The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  “My car’s in the alley.”

  Wincing, she patted my shoulder. “Let’s take my Jeep. It’s sturdier on the back roads.”

  There were no back roads on the way to Mr. Royer’s home. Antheia’s husband lived in a mother-in-law’s cottage behind a monstrous, white, saltbox-style house.

  Charlene parked in the driveway and led me around the side of the saltbox to the cottage beside a stand of eucalyptus. Sun and blue sky sparkled through the silvery leaves. The air seemed luminous, and I congratulated myself for leaving my jacket at Pie Town.

  Charlene banged on the door, and we waited.

  “You’ll love the garden.” Charlene knocked again. “They hired a landscape designer, the owners of the house did, I mean. Antheia’s husband is too cheap to spend his own money.”

  We waited some more.

  Charlene shifted her weight, rang the bell. “He knew we were coming, and his car’s here.” She pointed at the vintage, black BMW in front of the cottage.

  I strained my ears, listening. Nearby, a creek splashed.

  Charlene snorted. “He can be hard of hearing when he wants. Either that, or he decided to go back to bed. You go around to the yard. He may be in the garden.”

  “But that would be trespassing.”

  “Nonsense! We were invited. He’s expecting us. Go check in the garden.”

  I thought about that. It still sounded like trespassing.

  “Go on, go! Wouldn’t you feel terrible if he’d slipped and broken his hip and was lying there, starving to death?”

  I glanced into the cloudless, blue sky. “I don’t see any circling vultures.”

  “Will you go? I’ll stay here in case he shows up.” She pressed the bell. It pinged, faint, from somewhere inside the cottage.

  “Fine.” I walked around the side of the cottage, along a brick path edged with ivy. The sound of the creek grew louder. Turning the corner, I entered a dappled garden. Brick walks wended around raised boxes for vegetables. I passed a cluster of sunflowers starting to sprout. Lavender, sage, and rosemary bushes swayed in the light breeze. I ran my fingers along the rosemary, enjoying the scent of the leaves’ heady oil. An azalea bush burst with carnation-colored flowers.

  “Mr. Royer?” I called out.

  A metal wind chime tinkled in response.

  A brick walk led away from the cottage and toward a low tumble of green shaded by more eucalyptus trees. Calla lilies sprouted in small groupings, growing wild. At the rear of the yard, beside the path, three clumps of white-plumed pampas grass waved in the breeze. I inhaled, luxuriating in the fresh air and imagining my own, future garden.

  “Mr. Royer?” It was obvious he wasn’t here, so I had no excuse to look at the creek. Except I wanted to see the creek, so I kept walking, my footsteps soft on the mossy brickwork.

  I passed the tall clumps of pampas grass. Their whiplike leaves needed trimming, and I edged sideways to avoid getting sliced. I stopped at a set of earthen steps cut into the hill. They tumbled down the bank to a narrow creek, splashing over smooth rocks. I stood, soothed by the sound. Something drifted, pale and limp, in the water.

  I cocked my head, studying it, and my breath caught. Floating in the creek was a white hand.

  Chapter 17

  Bushes rustled behind me. Someone struck the small of my back. I pitched forward, unable to stop myself.

  I gasped, plummeting down the hill. I grabbed at ivy, tearing it from the earth, shredding leaves in my fists. Splashing into the icy water, I rolled to a stop. I sat for a moment, too stunned to do more. Something brushed my leg, and I jerked away from the floating hand. Struggling to my feet, I turned toward the steps, my fists clenched in a futile, defensive posture.

  No one was there.

  Around my ankles, the creek splashed. A breeze stirred the branches above me.

  Chest heaving, I stood, my feet numbing with cold. A man lay face down in the water, his white dress shirt and gray trousers soaked through.

  My brain snapped into gear. Whoever had shoved me down the bank was out there with Charlene. I wavered, torn, and attacked the immediate crisis.

