“Where were you last night between eleven and one?”
“At the party at Aztec Beads,” Tessa said.
“You were there when Ms. Lopez was hurt?”
The detective was on his way to concluding Tessa was at the party when Rosie was strangled, and had the opportunity and a reason to try to kill her.
“If you are thinking I tried to kill Rosie, well, that is just not true,” Tessa said.
I knew Detective Grant was jumping to the wrong conclusion, but as he had told me earlier, he was investigating this crime, not me. I kept quiet.
“From what I can put together, the party ended around 11:30, when Ms. Lopez was injured. And after the party broke up, when Rosie Lopez was on her way to the hospital, where were you then?”
“At Aztec Beads, cleaning up.”
“Cleaning up? You mean, putting things in the dumpster?”
“Yes, I put some things in the dumpster,” Tessa said matter-of-factly. The detective was painting another clear picture: That Tessa had also killed Misty. She had the opportunity last night when she was cleaning up.
“And what time did you leave?”
“I’m not sure what time. It was pretty late. Maybe one in the morning.” Tessa’s timing was terrible. She was at Aztec Beads at midnight, the time estimated by the medical examiner of Misty’s death.
“Who else was there?”
“Allen Bradley was there, helping get the place closed up for the night.
“A couple more questions,” said Detective Grant. “Tell me about Misty Carlton.”
“She was a young woman who made lampworked beads, and rented time to work at a torch in my studio.”
“Yes, Tracy Lopez said you have some sort of flame-throwing studio.”
“Flameworking,” Tessa clarified. “Just a small flame, not a giant one.”
I bit my lips harder, trying not to laugh. I knew someday we’d be able to joke about flame-throwers, but today wasn’t the day.
“And did Ms. Carlton always pay her rental fees?” asked Detective Grant.
“Sometimes she paid, and sometimes she didn’t quite have enough money.” Tessa’s generosity was about to get her in serious trouble.
“Would you say she owed you a large sum of money?”
“I think over the last year, it added up to maybe $800 dollars, but I didn’t really mind. She is—was—a sweet girl, and I wanted to help her, and her partner Nick.” I knew Tessa so well, and could hear the tiniest pinch in her voice. I could tell how hard she was trying to keep her tears from spilling out.
“But she did owe you a great deal of money?” Grant asked the question again, more intensely, trying to unnerve my friend.
“Not a lot, but yes, she owed me money, I guess it was a lot,” said Tessa, trying to be honest.
“Enough money to want to kill her?” the detective asked harshly.
“NO!” said Tessa, losing her cool and jumping up.
The detective stood as well. Protectively, I stood up, too, and moved to stand closer to Tessa.
“Until you showed up on my radar, Ms. Ricci, I thought Ms. Lopez’s injury was an accident and Ms. Carlton was killed for drugs. Now, I’m not so sure what we are looking at.”
He opened the door and stepped aside so we could leave. Tessa grabbed her purse and slung it onto her shoulder. I saw the detective take a long look at the strap.
On the steps of the police station, Tessa called Craig and filled him in on what had happened. While Tessa was on the phone, I saw Detective Grant come out of the front doors of the building. One thing puzzled me. It was the way he asked about where Tessa had been between eleven and one last night.
I took a chance and followed him down the steps.
“Detective Grant, can I ask you a question? I swear I’m not trying to be a super-sleuth. It’s just a question about timing.”
He stopped, looking at me like an angry bull. I plunged ahead. “If Misty died at midnight, why did you ask Tessa where she was between eleven and one?”
He stood there, looking at me darkly. I swear his foot was scuffing the ground like he was ready to charge.
Finally, he answered, impatiently. “Because we can’t pinpoint a death down to the minute. Without any test results, the medical examiner can’t say she died at exactly 12:02. It’s always a range: Midnight, plus or minus an hour.” He pushed past me and was gone.
Well, why didn’t you say that before?
I decided I’d better not ask that question out loud.
Tessa hung up with her husband. “Craig is coming to get us. He told me everything was going to be fine. But, how does he know for sure?”
