Maggie and the Whiskered Witness

by Barbara Cool Lee

  "A defense attorney," Maggie repeated. It was hitting home that Lauren was really dead. Someone out there had killed her. Deliberately. Cruelly. Someone who would have to be caught. To stand trial. To be put away for life for this horrible crime.

  "We have to find out who did this," she said. "Lauren deserves justice."

  Ibarra shook his head. "Oh, no, Maggie. I see the wheels turning your head. You want to stick your nose into this and try to figure out what happened. But you can't do it. Not this time."

  "Why not? Don't you even care what happened to her?!" It came out too harshly, though Maggie hadn't really meant it that way, and she could see the pain in Ibarra's eyes. "I'm sorry," she added swiftly. "I know it's not your fault."

  She put her hand on his arm. "I know you cared about her." And she did. She had seen them working together, and knew Lauren had shown a playful, friendly demeanor around him. As much as she did with anyone. She knew Ibarra was a fair boss, and a truly good guy, and there had been a positive relationship between him and Lauren.

  But now he was hurting, probably even more than she was, and she'd made him feel worse.

  He didn't defend himself, though. His mind was elsewhere. "I think she had a sister," he muttered. "But I don't remember her name. Randall will be the one to inform the next of kin."

  "You said Lauren was new in town a year ago. Do you know where she lived before she came to Carita?"

  He turned his head away, and she heard him sniff. But when he turned back his expression was neutral. "I don't know." He smiled faintly. "That's why we didn't date for long."

  "What do you mean?" Maggie asked.

  Her hand still rested on his arm, and he hadn't made any move to shift away, so she just kept it there, not sure if he even realized she was touching him.

  "She wouldn't talk about herself. Her past. Anything like that. She was a blank page. She was very…." He didn't finish the sentence.

  "Reserved?" Maggie filled in for him.

  He nodded. "I would have said secretive. I knew she lived out of town. She said so on our first date. But she drove herself to meet me and wouldn't say where she lived, except that it was in the woods. I had to look up her address this afternoon. It wasn't even in her personnel record. Her record just listed a bed and breakfast place she stayed at when she first arrived in town. But her real address was on her drivers license record. I had to check online for it."

  He was over-explaining, giving her far more information than she'd asked for. It was something Maggie usually noticed in people who were hiding things. But in his case, it was clear what he was hiding was his emotional reaction. He was upset about Lauren's death, and didn't seem to be able to keep himself neutral, the way he usually did with other murder cases.

  "She seemed to be a very private person," Maggie agreed. "I figured… I figured she was just slow to open up. And that… we would have more time." There had seemed to be more time. More future for Lauren Douglas. And now there wasn't.

  Ibarra nodded, and his tears showed then. He started to turn his head away again so Maggie wouldn't see him crying, but she raised her hand to his face and wiped the tears away away.

  Then he leaned against her.

  She put her arms around him, and he relaxed against her. The big man's shoulders shook as he rested his head on her shoulder, and she patted him on the arm and didn't say anything.

  She understood. Lauren Douglas had been alive, just hours ago. She'd been part of the fabric of their daily lives. There was something so horrible about someone so young dying. Beyond the awful crime itself, just knowing that she had her whole life in front of her, and now all her potential would remain unfulfilled, made it even worse.

  Ibarra pulled away and wiped his eyes. He still sat very close to her though, and she could feel the warmth of him against her side.

  "I should go," he said, but he didn't stand up. They stayed there, arm in arm for a while.

  She patted his hand. "I'm so sorry, Will," she said.

  "I am, too." Then he smiled. "And thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For holding me while I blubbered like a fool. I don't usually do that."

  "No," she said. "That's usually my job."

  He chuckled. "Yeah."

  He was still sitting there, too close, too warm, and his eyes when he looked at her were filled with something she had seen from him before, but never really took seriously.

  "Maggie…?" he said in a whisper, and her breath caught in her throat.

  He leaned over, so his mouth was very close to hers. "There is a spark here," he said, still in that low whisper. "You feel it, too, don't you?"

  She bit her lip. She did feel it. She had always felt it. But had always ignored it. This wasn't what she wanted. Not with Will Ibarra.

  But now? When they sat there, with all their emotions so close to the surface, and their mutual pain heightening the intensity of their feelings until the tension stretched out between them like a rubber band?

  She opened her mouth to say something. She meant to say, no, there was no chemistry between them. That truly was what she had intended. But then it was too late as he bent his head down and gave her a quick kiss, just barely touching his lips to hers. His stubble felt like a prickly brush whispering across her skin.

  And then he stood up and got in his car and left, and she sat out there alone on the porch for a long time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Maggie lay on her daybed and watched TV late into the evening, trying to distract herself. She couldn't do a thing for Lauren. She had no connection to the case, now that she'd given her statement. She had to let it go.

  This time she really wasn't even tempted to interfere. Because everyone was right. If she stuck her nose into the investigation she could mess up the prosecution of the killer. If she nosed around the way she liked to do, asking a bunch of questions and trying to figure out suspects and motives and timelines, she could accidentally end up being responsible for a killer going free. Both Chief Randall and Will Ibarra had warned her about that.