  “Charlene!” Movements jerky, I grabbed the man’s shoulders and dragged him backward. Huffing and screaming for Charlene, I hauled the top part of his body out of the water. “Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”

  But his eyes were wide and staring, and his neck canted at an odd angle. Nausea swamped me. Staggering, I sat hard on the bank. I fumbled in my pockets for my phone and pulled out a fistful of 25-percent-off coupons.

  Charlene appeared at the top of the bank. “Did you find him?”

  “You’re okay.” I sagged, scrubbing my wet hands across my face.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? And what happened to your clothing? You’re all wet. Did you fall?”

  “Someone shoved me down the hill. I found him, he—”

  “That creep! I told him we’d be coming to his house. Now he’ll claim he thought you were a trespasser.”

  “I don’t think so.” I motioned to the body on the muddy creek side.

  Her eyes widened, her mouth opening, closing. “Did you try mouth to mouth?” she asked in a small voice.

  “He’s dead.” On shaky legs, I walked up the steps. “Would you call the police, please? I left my phone at Pie Town.”

  She nodded. Extracting a phone from the pocket of her tunic, she made the call. When she hung up, she said, “You should beat it. You’re in enough trouble as it is with Detective Shaw.”

  “My footprints are all over the place. I can’t pretend I wasn’t here.” I’d also left a second trail, parallel to the steps, of torn ivy where I’d slid down the hill. “Besides, someone was hiding behind those pampas grasses and shoved me into the creek. The police need to be told.” I shuddered. Had I encountered the killer?

  She sighed. “You are not going to jail for a crime you didn’t commit, and right now, your presence here looks rotten. We found him together.”

  “Charlene, I just confessed to lying to the police once. I can’t do it again.”

  “Then don’t confess.”

  “But—”

  “Did you kill the man?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then what does it really matter who was first on the scene? Telling them the truth will just muddy the waters, and we’ll never find Joe’s killer. We need a cover story. Collecting for charity? No, no one would believe it. Did you bring those coupons?”

  I nodded.

  “Quick, give me some.”

  I handed her a fistful, and she trotted off. Five minutes later, she returned. A siren wailed in the distance. “We’re putting coupons on windshields,” she said. “We started on this block, because I wanted to show you Roy’s garden.”

  “Roy?”

  “Antheia’s husband, Roy Royer.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, he did have a name aside from Horse’s Ass.” She snapped a picture of the body. “Evidence.”

  I stared at her.

  “All right.” She motioned toward the body. “Under the circumstances, I admit I shouldn’t have called him a horse’s ass. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  A uniformed officer rounded the corner of the cottage. Carmichael.

  Charlene put her hands on her hips. “But he really did live the bulk of his life with his head up his—”

  “Gord . . . Officer Carmichael! Over here!” I waved to him, and he stalked toward us. He wore a bulky black vest over his uniform. Was that armor? In San Nicholas? It made his chest appear even broader.

  His gaze traveled from my running shoes to my ponytail, his expression chilly. “What happened?”

  I brushed a stray ivy leaf off my jeans, leaving a smear of mud. “I—”

  “I found Mr. Royer.” Charlene pointed down the hill. “And someone pushed Val into the creek. We didn’t see who it was.”

  Carmichael walked down the steps and squatted beside the body, touched the side of his nec
k. “Someone pushed you?”

  “He must have been hiding behind one of those big clumps of pampas grass,” I said. “I heard them rustle, and then someone shoved me.”

  He straightened and looked up at us. “Are you sure it wasn’t Charlene?”

  “Of course I didn’t push her!” Charlene raised her chin, indignant.

  “But you didn’t see or hear the person who did, even though you were right here.”

  “My hearing isn’t what it used to be,” Charlene said. “I saw Val fall, and everything was moving so quickly. All I could do was focus on her.”

  “Did you touch anything?” he asked me.

  “I pulled Mr. Royer out of the water.” I shivered. The water had soaked through my jeans and T-shirt, and they clung, clammy and unpleasant, to my skin. “He was dead.”

  “I can see that,” he said, his tone flat. “What were you doing here?”

