Drop Dead Lola

by Melissa Bourbon

  “Is this Joe? Joe Quaffman?” I asked.

  “You got him.” His tone was amiable in anticipation of a service call, but I immediately burst his bubble when I told him my name. “What now?” he said, clearly irritated.

  “I have a few more questions,” I said. “Where can I meet you?”

  “No can do. I’m way too busy,” he said.

  “You can meet with me, Mr. Quaffman…or with the police,” I said. I wasn’t sure if that was an empty threat, or not. I could call Detective Seavers and give him my thoughts on the case, but I wasn’t sure if my thoughts were enough to make him listen.

  There was silence. Was he going to call my bluff?

  He rattled off the name of a coffee shop in the south area. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said.

  “Great, I’ll be there—” I started, but I heard a click and the phone went dead.

  I mapped the address and headed out. With traffic, it took me thirty minutes to get there. The Quaffman Electric truck was in the parking lot with Joe Quaffman sitting in the driver’s seat, impatiently tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He saw me from the side mirror and glared as he rolled down the window. “You’re late.”

  I shrugged, feigning an apology. “Sorry. Traffic,” I said, pero if this guy killed Philip, I wasn’t sorry at all.

  He just sat there staring at me. I stood back and swung my arm wide. “Shall we go inside?” I asked.

  He didn’t budge. “Just get on with it,” he practically growled. “What do you want?”

  “Just a few questions,” I said, but I grumbled to myself. I could take him down with a knee to the groin or a blow to the chin followed by a twist of his arm, but not if he stayed in his van.

  “Well? I don’t have all day.”

  This guy wasn’t going to win any congeniality awards. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Quaffman.”

  He stared. “Phil committed suicide.”

  I shook my head. “See, I don’t think he did.”

  His expression lost a bit of its anger and picked up an undercurrent of agitation. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course he did.”

  “There are just too many inconsistencies,” I said, and then I ticked them off on my fingers. “Philip was engaged to be married. He’d started his own business. Based on everyone I’ve talked to, he was not depressed. He didn’t have a reason to end his own life.” I paused, letting my words sink in before I added, “But there seems to be a few people who might have wanted him dead.”

  Joe Quaffman sputtered. “He was just an ordinary kid. No one wanted Philip dead.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “No?”

  “No.”

  What he said and what he believed were two different things. I pressed on. “You were upset about him leaving to start up his own business. Remember that?”

  “That’s right. It’s a free country. I didn’t give a shit what he did,” he said, but it sounded defensive to me. I watched him, not speaking. Less than thirty seconds later, he lost what was left of his cool. “What the hell is wrong with you? What, you think I had a beef with the guy?”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not! Jesus, I treated that kid better than my own son. He wanted to go out on his own. I wasn’t going to stop him.”

  “When did you change your mind and file the lawsuit against him?” I asked, cocking my head.

  He stared at me, his mouth gaping. “Wh-what are you talking about?”

  “You know, the one about the Uniform Trade Secrets Act violations against him—”

  “The what?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Mr. Quaffman, come on. I know you filed a suit against Philip claiming he copied client information and solicited some of those clients while he still worked for you, and after he left.”

  “He did! He did, the son of a bitch. I taught that kid everything he knew, and that’s how he repaid me? By stealing my customers?”

  “Did you confront Philip about it? Is that why you killed him?” It was a risk, goading him, but if that’s what it took, I’d take it.

  He sputtered and his face turned redder than a bowl of fresh salsa. “Wh-what are you talking about? I did not kill Phil.”

  “Weren’t you so angry at his betrayal that you planned his death to look like suicide?”

  The redness on his face spread to his neck and he practically foamed at the mouth as he revved the engine and yanked down on the gear shift. I jumped back as he slammed his foot on the gas pedal and the van jolted back. The tires screeched as they spun on the asphalt.

  The van jerked again, the tires skidded, and he tore out of the parking lot. That was not the behavior of an innocent man, I thought as I stared after him.

  Back in my car, I looked up the physical address for Quaffman Electric. Joe might have driven off in a fury, but that didn’t mean I was done with him.

  California was a hands-free state, so I connected my phone to the car’s Bluetooth before I drove off. I’d gotten George and Anne Haskell’s phone numbers from Jack. I pulled Anne’s up on my phone and dialed. She answered after the third ring. “It’s Dolores Cruz,” I said. “I wanted to check on your mom.”

  “There’s no change,” she said. “She’s still in a coma and the doctors don’t know if she’ll ever come out of it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, and I really and truly was. This was the biggest tragedy of the entire situation. Marnie Haskell had been grieving for her son. Whatever she knew or didn’t know, she did not deserve to die.

  My phone line beeped. I hung up with Anne and clicked over. Manny’s voice came at me like a kick to the gut. “We have a second body.”

  Chapter 18

  “Aaron Radley?” I stood in the doorway of Manny’s office and stared at him. My mind reeled. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Manny cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “¿Realmente? Piensa, Dolores. If we assume this death is related to Philip Haskell’s, there is only one logical explanation.”