“Everything is going to be fine, you’ll see.”
“Well, you don’t know that, Jax, and neither does Craig.” Tessa grabbed me by the shoulders. “I didn’t kill Misty. You know the money didn’t matter.”
“I know, Tessa. Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out.”
“And you know I wasn’t upset by Rosie’s store coming in so close to mine. Right? I didn’t try to kill Rosie. Detective Grant is just wrong. He doesn’t understand. It’s not me.” Tessa was in a panic, a state I’d never witnessed in her before.
“Shhhh. It’s okay,” I said, trying to soothe her. “I know you aren’t guilty, but I don’t think the detective feels the same way.”
“What do you think about Tracy?” Tessa asked. “Tracy must have said something to Detective Grant to make him suspect me.”
“She’s trying to send him after you to get the focus away from her,” I said. “In my mind, it makes her look guilty.”
“You’ve got to help me, Jax.”
“We just have to sort through all the junk. You know, like organizing a jumbled box of beads. All we have to do is put each piece in its proper place, and we’ll be able to see what we have.”
“Well, Jax, let’s get to work sorting this mess out, before you have to come and visit me in jail.”
“Do they allow beads in jail?”
“Probably, but no torches.”
“We’ll have to solve this mystery, because you can’t give up making beads.”
NINETEEN
Craig showed up with Joey and Rosie’s son Benny. Tessa and I jumped into the station wagon, which was infinitely cleaner than Tessa’s van. Tessa noticed me admiring it.
“Don’t say a word, Jax, I’m already stressed.” Once again I had to press my lips shut to keep from saying anything that would get me in trouble.
I had squeezed into the back seat next to two happy four-year-old boys. Joey was holding a small stuffed otter, and Benny had a stuffed seal.
“Hi guys, did you have fun at the aquarium?” Tessa asked from the front seat.
“Yeah, it was great,” said Joey. “We got to see the otters!”
“And the seals!” Benny chimed in.
“No sharks?” I asked.
“No way, they’re too scary!” both boys said together.
Sometimes you don’t want to see the scary things, and sometimes you have no choice. Like today. I had looked forward to this weekend for months. Now all I wanted was for this disaster to end, for me to go back to a normal life, and never remember all I had experienced in the last day. If I counted the Gumdrop-Mojito debacle, that was yet another day I wished I could forget, although it could never compare to the horror I’d seen just hours ago.
Craig dropped me off in front of my house, and as soon as I got in, I collapsed on the sofa. I was glad to be home. I looked around at the terrific place I now called my own. When I’d moved here, I didn’t bring any furniture with me. If it didn’t fit in the Ladybug, it wasn’t coming with me. I’d tried to jazz things up in the house with watercolor paintings of tropical scenes sent to me by my sister Connie’s son Jeremy, who at fifteen was already an excellent painter. His sunny images didn’t quite go with the mish-mash of furniture I had, but it worked for me. The sun-drenched scenes helped keep the place warm and bright even on the coldest, wettest wint
er days.
I refused to accept Val’s decorating advice, fearing I’d end up with some animal print accessories if I did. My favorite piece of furniture was an overstuffed chair with faded purple paisley fabric. It was the comfiest chair in the house. I’m sure Aunt Rita had spent many hours sitting in this cozy spot. It was Gumdrop’s favorite sleeping spot. And it was empty.
Oh, Gumdrop, where are you?
I took this opportunity to search the house again for Gumdrop. I sorted through the laundry, hoping to find him snuggled down inside. I even got out the flashlight and looked under the beds and the sofa.
“Gummie! Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” I said, as I swept the flashlight under the bed in the guest room. I had tucked several of bead boxes under there. And there was one of Marta’s dog collars. Its silver tags flashed as I scanned the carpet. I also realized I needed to vacuum under here more often. There was a serious dust bunny infestation under this bed. I looked under my bed as well, and in all the kitchen cupboards. No Gumdrop. He didn’t have any tags on, because he was such a scaredy-cat he never went out. I was careful about keeping the doors shut, but I’d never felt he would make a run for it if I left a door open. I had not expected a terror named Stanley would put dear Gumdrop in harm’s way.