  “Coupons.” Charlene waved some at him. “We wanted to put some on cars before Pie Town opened this morning, and I suggested starting here. Val doesn’t get out much, and Roy has such a lovely garden. I called him this morning and asked if it would be all right. He said he would be home, and we could look at the garden but not to bother him. I rang the bell anyway, to alert him we’d arrived.”

  “You spoke with him this morning? What time?”

  “Around seven,” she said.

  “Val?”

  “Yes?” I blinked, astonished at the lies tripping off Charlene’s tongue.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Um, coupons?” If I told the truth now, how much trouble would we be in? Charlene had told Gordon everything relevant, even if she’d muddied some of the details about finding the body.

  “The coupons?” His eyes narrowed.

  “I’m not a big fan of coupons on windshields,” I said. “They’re annoying. But business has been slow, and it’s a nice day for walking around.”

  “You walked here?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” Charlene said. “We drove my Jeep over and then walked. I’m parked in the driveway. Did you know the owners hired a landscape designer?”

  He gave her a hard, disbelieving look.

  I wilted. I’d been on the scene for Joe’s death, had found Antheia’s body, and had now discovered her husband’s. If I wasn’t arrested, I’d be spending the day at the police station answering questions for sure. And Pie Town! This was supposed to be our big day, when the tourists flooded into town, and San Nicholas learned my quiche hadn’t killed Joe. And yes, a man lay dead, and these thoughts were selfish. But a pained whimper escaped my throat.

  “What was that?” he asked me.

  I had to tell him the truth. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Pulled him out of the water?” Charlene interrupted. “Of course you should have. You had to. He might have still been alive. I would have done it myself, but I’ve lost a bit of upper body strength lately. I need to get back to my yoga.”

  “Did you go down to the creek, Mrs. McCree?”

  “Me? No, not with all those uneven steps.” She rubbed her leg. “I’ve got bad knees.”

  “You both found him together?”

  “No,” Charlene said. “I found him and shouted for Val. I was ahead of her, you see. She felt funny going into the garden without speaking to Roy. So I went into the garden, and she lollygagged behind. She’s very law abiding.”

  He grunted. “And then someone pushed Val, and you didn’t see who it was even though you were standing right beside her.”

  “My vision isn’t what it used to be,” she quavered.

  “GC! What have we got?” Flanked by two uniformed cops, Shaw strode down the path.

  “Miss Harris found another body,” he said.

  Charlene sputtered. “I was the one who found—”

  “Another one?” Stopping at the top of the bank, Shaw stared down. “Must have slipped on those stairs and broken his neck. I told him he ought to shore those up, make them more even.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “You’re bad luck for being on the scene of so many accidents. You’re like a failed guardian angel, aren’t you?”

  My hearing must be going the way of Charlene’s. “So many accidents?”

  “First Joe, then Mrs. Royer, now her husband.” Detective Shaw tsked.

  “Joe was an accident?” In spite of my wet clothes, my body heated. Shaw couldn’t be serious.

  “A heart attack, technically, brought on by the poisoning.”

  “But poisoning isn’t an accident.”

  “We found traces of castor bean oil in his coffee grinder,” Shaw said. “Joe must have accidentally mixed a few in. Ground up like that, mixed with something acidic like coffee, even a few beans would have quite a kick.”

  Carmichael looked away, a vein pulsing in his jaw.

  Wow. I’d been right about the coffee? Wait. What? “Why would he keep castor beans in his kitchen?” I asked. “How could some get mixed in by mistake?”

  Shaw shrugged. “Who knows how these things happen? He was old, forgetful.”

  “He was not,” Charlene said.

  “Right,” I said. “And, and . . . Antheia! She had a rope knotted around her neck!”

  Shaw winced. “You got me there. That was a bad business, burglary gone wrong.”

  “Burglary? But—”

  “Clear signs of a break-in at the back,” Shaw said. “Of course, you wouldn’t have noticed since you stayed in the front of the house. Probably the same guys who broke in to poor Joe’s house.”

  I winced. “What was stolen?”

  He wagged his finger. “I can’t divulge that.”

  Gordon cleared his throat. “But of course we’ll be treating this as a potential crime scene until we definitively know the cause of death.”

