made sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing, then nodded. Yep. I was seeing something. “In the puddle of cheese. See it? It’s a picture. Curled at the edges with a blop of glutinous deliciousness on it.”
Which was strange indeed. Tito had a row of pictures of himself and his family, all lining the wall above the prep surface, clothes pinned to a string. He’d told me he hung them there to remind him of when he’d come to America so many years ago. So, how did this one get knocked down but not the rest? It didn’t look like one was missing from the lineup.
Win inhaled. “Hmmm. But a picture of who? Doesn’t look like anyone in the family.”
“No. But it sure looks like the guy I saw standing at the edge of the crowd earlier when they were taking Tito’s body away. I’ve never seen him here in town before either.”
“Why would our Tito have a picture of him? And who’s the other person in the picture? Whoever it is, they have their arm around the boy, but I can’t see his face.”
“Good question, Spy Guy.”
So if this guy were a newcomer to town, why would a stranger be so broken up over Tito’s death?
Could it be he’d seen something?
Done something?
Or was he just as crushed as I was that Tito had gone to the great enchilada in the sky, leaving my taste buds to mourn him in quiet anguish?
Hmmm.
Chapter 3
“Was he doing anything suspicious? Anything unusual?”
“Nope. Nothing unusual at all other than the fact that he looked like he was in agony. It sure appeared as though he was trying not to make a scene, but it was very clear he was pretty torn up. I mean, I’m shattered about the loss of Tito’s tacos. His sons don’t make them quite the way he did. But am I so shattered I’m in a puddle of misery?”
I almost plucked the picture out of the cheese but Win, as though reading my mind, scolded me.
“Hands off, Sticky Fingers Louise. No touching evidence. You do remember how that went down the last time, don’t you? Think Montblanc pen and accusing someone unjustly.”
I rolled my eyes at the reminder of how I’d waved what I thought was evidence under the wrong person’s nose.
“It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. There’s someone else in the picture, Win. I can’t just leave without finding out who it is. I just want to see,” I complained, angling my head while balancing in the entry to the truck so I wouldn’t touch the frame of the door and leave my fingerprints. But no such luck. The glob of cheese covered the identity of the other person. “So why do you suppose this kid was so upset?”
“Quite possibly, he’s just as broken up as you over the loss of the Taco King. It is you who always said no one makes Mexican the way Tito does. In fact, as I recall, just the other day as you gorged on the Bangin’ Burrito—item number six on Tito’s four-star menu, was it?—you said if you died right then, your life would be complete as you sighed like a schoolgirl dining with her crush. Maybe this young chap feels the same way you do, and it brought him to tears.”
“Maybe,” I sighed, planting my hands on my hips, giving the inside of the truck a last critical once-over, only to find more of absolutely nothing. “I think we’re making mountains out of molehills because we love a good whodunit. But we can’t turn this into something it’s more than likely not. I don’t know what the picture is from, but it likely has a really good explanation. Tito probably had a heart attack or fell or something that has nothing to do with murder. Let’s forget this. We need to get back to Edward anyway.”
“Edward has left us, but Kitty’s back,” he purred in the whiskey tone reserved for his ghostly dabbling.
“Win, I’m warning you. Knock it off. You leave Kitty Talucci alone. She is not up for afterlife grabs.”
“Well, if it isn’t Stevie Cartwright.”
I fought the impulse to jump out of my skin at the sound of Officer Nelson’s voice—or Officer Rigid, as I secretly called him after our last tango over Madam Zoltar. Wherein he did everything by the book and made me feel guilty with his hawkish, intense gaze and perfectly starched uniform without a speck of lint on it. All without even trying.
I turned to face him, the sun blocked by his tall frame, and watched him scan my face with his dark eyes that would be quite attractive if they weren’t always looking at me like I was Ebenezer Falls’ resident unprosecuted serial killer.
“Hola, Officer Nelson. I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing back here.” I might as well just be open. It’s not like Mr. Scary Face wasn’t going to make me feel like I’d done something wrong anyway.
