“She’s damn good,” said Lewis. Then he turned his attention back to Clara.
“Yeah, she’s Lenny’s newest project,” said Clara. She rolled her eyes.
“You don’t like Lenny much?”
“Not my area of the operation. He teaches, and I feed and water ‘em. Now, if there are no more questions, I’ve got a bar to set up.” Clara reached for her bar rag, but Lewis put his hand on hers to stop her. She gave him a warning look.
“One more thing. When does Ms. Rhodes get off the course?”
“About three. She’s due in here to work around then. I can’t stop you from talking to her when she’s on duty, but try not to frighten away my customers, will you? Make your interrogation when there’s no one in here.”
“Why so mean? I thought you and I were friends.” Lewis removed his hand from hers and put it on her shoulder and squeezed.
“We are. Friends. And you’re a rolling stone. When you find out Emily is not your killer, leave her alone. She’s got enough problems right now. She sure doesn’t need a randy detective adding to them.”
“Problems? Like what?”
“If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you. If not, don’t try to get it out of me.”
Clara walked around the bar and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, leaving Lewis alone. He swiveled around on the stool to watch out the window as the young woman hit a drive over two hundred yards down the range. Lenny came up to her and hugged her. Lenny certainly was supportive of his students, observed Lewis.
Clara caught Emily as she came through the kitchen on her way to the bar and warned her the detective was waiting.
“Doesn’t he have other work he should be attending to?” asked Emily.
“He’s been doing it. You can count on that. There’s no sense trying to avoid him forever. Answer his questions truthfully, but don’t volunteer anything.”
“Your advice as a lawyer?” Emily asked.
“I don’t practice any longer. My advice as your friend,” Clara said. She grabbed her purse out of the back room and made for the door. “I’ll be home if you need help.”
Emily wondered if Clara meant help with the bar or help with the police. Might as well get this over, she decided. She took a deep breath, stood as tall as her five feet plus and an eyelash could offer her, and marched into the bar.
“What’ll you have?” Emily asked. She tied the bar apron around her middle, businesslike.
“A few answers,” he said. He patted the bar stool next to his.
It wasn’t an invitation to join him. It was a command. Emily emerged from behind the bar feeling vulnerable without the polished wood between her and the detective. The corners of his mouth lifted in what Emily took to be a smile, but it did not extend to his eyes, which remained a feral shade of gold, like a wolf’s.
She looked around the empty lounge knowing that most of the male league players wouldn’t be off the course for another hour. No one was here to rescue her today.
“Fine, but if someone comes in, I’ll be busy.”
“Taking lessons on how to avoid police questions from Clara?” he asked.
“Yeah, well, Clara told me you were in this morning.”
“As if you didn’t see me.”
Before Emily could reply, a woman with more brassy blonde hair than head to hold it all rushed through the door. Buried beneath all that big “do” were small features, her mouth accentuated by bright coral lipstick. Blue eye shadow painted her lids, and black eyeliner outlined her closely set eyes, so small that Emily couldn’t determine their color. Reminiscences of the late seventies. Someone caught in a time warp.
She walked up to where Emily sat beside Lewis and poked her bat-like face into Emily’s space.
“Are you the bitch who was after my Marcus?”
“Huh?” It was all Emily could think to say.
“Mrs. Davey,” said Detective Lewis, “you look upset. Maybe Ms. Rhodes here can get you something to drink. A glass of water or something.”
Emily nodded, anxious to put a barrier between her and the woman, but Blondie blocked her path.
“You are the bitch!” She pulled back her arm and let a fist fly at Emily’s face. What was this crazy woman doing? Emily ducked to one side and the woman fell on the bar’s floor like a soufflé too long out of the oven.
“She killed him,” said Mrs. Davey. Detective Lewis helped her off the floor. He handed her one of her platform shoes, which had slipped off her foot in the fall, and helped her onto a barstool.
“And why would that be?” he asked.
“Why, it’s as clear as the nose on your face. How’d you make detective if you can’t put two and two together? She was after him all along, said provocative things to him when she was in his mixology class, and then threatened to register a complaint with the school authorities that he harassed her. Rejection, that’s what made her do it.”
Mrs. Davey lunged at Emily one more time, brandishing her shoe as a weapon. Enough of this broad, decided Emily. She countered the attack by ducking under the shoe and landed a punch on Mrs. Davey’s right temple. Damn, thought Emily. I was aiming for her nose. She examined her fist and wondered if she should try the maneuver again. Perhaps retreat was the better option.
Lewis stepped between the two combatants, but he could see the altercation was over. Mrs. Davey was too busy yelling and holding her head to continue her attack, and Emily, a shocked look on her face, ducked behind the bar as if she intended to hide in the beer cooler.
Lewis knew things weren’t likely to return to normal that easily. Mrs. Davey’s wailing caught the attention of those passing by the bar, which soon filled with interested spectators: men off the course early, Lenny Sharples and his student, the cook from the kitchen, and a few customers out of the pro shop.
Lewis had no choice. He’d have to do something police-like to calm down Mrs. Davey, get Emily alone so he could question her, and control the crowd of men who were yelling “cat fight”. He called for back-up and took both women into custody.