After searching and searching again, there was simply no way to believe the cat was in the house.
I hoped Animal Control had spotted him and picked him up, or that some kind person, being able to tell he was a loved animal, would turn him over to the pound. I knew it was a long shot to go to Animal Control, but he’d been missing since yesterday morning and this would be the last chance I’d get to check there until Monday. I needed to do something, and this was the only thing I could think to do. I couldn’t just wait for Gumdrop to come home. He needed me, and I needed him, too. I put the cat carrier in the Ladybug hoping I’d be bringing Gumdrop home with me.
Last time I used this carrier, the two of us were moving to Seattle.
The day I left Miami, I put the top down on my new VW, gently slipped Gumdrop into his carrier, and set it in the front seat so he could ride shotgun. He was the most important thing I was bringing with me to Seattle. Jerry wasn’t home when I left, and that was fine. I didn’t have much to say to him. I left the key to the apartment on the Lino’s Pizza menu, and took off.
I drove to my parents’ house to say good-bye, and to grab a box of childhood things I couldn’t leave behind. Their house was tucked out of the way in the tiny Miami Shores neighborhood, far from the garish Miami Beach hotels and McMansions. I loved this little house on the old street where I grew up. The tile-roofed houses were painted tropical pastel colors, and each front yard was shaded with a requisite palm tree or two.
This wasn’t going to be a fun conversation.
“Mom, Dad?” I said tentatively, as I came in through the front door, the screen door slamming behind me. The house was anything but drab. The living room was a tropical paradise.
“Oh, surely you don’t need to go now?” Mom asked, getting up from the sofa’s palm frond upholstery to give me a big hug. “The weather’s getting so nice, and it’s not hurricane season for a couple more months.” Hurricane season was another thing I wouldn’t miss.
“Jax, why you’d have to go and say yes to that attorney? You have it so nice here,” said my dad.
“You’re the one who told me to fish or cut bait, Dad,” I said.
“Yes, but we were fishing at the time,” he pointed out.
Yes, right. It was good advice, no matter what we were doing.
“Well, it’s the right thing for me to do.” I didn’t think it was a good idea to tell them that Gumdrop the psychic cat had told me to move away. Besides, that wouldn’t be true, entirely. Who had really told me to go was me. Me and Great-Aunt Rita. I liked to think of her as my fairy godmother. Her generous bequeath was pulling me out of my comfort zone so I could live a better life, a new life.
“Why’d Rita say you had to live there in Seattle?” Dad asked, hoisting up his baggy Bermuda shorts. “You’ve got it so good here in Miami. You’ve got a job.”
“I quit my job, Dad.”
A pained expression crossed his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, dark and wrinkled with sun damage from the many years he’d spent fishing.
“Aunt Rita marched to her own drummer, and I respect that,” said Mom, defending her aunt. My mother seemed wistful, as if she was considering what it would have been like for her to have chosen a different path.
“Right. And Aunt Rita has helped me hear the drum’s beat, and I’m going to march along to it, as well,” I said. I loved my parents, but there was no way they could convince me to stay, and no way I could make them understand why I needed to go.
“Gumdrop’s out in the car, and I don’t want him to overheat. Can you help me with this box?” I turned toward the door, and my parents, with nothing left to say, followed me silently. We walked out the front door, and I showed them the brand-new car. Mom dropped her jaw, and Dad dropped my box.
“And now you bought a car,” they said in unison, breaking their silence.
“Mom. I love you,” I said, as I gave her a big hug. “Dad, I love you, too,” and I gave him a smooch on the cheek. They both stood there on the curb, stunned. I picked up the box, although the contents were likely shattered now, and placed it in the trunk. I got behind the wheel, and as I pulled away I looked back at my parents, waving from the curb. I turned the corner, and my cell rang. “Mom” blinked on the screen. Really? Already?
I answered.
“Mom?”
“Call me when you get to Seattle.”
“I won’t forget to call you when I get there.” Of course I wouldn’t forget.