  “Of course,” Shaw said. “Don’t mind Grumpy Cop here, Miss Harris. It’s procedure. GC, we’ve been getting complaints about that gypsy caravan. It’s illegally parked down on Seashore Drive again, and it’s blocking the view. Why don’t you go have a chat with the owner?”

  Gordon’s face turned to stone.

  Grumpy Cop? GC stood for Grumpy Cop? Coughing, I turned to Shaw. “Detective, someone pushed me down the bank into the creek. I—we weren’t alone when we found the body.”

  Shaw wagged his finger at Charlene. “You’d better watch yourself, young lady. Your pranks can be dangerous.”

  “But—”

  Charlene grasped my arm and drew me down the path. “Let the nice policemen do their job.”

  “Wait!” Gordon stormed to us. “Your shoes.”

  “What?” I asked. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

  “We’ll need to make sure yours are the only footprints down there,” he said.

  “We don’t have time for you to take a cast,” Charlene said. “We’ve got to get back to Pie Town. It opens at noon.”

  “I don’t need a cast. Just a photo and . . . Hold on.” He hurried away, disappearing around the corner of the saltbox cottage.

  “Can you believe it?” I fumed. “These can’t all be accidents or random burglaries! Antheia was strangled. And what kind of person puts a castor bean in a coffee grinder by accident?”

  “It’s a cover-up.” She rubbed her hands together, gleeful. “I smell a conspiracy.”

  I groaned. “It’s not a conspiracy. Shaw’s—”

  “A moron?”

  “You did say he got the job through nepotism. But Gordon doesn’t think it’s an accident, or he wouldn’t be interested in my shoes.”

  Two paramedics hurried past, medical kits in hand.

  “He’s interested in a lot more than your shoes,” Charlene said.

  “Will you cut that out? If he was once, he’s not anymore.” I groaned. Oh, God. I’d lied to him again. “Did you see the way he looked at me?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Sort of annoyed and disappointed?”

  “Yeah.”

  She rubbed her chin. “Maybe if you tugged do
wn your shirt and exposed more—”

  “No.”

  “Maybe a little . . .” She fiddled with her collar.

  “No.”

  Gordon returned with a professional-looking, black camera and a piece of paper. He laid the paper on the ground. “Here. Step on that. Carefully.”

  I did.

  “Try not to wrinkle it,” he said.

  Gingerly, I lifted my foot, leaving a muddy print.

  “Okay.” He knelt in front of me, dropped a quarter beside my foot, and snapped a couple pictures of my shoes. “This will do for now. And, Val—”

  “Don’t leave town?”

  “That’s Shaw’s line,” he said. “I was going to say you shouldn’t be afraid to tell the truth.”

  Ouch.

  “Excellent advice,” Charlene said. “Can we go now?”

  “Unless there’s anything else you need to tell me, Val?” he asked.

  My throat closed. “No,” I rasped. “Nothing.”

  Charlene and I got in the Jeep and drove down the winding, residential streets.

  “We’re closing in on the killer,” she said. “I can feel it.”

  “Or we’re getting closer to being murdered.” Was Roy’s death our fault? Had I precipitated Roy’s death and his wife’s?

  “I won’t hear that kind of talk. Would Daniel Jackson have backed down from proving what he knew was right?”

  “Who?” I’d met so many people recently they were beginning to get mixed up.

  “Daniel Jackson! He knew the Egyptian pyramids had been built by aliens and was laughed out of the archaeological world because of it. But did he roll over? No!”

  I banged the back of my head against the headrest. “You’re talking about that TV show, Stargate.” I should have remembered the character. I’d spent five hours watching the show with Charlene. In my defense, I’d had three of Charlene’s root beers under my belt when she admitted the “extra something” she’d added was Kahlúa. By that point, another glass had seemed like a good idea.

  “Of course I’m talking about Stargate! We can’t stop now. There’s something very wrong going on in San Nicholas. Those people were killed for a reason. The murders, the lights in the sky over the harbor, Bigfoot in Pargiter’s garden, they’re all connected!”