  She had to stop obsessing about what had happened to Lauren Douglas. It had been only this morning when she had been obsessed about something else—her own love life. She had forgotten all about her personal problems during the day. But now it was back in the forefront of her mind.

  So she rested her head against Jasper's furry side, and he grunted contentedly as she flipped through channels, looking for something to make her forget all about reality for a while.

  Hendrix lay on the floor nearby. He had refused to get up on the daybed, preferring to use Jasper's big dog bed on the floor, and she was reminded of his dog bed at Lauren's cabin, and Lauren's little twin bed, obviously used, like her own daybed, as a sofa and lounge. And next to it had been a small table, used as a craft table, just like Maggie had. She didn't like to think of all the parallels in their lives.

  "I'm glad somebody's using that old dog bed," Maggie said to Hendrix. "Jasper never sleeps on it anymore. He prefers to sleep on a real mattress."

  Hendrix put his head on his paws and sighed. He looked up at the wall in front of him, and she did, too, noticing her retro purple Kit-Cat clock ticking away the time, its googly eyes darting back and forth with each second.

  Hendrix seemed fascinated by the clock, and she watched his eyes as he stared at the cat's tail sweeping back and forth.

  She watched the clock's darting eyeballs, wondering if she would ever be able to fall asleep after the day she'd had.

  "Wait a minute. It's eleven-thirty!" she said aloud, and both dogs lifted their heads, giving her the same cocked-head, what does that mean? expression.

  "That means it's time to watch TV," she told them. She changed channels until she came across the Later Than Late show's familiar opening theme song.

  "Thank goodness I didn't miss it," she muttered, and Jasper grunted agreement. Then he stretched his bony legs out and snored through the whole show.

  They'd dressed Reese in neu
tral tones. A plain gray T-shirt with tan trousers. He wore his usual white sneakers, and not a single accessory. He sat on the couch and chatted with the host, then participated in a lightning round of ridiculous trivia questions about his early days in show business.

  It was all charming and witty and carefully choreographed, and he managed to not say a single personal or revealing thing—and to plug the movie three times in the ten-minute appearance.

  The host thanked him, they cut to commercial, and then he was gone, and some other person came out. She turned off the TV.

  "Nice outfit," she told him sarcastically when she called him.

  "Yeah," he said. "It's my Man of the People look. That's what the stylist said."

  "It hardly seems worth paying for a stylist if they're just going to dress you in the same kind of stuff you wear at home," she said.

  He chuckled. "Doesn't matter. I fired him today, so the rest of the week I'll be in my own clothes."

  "Gee, Reese, it wasn't that bad an outfit."

  He laughed. "He offered me a bump before I went on."

  "Oh." That's why he'd phoned her this afternoon, when she'd been sitting at the murder scene. She had been so consumed by her own problems she hadn't even noticed the stress in his voice, didn't even realize that he'd been calling her for emotional support.

  Jasper moved, picking up on the tension that rippled through her body. Reese had been sober only a few months since a near-deadly drug relapse. Everyone knew that. Everyone. And some jerk offered him cocaine before a personal appearance? Firing would be the least of what she would do to the guy.

  "You told him no, thank you, I assume?" she said when she could get the words out.

  He chuckled. "Not in quite those words. I was a bit more… colorful."

  The sweat that sprang to her palms made the phone slip. She gripped it more tightly. "This happened right before you called me, didn't it?"

  "Yup," he said. "But you had other problems, so I didn't tell you."

  "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you," Maggie said. "Are you safe?"

  He knew exactly what she meant. "Yeah," he drawled. "I'm fine."

  "Don't be flippant," she scolded. The image of him dying alone in a hotel suite with a needle in his arm shook her to her core. "Be honest with me. Are you absolutely sure you're safe?"

  "Yeah," he said. "It was a good reminder of how easy it would be to fall. And my reaction showed me how solid I'm feeling. I nearly decapitated the guy, and that's a good thing. I can protect myself from idiots like that. But it would be stupid to let it go and allow a person like that to have access to me."

  "Because you might have a bad day," she said.

  "Yeah. Because he might try me when I'm not feeling so solid. I have to be careful. My body is always trying to betray me."

  He'd once described the heroin addiction to her as a stalker, haunting his every step, looking for a weakness. She shuddered again, hating the person who had introduced him to the drugs over twenty years ago, when he was young and foolish and thought he was immortal. And the other person, who had secretly slipped him drugs months ago, destroying his many years of sobriety and almost killing him. Jasper whined when her hand accidentally clenched into a fist on his fur. She apologized to the dog and kissed him. He licked her face.

  "How soon can you get out of there?" she asked.

  "Depends on if you need me to come home," he replied.

  "I'm fine," she said firmly. "I gave a statement to the police and I'm done."

  "You sure? You seem to have a way of getting in the middle of investigating these things."

  "This time I'm sure," she said, and she was. "I didn't really know Lauren well at all. There's nothing I can offer that will help solve the case."

  "That's never stopped you before," he said, some of his usual amusement creeping into his voice.

