by Shéa MacLeod
“Yeah,” I finally answered. “Didn’t get far. Apparently she was ‘hanging out with friends’ at the time The Louse was murdered.”
Nina snorted. “Is that what she’s calling it?”
I gave her a look. “What do you mean?”
She propped her elbows on the bar revealing a vast amount of cleavage and gave me a smirk. “I believe kids these days call it ‘Netflix and chill.’”
My eyes widened. “Are you telling me that the perfect Mrs. Nixon was having an affair?” Not that I blamed her, based on what I knew of her husband. Me, I’d have just divorced his ass, but not everyone had my fortitude. Or lack of patience for nonsense.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Do you know who with?”
She shook her head, and her long, blond hair tumbled about her shoulders. The light caught her chunky gold jewelry, making it twinkle and shine. I was always a little jealous of Nina’s amazing jewelry collection. “All kinds of rumors, of course, but no one seems to actually know.”
“Well, darn. I’m not sure confronting her would work, either. She’s kind of a cool cucumber.”
“Butter wouldn’t melt,” Nina agreed.
“It does give her a darn good motive for murder. And if she was with her lover instead of the friends she claimed, well, that’s not a great alibi. They could have been in on it together.” The wheels were churning now!
“Well, if you want a motive for murder,” Nina said, perching on the stool behind the bar and casually crossing her legs, “plenty of other people had motive.”
“Sure. Portia, for one. Annabelle maybe.”
“Other people.”
“Like whom?”
“Anyone who ever met the man, I’m betting.”
A frown tugged at my lips. Enough with this beating around the bush. “Do you have someone specific in mind?” I asked.
“Barista,” Lloyd all but shouted from the end of the bar. I gave him a confused look, and he dove back into his wine glass.
Nina nodded. “He’s right. You know that girl who used to work at the Caffeinated Bean? She had a funny name. Delly. Dilly?” Nina tapped her long nails on the bar. “Delphi. That was it. Delphi something.”
An image rose in my mind of a pixie face topped by Cookie Monster hair. “I vaguely remember her. Been a while since I’ve seen her, though. What happened?”
“I don’t know exactly, but word on the street is The Louse got her fired, and she hasn’t been able to find a job since. She had to move back home with her mother, and those two fight like cats and dogs.”
“Not sure that’s a motive for murder.”
“You ever met her mother, you’d know it was,” Lloyd piped up.
DELPHI’S MOTHER LIVED out off Highway 30 back in the woods a good thirty minutes from town. My Camry bounced and jolted over potholes and ruts as I eased my way up the gravel road. My poor car was definitely not made for this.
At the end of the road sat a mobile home in a ghastly shade of green. How to describe it? Moldy olive, perhaps?
The front door, originally white, was spattered with mud and cracked in places. The front porch sagged as if exhausted by life in general. The siding had seen better days, pieces pulling away here and there, revealing signs of dry rot. How did fake wood rot? Of course, in the Pacific Northwest, rotting was a given, as was rust and moss.
I picked my way across the soaked lawn and winced as the steps creaked ominously beneath me. Loud and exuberant barking echoed from inside followed by a voice screaming, “Shut up, Deeks. Shut up.” There were a few colorful expletives sprinkled through the shouting and barking as I rapped on the door. It flung open to reveal a young woman at least half a foot shorter than I with bright-blue hair and a heart-shaped face. Behind her, a Husky bounced up and down like he had springs on his paws, barking his head off. “Deeks, I swear. Shut. Up.” Deeks ignored her.
With a heavy sigh, she turned toward me. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty. A silver ring gleamed from her left nostril. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, hi. My name is Viola Roberts, and I’m assisting in the Nixon murder investigation.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. I was assisting. The police just didn’t know I was assisting.
The girl gave me a blank look. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“You’re Delphi, right?”
She nodded.
“You’re the one that used to work at Caffeinated Bean, right?”