“I was absolutely wondering, Miss Cartwright. Or should I call you Madam Zoltar 2.0?”
Naturally, someone like Mr. Law Enforcement wouldn’t believe in ghosts. I heard it in his scathing tone. But I was determined to make him like me. Don’t ask why, I don’t understand it either. I just know his disapproval unsettles me. He’d be a great ally to have, being a police officer, if he’d just give in and let me weave my Stevie Cartwright web.
I smiled up at him, trying to keep my turban from slipping off my head as I craned my neck. “How about just Stevie? Seeing as I’m not a suspect in any more murders, we can do a first-name basis, can’t we? Skip the formalities? What’s your first name?”
“Bet it’s something solid and stalwart like John-Boy,” Win commented dryly.
He stared down at me for a long moment from beneath the brim of his hat, his deep eyes swirling in thought, and then he said, “It’s Officer Nelson, Miss Cartwright. And as I said, I was wondering what you were doing back here. This is a crime scene until otherwise notified. Which means, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
My mouth fell open. I knew it did, but I couldn’t stop it from unhinging. “A crime scene? So it was murder?” I breathed the word out, fighting the hitch in my throat.
His head swiveled from left to right. “I said no such thing. All deaths with unusual circumstances like Mr. Bustamante’s are considered crime scenes until the coroner says otherwise. Now, if you’d please exit the area.” He held out his arm and motioned for me to beat feet, his mouth in a thin line of still more disapproval.
Mr. Bustamante? I’d had no idea that was Tito’s last name. He was just my Taco Man. My beloved purveyor of spicy, meaty goodness.
I batted my eyes at him. Unsuccessfully, because my eyelashes stuck together, but whatever. “But in your esteemed, highly respected opinion, would you consider this a crime scene?” I asked as I pried my right eye apart.
“Bloody hell, Stevie. We’re going to have to work on your brown-nosing flirt. It’s ghastly and lacks so many subtleties,” Win crooned.
Now Officer Nelson buttoned up tighter than a drum, standing erect, his casual stance gone. “I have no comment. Again, I’ll ask you to please exit the area, Miss Cartwright so that we can continue to do our jobs.”
“Please exit the area, Miss Cartwright,” I muttered under my breath in a saucy mimic of his words, but I sauntered out of there just as I was told anyway so I wouldn’t land in
the klink.
The parking lot had emptied out and it appeared all the trucks had closed up shop. Their awnings were rolled up and their serving windows closed.
My heart clenched as I made my way across the street, the joy of the warm day gone for me now that Tito had left the building.
Entering the store, I noted Win was right. Edward was gone, and without any client appointments until early tonight, I decided going home to check on Enzo, our contractor, was a good idea. He’d made enormous progress in just under a month of renovations, but we were a long way from done.
“Bel? You awake?” I asked, making my way to the back room where I’d left him napping.
I heard him chirp a yawn. “Yep. Wide awake.”
“So you haven’t heard?” I peeked under the broad leaf of the banana plant and stroked his wing, his soft white body twitching as he shook off sleep.
“Not a peep. Did you find out where that hottie Kitty keeps her will so we can save Snape from the evil ex-husband?”
“Tito’s dead.” I cringed as I said it out loud.
Belfry gasped. “No. No way. What happened?”
I scooped him up and tucked him into my purse, where I’d nested a small washcloth for him when we traveled back and forth to the store. “C’mon. I’ll tell you on the way home.”
When we got back to the house, despite my sadness over Tito as I told Belfry about his cheesy death (pardon the pun), I almost yelped in joy at the sight of the subcontractor who was due to pave the driveway, standing in the mud with Enzo, whose arms were flapping up and down.
“Look, Win, the cement guy’s here! Dance with me!” I cheered, twerking without an ounce of rhythm.
“Beyoncé salutes you,” he said dryly.
“We’re going to have a real live driveway, Spy Guy! Whatever will I do with all the extra time I’ll have on my hands when I don’t have to rappel down the stairs to get to the road to reach my car every morning?”
The Money Pit Page 21