  He told me to think. The answer came to me the next second. Aaron had spoken before the ball game. He’d said, “Keep your family close, but keep your enemies closer.” Maybe he’d figured out that I was a detective. That could explain his strange behavior and the intense looks he sent my way. Had the friends and enemies quote been his way of trying to communicate with me? Had he known something about who killed Philip?

  I spun around and went straight to my white board, drew a box, and wrote the word ENEMIES at the top in all caps. The first person I added to the list was Joe Quaffman. He was still at the top of my list. But how could Aaron know about his beef with Philip?

  My conversation with Gemma after we’d left the baseball game came back to me. She’d said that Philip, Michael, Seth, and Aaron sometimes had pizza and beer after practice. Maybe Philip had confided in his friends. My mind formulated a What If scenario. What if Aaron suspected Joe Haskell of killing Philip, and what if Aaron had tried to take matters into his own hands. Maybe he’d even tried to blackmail Quaffman. That would be enough of a threat to scare a murderer into murdering again.

  I jotted these theories down on the whiteboard before grabbing the team roster from my purse. I wanted to talk to Michael or Seth—or both—to find out if Philip had, indeed, confided in them about the lawsuit threat from Joe Quaffman. If they could corroborate that theory, I had enough to pass on to the police.

  I’d hit pay dirt. Both Michael and Seth said they would talk with me. Seth gave me the name and address of the pizza place they usually went to and we agreed to meet at six that evening. I pulled into the parking lot at five forty-five, found a decently lit booth along the side wall, and ordered a beer. It wasn’t my first choice when it came to alcohol, but I wanted Michael and Seth to feel at ease. The first time I’d met them, they’d told me that they hadn’t noticed
anything bothering Philip, but now it was time to dig a little deeper to see if there was something they’d forgotten.

  I sat facing the door so I could flag them down when they came in. I didn’t have to wait long. Seth arrived first. He spotted me right away, before I even had a chance to wave my arm. He slid into the bench seat opposite me, brushing back wayward strands of his dirty blond hair. He was on the short side—maybe five foot seven or eight—and had a slight physique. He was probably quick on the ball field, able to zip past some of the of the heftier recreational adult players.

  “Should I call you Dolores?” he asked.

  “Yeah, of course, that’s fine,” I said.

  He glanced at the frothy mug of beer sitting in front of me, then caught the eye of a waitress who sashayed over. “Hey ya, Seth,” she said. Clearly they knew each other.

  “Hey Rachel. I’ll take a beer, please, and one for Michael.”

  “You got it.” She sashayed away, returning a minute later with two icy mugs. Michael walked up to the table just as Rachel walked away. He sat down next to Seth and picked up his glass. “Thanks, man,” he said, then took a healthy glut, leaving a white foamy mustache overlaying his stubble. He swiped it away with the back of his hand before acknowledging me.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I said, my hands wrapped around my glass.

  “I thought you didn’t know Philip,” Michael said.

  “I didn’t.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So what’s this about?”

  I knew they’d ask that question, and I’d debated how to answer it. I’d decided with the truth. “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. My friend Jack, he did go to school with Philip. They knew each other since they were kids. But I…I’m a private investigator. Philip’s mother hired my firm to look into his death—”

  “Because she thinks someone killed him?” Michael asked.

  “Right. And now she’s in a coma, and Aaron is dead.”

  “Which kinda tells you that she might be right,” Seth said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Two of our guys murdered?” He looked at Michael. “I can’t get my head around that.”

  Michael chugged another healthy portion of his beer. I’d barely touched mine, and he was nearly done. Seth was somewhere in between. They both fell silent, staring at nothing, trying, I knew, to get a handle on Philip’s, and now Aaron’s, death.

  “I don’t want to take too much of your time,” I said after a minute.

  “You’re really a PI?” Seth asked. He sounded a little bit impressed, like he thought private investigators were damn cool. Smart man.

  “I am.”

  Michael raised his hand to catch Rachel’s attention. She came over and he ordered two more beers. He looked at me. “Want another?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, but I was impressed that he’d thought to ask.

  Rachel left, throwing a backwards smile at the two men.

  “What do you want with us?” Michael asked after he’d flashed Rachel his own toothy smile. Neither one of the guys wore wedding rings, I noticed. I imagined Rachel had noticed that, too.

  “I’m trying to figure out who could have killed both Philip and Aaron. All I can think is that Aaron knew something that he shouldn’t have. It got him in trouble. You both knew him—”

  “We knew him,” Michael said, “but he and Seth here were both pretty new to the team. It’s not like we were best buds, or anything.”

  “You did spend time together, though. Pizza and beer. I know I asked you this, but did Philip ever say anything that might have indicated he was in some sort of trouble?”

  Seth considered me with his green-flecked brown eyes. “We might be able to help you if you tell us what kind of trouble you think he was in.”

  He was right, but I didn’t want to lead them along by providing them information. If they offered something up that corroborated what I knew, that was better. But it didn’t look like that was going to happen. “Did he mention anything about a lawsuit?”