“Yeah. So?” She crossed her arms, causing the vee of her black shirt to dip slightly, and I caught a glimpse of multicolored hearts covering her bra. Cute, if you were into that “unicorns farting rainbows” sort of thing. Give me a plain black bra any day. “August Nixon is the man who got you fired.”
She scowled. “Oh, that jerk. Yeah, I remember him. What happened? Somebody off him?” She didn’t seem upset by the thought. Of course, that was par for the course, it seemed.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
She sniffed. “Good riddance. Man was a menace.”
“Er, yes. They called him The Louse.”
That got a smirk out of her. “Fits.”
“May I ask what happened?”
She shrugged. “He used to come in every morning on my shift. He’d harass me, harass the other girls. A nasty piece of work, you know.”
I nodded. I did know. “Go on.”
“He’d complain about the coffee. It was never how he ordered it.” She snorted. “Liar. He liked to watch us remake it. Like he was on a power trip or something.”
Which fit what I knew of August Nixon to a tee. “But how did he get you fired?”
“One day I refused to serve him. I’d just had it, you know? Sent one of the guys to do it. Pissed him off. He went to my manager. Told him that I was coming on to him rather than the other way around. As if!” She sneered in disgust.
“I take it your manager bought the lie.”
“Hook, line, and sinker.” She gave an exasperated shake of her head. “Men.” Her voice dripped with disgust. I wasn’t sure all men deserved her disdain, but August Nixon surely did. “Anyway, my jerk of a boss fired me over it, even though The Louse was totally lying. Worse, he blackballed me around town. Nobody will hire me. Had to move back in here with my mom.” She frowned at the place. “I hate it here. I’m thinking of moving to Portland. Or Seattle. Maybe I can get a job there.”
I felt badly for her, but I needed more information. “So, I hate to have to ask, but where were you during the time of the murder.”
Her eyes widened. “Omigosh. This is just like NCIS. I love that show!”
“Um, yeah, sure. Alibi?”
“When was he killed?” I told her, and she furrowed her brow, tapping her lower lip. The dog pushed against her legs, and she shoved him back. “Down, Deeks. Let’s see. I was here. At home. As usual.”
“Anyone able to vouch for that?”
“Well, mom was working and Deeks doesn’t talk, so not really. But I was online like all night playing Fairy World, so there’s that.”
“Fairy World?”
“Yeah. You know, one of those online multiplayer games. Only with fairies instead of guys with guns.”
“Sounds fun.” It was also a darn good alibi. There were probably hundreds of people who could confirm it, never mind there’d be a log on her computer if someone had the savvy to find it, which I was pretty sure the police could do. “Well, obviously you’re in the clear. Thanks for your time, and good luck on the job hunt.”
“Thanks.”
As I turned to walk down the front steps, Deeks renewed his fevered barking. Delphi slammed the door and commenced shouting at the beast.
I was no further to solving this thing than I’d been this morning. Unless you counted the discovery that Mrs. Nixon was having an affair, but without knowing who the mysterious man was, it wasn’t much help.
I sighed and climbed back into the car. Tomorrow I planned to drive into Portland for Lucas’s
reading. Maybe he would have some ideas.
Chapter 10
A Conundrum
“THAT DOES SOUND LIKE a conundrum,” Lucas admitted after I told him about Mary Nixon and her secret lover. It was Sunday afternoon, and we were sitting in The Roxy enjoying blueberry pancakes while I caught him up on all the excitement, or lack thereof.
The Roxy was the most amazing divey sort of place on Stark Street, across from Powell’s Books. On the back wall was a life-sized crucifix. In the front window was a giant high-heeled shoe in leopard print. The menu items were named after famous celebrities like Dolly Parton and Steve Buscemi, and the place was frequented by drag queens. It was so totally Portland.
“It is a conundrum.” I toyed with my food, oddly not as hungry as I should have been. This whole case was giving me stress. “I’m not sure how to go about confronting her.”
“What would happen if you blurted it out? Hey, I know you’re having an affair.”