  "This time it will. Everyone on the force is working the case. There's nothing I can do to help."

  "Good. Sounds much safer."

  "Yeah," she said. "So I will take care of Hendrix until his people come for him, and then my part is over."

  "Maggie?" he said doubtfully.

  "Yes," she replied. "This time I'm sure. I don't want this. I don't want any of this. I want to run my little shop, and walk on the beach, and do my crafts, and see if I can figure out how to sauté mushrooms in the Instant Pot like my dad has been trying to teach me. I've burned them every time I've tried."

  "—Magdalena—?"

  "—I'm out of it," she insisted. "I don't want to investigate a murder."

  "Okay," he said. "I believe you."

  "So how long do you have to stay in Hollywood Babylon?" she asked again.

  "Five more days, they tell me. Unless I decide to ditch the whole thing and leave."

  "That would mean breaking your contract."

  "There'd be… repercussions," he admitted. "But I'd survive." He paused. "Or you could just fly down here and come to New York with me for the second part of the tour." He left it hanging, not quite a question.

  She thought about it. It would be good to get away. A quick hop to LA, and then a private jet to New York, and a stay at a luxury hotel overlooking Times Square. Go shopping. Get away from it all. Maybe even take in a Broadway show. It would be a great escape from Carita. But she had the dogs, and her shop—and a completely unreliable clerk who couldn't be counted on to cover for her.

  It wasn't the right time for a vacation. She explained that all to him.

  "Okay." He went quiet, and the silence on the phone stretched out.

  "Listen, Stanley," she said. "If you are in any danger, any at all, you just say so. You say the word, and I will crawl across broken glass to get to you. You understand?"

  "I understand," he said. She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm not in danger. I promise. I'm clean and sober and eating pizza in my hotel room like a good little boy."

  "Vito's?" she asked, her mouth watering. Carita Cove didn't have a good pizza parlor.

  "Of course," he said.

  "And what are your plans after that?" she asked. "Parties? Groupies?"

  "I'm reading that Chris Hadfield book and going to bed," he said.

  Maggie smiled. Reese had wanted to be an astronaut when he was a kid, and he devoured anything about astronauts and space science.

  "No groupies, huh?"

  "You're the only woman I'm thinking about." His deep rumble made her toes curl up, even over the phone. "And what are you doing, Maggie?"

  "Curling up in bed with my boyfriend," she said. "He's a younger guy, a bit hairy, but very elegant, with great fashion sense. He's dressed all in sable with a white collar, a perfect choice without even a stylist to advise him. Incredibly handsome. I have trouble keeping my hands off of him."

  Reese laughed. "I've never been jealous of a dog before."

  She turned the subject to other things, the remodel of the old campground he'd recently purchased, and his plans to clear a spot at the top of the hill to place his telescope for stargazing. They focused on the future, ignoring the present awfulness. He told her about lens refractors, and she told him about bead stitches, and neither of them fully understood what the other was talking about, but it was nice to share anyway. They stayed on the phone a long time, not wanting the call to end.

  Finally they hung up, and she lay there resting her head against Jasper's fluffy side. She listened to the dog snore, felt the warmth of him against her cheek, and wondered to herself why she hadn't told Reese about Will Ibarra, and that kiss.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maggie dropped the dogs at the bead shop the next morning. She pointed them to the dog bed and they both lay down, their huge bodies barely fitting on the cushion.

  Jasper rolled over, and Hendrix ended up sliding off onto the floor. He just shook his head at Maggie, then put his head on his paws and went to sleep.

  "Stay here, boys. I'll be right back," she said. She locked the door behind her, then jaywalked to the other side of
the street for a quick coffee before opening up.

  O'Riley's Coffee Shop was just across from her bead shop, and it was her favorite place, run by one of her favorite people.

  When she opened the door and stepped inside she sniffed the air appreciatively. There was the usual compelling odor of fresh coffee beans roasting, and something else. She paused to try to pick out the new scent among the wonderful coffee and chocolate and pastry smells that were usually present.

  "Lemon?" she called out to the curvaceous brunette behind the counter.

  Brooke Riley nodded without looking up. "Yup," she answered.

  Maggie had known Brooke since they were both young and foolish idealists in Hollywood. Maggie had been the secretary for a movie producer, an older man who convinced her to marry him with his fiction about how he was looking for true love and wanted so much to be a devoted husband to his much younger bride.

  Brooke had been her best friend, a skinny blond working actress whose career ended when she'd kicked that same producer where the sun didn't shine after he offered her a movie role in exchange for a sexual favor.

  They'd both come a long way since those days. Now Brooke owned her dream business, a coffee shop and bakery in a little tourist town, and she'd turned it into a major local hangout that was warm and welcoming and not the slightest bit pretentious. It was heavenly.

  Maggie took a seat at the scarred wooden counter to watch her work.

  Brooke had a major assembly line going in the open kitchen. The stainless steel counter next to the oven had three huge trays lined up on it, each filled with identical rows of miniature cupcakes. Brooke was using a pastry bag to expertly apply little gray flowers to the top of each one.