  Rachel returned, put down two fresh mugs and grabbed the two empties by the handles. Once she’d melted away again, Michael and Seth looked at each other. Seth spoke first. “He said something once about a problem he was having with his old boss—”

  “He didn’t say it was a lawsuit, though,” Michael interrupted.

  “He did say the guy was pissed, though.”

  Yes! I did a mental fist pump. Finally, something I could work with. “Pissed about what?”

  They looked at each other again as if they were trying to silently communicate just how much they should say. This time Michael took the lead. “Phil started up his own business. He might have, uh, encouraged some of the clients from the old job to go with him. He told us his boss—Josh? James?—”

  “Joe?” I provided.

  Michael snapped. “That’s it! This Joe, he said it was illegal or unethical. Something like that.”

  “It is, actually,” I said. “Taking clients is like taking proprietary information.”

  “The guy was suing Phil?” Seth asked. “That’s intense.”

  “Philip died before his former boss filed the suit.”

  Michael drank down half his beer, cleared his mouth of foam again, then said, “But if this Joe was suing Phil, then why would he turn around and kill him?”

  That was the very question I still hadn’t answered. “The working hypothesis is that Joe confronted Philip about the lawsuit, or vice versa, it caused a fight, and ended in Philip’s death.”

  “But Phil was hanged. That’s not a—what do you call it? A crime of passion? That’s premeditated,” Michael said.

  The guy could be a PI. “Yep, we’ve thought of that. A fight could have prompted the plan to kill him after the fact,” I said. It was a long shot, but I asked the next question anyway. “Did Philip mention any type of fight he might have had with Joe?”

  Seth shook his head. “Not to me.”

  Michael’s face, on the other hand, suddenly lit up with a memory.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Did you remember something?”

  Seth and I both stared at him, waiting while his mind sorted it out. Finally, he said, “A few weeks ago, Phil was on the phone. It was before practice. He wasn’t yelling, exactly, but he wasn’t calm. When he saw some of the guys coming, he left the dugout and went to the parking lot.”

  My pulse kicked up. “Did you hear anything he said?”

  Michael closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, he nodded. “Something about his mom. Like his mom doesn’t know.” He ran his hand down over his face. “I can’t quite remember. Did you hear that conversation, Seth? Phil was really agitated.”

  Seth looked toward the ceiling. He drew his lips together as he thought. “I kind of vaguely remember that. I think maybe I was coming in with some of the guys when Phil was heading to the parking lot. I definitely didn’t hear anything.”

  Michael finished his beer, setting the mug down with a thunk. “I’m sure he said something about his mother. Like she couldn’t find out. It would ruin the family, or something like that.” He shook his head again. “Sorry, I can’t remember anymore.”

  I came back to Aaron’s reference to family and enemies. It sounded to me like Philip had been talking to an enemy about his family. Which had nothing to do with Joe Quaffman and the lawsuit. Or did it? Maybe it was Joe on the other end of the line, threatening Philip with the lawsuit. Philip wouldn’t want his family to find out he’d stolen Quaffman’s clients. Had he thought the reveal would alienate him from his own family? Was he begging for forgiveness?

  I didn’t want to assume too much, but Aaron could have overheard the conversation, or Philip could have shared his troubles with him. I needed time to think.

  “Thanks, guys,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “We ha
ve?” Seth asked, shooting Michael a raised eyebrow look that said he wasn’t so sure about that.

  “Every little bit of information helps, so yeah, you have.”

  “Is this Joe guy going to be arrested?” Michael asked as I slid out of the booth.

  I slung my purse over my shoulder. “I don’t know yet.”

  Seth scratched his head. “Do you think he killed Aaron, too?” He looked understandably distressed that the idea.

  I hesitated. “If Aaron took it upon himself to get involved, then I think it’s…possible.” Noncommittal, but not untrue. And the message was clear. They needed to stay out of it. I headed out, but looked back at them when I reached the door. They were talking and Michael was bringing my unfinished beer to his mouth. Message received…I hoped.

  Chapter 19

  “The wedding is Saturday!” Leti’s voice came at me through the phone, high-pitched and shrill, jerking me out of my sleepy state. I glanced at the clock. 7:03. Ay caramba. Why was she calling this early?

  I chased away the sleepiness in my voice and matched hers in octave and enthusiasm. “I know! Are you ready?”

  Leti heaved out a monumental sigh. “Mmm, not quite. I don’t have the pole dancing thing down yet. I’m taking two more sessions.”

  “You are?” This time my voice was genuinely high-pitched…and shocked. Leti hadn’t been entirely comfortable with pole dancing. Or so I’d thought.

  “Oh yeah. I’m going to seduce my husband on our wedding night.”

  “Wow, Leti,” I said. “What’s come into you?”

  She giggled. “I’m going to be married in four days! That’s what got into me. No more living with my parents. My own house. Mark. I can hardly wait! Mark Landry is not going to know what hit him.”

  I laughed. “Oh, prima, I think he’ll know exactly what hit him. And he’s going to love it. But…will there be a pole?”

  She dismissed that logistical problem with an, “Eh. I don’t need a pole. I’ll use the threshold of a door. No spins, but plenty of other stuff.”