I mulled it over. “It might shock a response out of her,” I said doubtfully. “But she’s the most restrained person I’ve ever met. I mean, you met her. Nothing seems to shake her. I’m afraid she’d just turn up her nose and call the cops.”
“Hmm...” He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. He was looking particularly delicious in a cornflower-blue, button-down shirt that matched his eyes. “I suppose you could be more subtle about it. Work your way around the issue.”
“Have you met me?”
He laughed. “Good point. What about a following her?”
“A stakeout?”
“Sure. The police do it, right? Maybe you can figure out who she’s seeing that way.”
It was a good idea, although the idea of parking in front of her house and sitting there for hours on end didn’t thrill me.
“Too bad you don’t know some good old-fashioned town gossips,” Lucas mused, dumping cream from the baby bottle into his coffee. Yes, they served coffee creamer in baby bottles at The Roxy. All part of the charm.
My eyes widened. “But I do. Agatha, from my bunco group, is the biggest gossip you ever met. If she doesn’t know something, it’s not worth knowing.”
“There you go then. You’ve got bunco tomorrow night, right?”
“Right.” How did he remember that? I barely remembered half the time.
“Perfect. You can pump Agatha for information. I’m certain she’ll be happy to help.”
Thrilled was more like it. Nobody loved “sharing” information more than Agatha. Suddenly I wanted to jump up and drive back to Astoria, bang on Agatha’s door. Instead, I smiled at Lucas. Some things are more important. Like supporting your sort-of-kind-of-boyfriend-person.
Yes, I had to find a few more ways to skin the proverbial cat, but it could wait. For now.
WHEN I FIRST MOVED to Astoria from the “big city” of Portland, I’d found myself at loose ends. With no social life to speak of, I desperately needed an outlet besides my writing. I’d joined a local yoga class. That had lasted all of five minutes, but I’d met Agatha and she’d invited me to join her bunco group. That was where I met Cheryl. The rest, as they say, was history.
The women in the bunco group greeted me cheerfully as I shoved my five dollars into an envelope and wrote my name on it. Tonight’s game was at Agatha’s. We took turns, each month at a different player’s house. Last month it had been at Edna’s, one of the founding members of the group.
“Viola. I was so sorry to hear about Portia.” I was engulfed in a floral-scented hug. Cheryl’s mom, Charlene, was as sweet as they came. She was a retired schoolteacher who spent her time volunteering at the Historical Preservation Society and working on various art projects.
“Thanks,” I mumbled as she let me go. “It’s all pretty terrible.”
“That Bat.” She shook her head, sending salt-and-pepper ringlets dancing. “I swear that boy needs a stern talking to. As if Portia would ever hurt anyone.”
There was general agreement among the bunco ladies. Cheryl shoved a glass of wine in my hand. “You’re going to need it,” she murmured. “They’re on a roll tonight. They’re going to want every single detail of your investigation and then some.”
I grinned. “And so goes bunco night.”
Sure enough, as we all piled our plates with snacks and prepared to start the first round, Agatha pounced. “So, what’s this I hear about an investigation?” She gave me a nudge, nudge, wink, wink motion and tucked her tongue in her cheek. Her short, gray hair was almost as spikey as Cheryl’s, and she wore a flowing, Bohemian-style top with layers of beaded necklaces.
She probably knew more about it than I did at this point, but I humored her. “Well, I can’t trust Detective Battersea to prove Portia’s innocence,” I told her as I sat at one of the card tables. “So, I figured I’d do it myself.”
“I heard you did an okay job with the last investigation,” she agreed, grabbing the score pad and a pen, her necklaces making a slight clicking sound as the beads hit each other. The bell rang, and Hazel, another one of our founding members, grabbed the dice and rolled. There was silence as we started our turns.
“Well, I had some help,” I admitted. “But I figured if I did it once, I can do it again. I have to try. For Portia.”
The other three women at the card table—Hazel, Agatha, and the quiet Rose—all nodded their heads. It was a little like receiving a benediction.