Gumdrop wasn’t a good traveler. He yowled continuously, sounding like Mr. Prescott, Aunt Rita’s attorney. “Yelllooooo Yellloooo YEEELLLLLoooo!” Poor Gumdrop. The vet had given me some kitty Ambien before we left Miami, but I hadn’t wanted to give it to him, hoping that once we were on the open road, the smell of fresh air and freedom would calm him down. No such luck. At a rest stop just outside of Orlando I rolled up all the windows, put up the ragtop, and opened the carrier.
“Okay, Gummie, we can do this the hard way, or the extremely difficult way,” I said, looking at him. His gray eyebrows furled, (that is, if he had eyebrows), and his eyes were more intense than I’d ever seen them.
He started to howl, “Yellll—” I grabbed him, and then jammed the pill down his throat. I did it so fast he didn’t know what happened. He didn’t even get a chance to finish his “—llloooo.”
Back on the road, Gumdrop fell fast asleep. I felt bad I had to drug the poor guy, but not as bad as I would have felt if had to listen to his yowling for the next million hours of driving.
The trip to Seattle would take me through twelve of our lovely fifty states. I got on the freeway and kept driving northwest through my home-state of Florida, then Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, and on and on, and finally through Idaho and on to Washington State.
It took us four grueling days to get to Seattle. I was on a mission: to start again, to shake that old Etch A Sketch called life, and start with a clean slate.
TWENTY
The Animal Control center was located in a not-so-charming neighborhood that had a hazardous waste disposal depot at one end, and a water treatment plant at the other.
“Did any gray cats arrive in the last day?” I asked the woman behind the counter. She’d looked like she was doing some important work on the computer when I came in, her thick glasses pressed close to the screen, her dry red lips pursed in concentration.
“Nope. Sorry ma’am. Only a kitten and an orange tabby,” she said, distractedly, her eyes still on the computer screen. “You’re welcome to go and look, if you want. What you see back there is what we got.”
I had to see for myself. As I turned the corner to go into the kennel area, I saw what was consuming the clerk’s attention: YouTube
cat videos. Oh yes, extremely important work. You’d think if she needed to see some cats, she’d walk about twelve feet and see some real live ones who could use some attention, and I’m sure would be doing adorable things, if only given the chance.
The first aisle was filled with rows and rows of cats in cages. Many of them sat still, paws tucked beneath them staring out through the bars, quiet and solemn. Others were asleep, and few meowed urgently, trying to get anyone’s attention. It was excruciating to see all of these missing and unloved cats, and I wished I could adopt them all. As I looked in each cage, I hoped to see Gumdrop’s big green eyes staring out at me, but no luck, he wasn’t here.
I turned the corner and walked by the wall of cages that held barking dogs of all sizes and colors. At least a dozen mutts were jumping against the wire cages. I felt sick for the poor dogs that must be scared to death and missing their owners. If Marta were here she’d correct me and tell me these animals were missing their guardians, not their owners. And then I’d have to punch her in the mouth.
As I passed one cage, I stopped to look at a small dark-colored dog with a white stripe across his head that was barking and pawing at the metal doors. He looked like many other dogs here at the pound—except this particular guy looked well cared for and pudgy around the middle. I put my finger up to the cage, and he lunged at it. “RRRRRRRAFFFF!”
“Wait a second. I know you! You’re Cheeto, or Tito, or something! What in the world are you doing here?” I said to the furry little monster.
The dog was jumping around wildly at this point, recognizing me, recognizing his name, or maybe just being a small hyper dog. I went out to the front counter to talk with the attendant.
“Do you know anything about the dog in kennel seven?” I asked. “I think he may belong to a friend of mine.”
The clerk typed on the keyboard, and a few mouse clicks later, I had an answer. “He was brought in earlier today. Someone dropped him off, said they found him running on the street. No tags.” She had pulled back from her screen and squinted at me, trying to refocus her eyes at a distance farther than three inches away.
High Strung: A Glass Bead Mystery (The Glass Bead Mystery Series) Page 12