“Somebody’s got to help her,” Rose said softly, running fingers through her salon-golden hair. “I doubt she can afford a private detective on her salary.”
I hadn’t even thought of that, but Rose was right. Besides which, there wasn’t’ exactly an overwhelming selection of PIs in Astoria. The few that existed were mostly focused on things like cheating spouses. They’d have no idea how to properly investigate a crime. Granted, neither did I, but I’d at least seen several episodes of Lt. Joe Kenda. Not the same, I’d grant you that, but better than nothing.
As we played, I caught them up on some of the tidbits I’d found, like the lipstick. Not to mention Blaine’s behavior and Mrs. Nixon’s extramarital shenanigans.
“I need to question Blaine. I’m certain he’s hiding something.”
Agatha giggled. “Of course he is.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“He’s been dating Portia for ages. Didn’t you know?”
We all shook our heads. The other two women were as keen on the news as I was. Nothing like some good gossip to perk up a game.
“Oh, yes. They were keeping it on the down-low, you know, because August Nixon would have been furious.”
I frowned. “Why? Portia is an amazing person. Blaine should be so lucky.”
“Exactly. Which was why August wanted her for himself, the snake. Also, I think he was hoping Blaine would marry into money so he could stop supporting the kid. Fat chance of that with Portia.”
Kid? That “kid” was at least thirty years old. Maybe even thirty-five.
“Doesn’t he have a job?” Hazel asked, somewhat shocked.
“Sure,” Agatha said. “He’s a talent rep or something, booking bands and whatnot at various venues up and down the Coast. Like that makes any money around here.”
She had a point. Many coastal towns were economically depressed, completely dependent on income from tourists. “That’s great info. Thanks, Agatha. I wonder why Portia didn’t tell me and Cheryl. We’re her friends, after all.”
“Oh, you know how it is when women start dating men. They lose their ever-loving minds,” Hazel said sagely.
I sighed. “Well, I guess I’ve got a good place to start questioning him. Now if only I could figure out who Mary Nixon was having the affair with.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Agatha said with a laugh.
We all stared at her. “Who?” three voices, including mine, chimed in.
“Everyone knows. Don’t they?” she looked surprised.
“Spill it,” Hazel snapped.
Agatha sh
rugged. “I thought it was common knowledge. I’ve seen them together several times. Twice coming out of that B&B over in Warrenton.”
“Agatha!” I snarled in frustration.
“Roger Collins,” she said. “Mary Nixon has been having an affair with her husband’s assistant director.”
Chapter 11
The Dirty Dog
I WANTED TO TALK TO Portia first. She was supposed to be my friend, and I wanted to know more about her relationship with Blaine. And why she hadn’t told me.
It took some fancy footwork, but they finally let me in to see her. When the guard ushered her into the visiting room, I couldn’t hold back my astonishment. She looked nothing like the Portia I knew. Gone was the sleek sophistication and elegant fashion. She was pale, worn, with bags beneath her eyes and an equally baggy uniform in an unsightly shade of beige.
I started to hug her, but the prison guard barked, “No touching.” I barely refrained from responding with a very immature tongue-sticking-out.
We sat at the Formica table in uncomfortable plastic chairs where we stared at each other for a good thirty seconds. For once, I had no idea what to say.
“Thanks for coming,” Portia finally said, her fingers clasped together tightly on the table. “Sure. Of course. We’re friends. It’s what we do, right?”
She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t stand it in here, Viola,” she whispered. “It’s so awful. And this isn’t even prison. If I don’t get out of here—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupted. “I’m working on it.”
She glanced at me, blue eyes wide. “How?”
“Don’t worry about the how, just know I’m on the case.”
“Are you sure? You could get hurt.”
“This is me we’re talking about.”
“Yes,” she said grimly. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
I waved airily. “I can handle myself. I’ve done this before.”
She looked doubtful. “Thanks, I guess.”