When the police cruiser arrived, Lewis piled Mrs. Davey in the back. On Lewis’ suggestion, Emily provided the widow with an improvised ice pack for the side of her face, although he couldn’t see any bruise or redness there.
Lewis’ actions did little to silence the widow. She yelled about suing the country club, Emily, and the police department.
The detective loaded Emily into the back of his unmarked cruiser. She said not a word, but shot him murderous looks with her icy blue eyes from under long lashes, looks that Lewis found oddly attractive.
“Call Clara, Lenny,” said Emily. “Or you’ll have to close the bar. And Clara won’t like that.”
Lewis hit the button to close the window and caught another look of anger from Emily in the back seat.
“Air conditioning,” he said. “It’s more comfortable.”
She turned her head and looked out the window. She made him feel as if he didn’t exist.
When Clara closed at nine, she drove directly to the police station, sprung Emily for the second night in a row, and the two of them sat again in Emily’s kitchen drinking coffee. This time Vicki joined them with a Key lime pie.
“It’s so sour-sweet that it makes my teeth ache and gives me hot flashes,” said Clara.
Vicki’s mouth dropped open, and she looked upset.
“Oh, my. Everyone tells me I make great pie.”
“That’s a compliment, dear. It is great,” said Clara. She signaled for another slice, indicating the desired size by holding her thumb and pointer finger slightly closer together than the width of her first wedge.
Emily pushed her pie around the plate with no appetite.
“Eat,” said Clara. “You look like an anorexic bird pecking at that food, and you eat like someone with lap band surgery.”
“You’re going to fire me, aren’t you?” asked Emily. “I’m too much trouble for the business.”
“Oh, you’re
trouble alright, but I’m thinking of taking you off as bartender and featuring you as the entertainment for the night. Think you can get your partner, Mrs. Davey to agree to show up too?”
“From what I’ve heard of the Davey family, she hardly needs the money,” said Vicki.
“How do you know about them?” asked Emily.
“She belongs to the same quilting club I do. She likes to brag about the Davey family’s thousands of acres of land and hundreds of head of cattle. And that they’re fifth generation Floridians.”
“Of course, Marcus picked her up in an exotic dancer’s club in West Palm,” said Clara. “That was when he was tending bar in some dive down there, and his older brother was managing the ranch.”
“He told the students in the bartending class he managed the ranch now, and he liked to keep his hand in mixology by teaching a course for his old alma mater, the Culinary Institute of the Palm Coast. So what happened to the brother?” asked Emily.
She watched the knuckles on Clara’s hand turn white as she tightened the grip on her fork. For a moment Clara said nothing, then turned her face to Emily and gave her a tiny smile.
“Guess my eyes are bigger than my stomach,” she said. She pushed away the plate with her second slice of pie half-eaten.
For a minute Emily thought Clara wouldn’t answer her, but she did. Her tone was matter-of-fact, too matter-of-fact. “He died in an accident with a crazed Brahma bull years ago. Freak thing. The bull went wild when the brother got into the pen with it. It happens sometimes.”
Clara pulled the plate back to her, but, instead of taking a bite, she traced lines with her fork through the tart filling. “But I always wondered what got that bull so riled up just then.”
“What do you mean?” asked Emily. Before Clara could explain, a car pulled into the drive.
“Company,” said Vicki. She got up to peek out of the kitchen window. “Oh, yummy, it’s that good-looking detective.”
“Damn, Vicki. You know this guy? How do you know so much about everything around here?” Emily asked.
“He was in the diner down the street several weeks ago when I was in there with my bridge group having dinner. He took my breath away, so I asked the girls if they knew him. Peggy did. She waved him over and introduced us. He’s such a hunk.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Clara. Her tone was sarcastic and something in Clara’s voice spoke of tension between her and the detective.
“How well do you know him?” asked Emily.
Clara shook her head as if their past was of no consequence. “We went to school together, that’s all.”
The three women watched through the window as Lewis removed his hat and knocked on the door. “Do I have to let him in?” Emily asked Clara.
“No, unless he has a warrant, of course.”
“You watch all those crime shows too?” asked Vicki.
“She was a lawyer once,” said Emily.
“She’s a lawyer, and you had to go out and hire that sleazy Palatier?”
“What do you know about him?” asked Emily. For a snowbird from Michigan, Vicki certainly had connections in the community.
“Not a lot,” said Vicki. Lewis knocked on the door again. “But I did hear this rumor, and I’ll bet it’s true.”
The three women leaned their heads closer together across the table.
“Palatier had sticky fingers in the collection plate at church. He told everyone he was making change for a fifty. Of course there was no fifty in the plate, and I’d bet he had no intention of taking one out of his pocket,” Vicki said.
As if the story revived her appetite, Clara shoveled a piece of pie in her mouth, almost choking on it when she tried to laugh at the same time she swallowed. Emily twitched her mouth from side to side in an attempt at a smile and reconsidered her choice of the man for her attorney.
“Don’t look so distraught,” said Clara. “He may be cheap and unethical, but he’s a piranha in court if the money’s right.”
“Ladies.” Lewis’ voice came from beyond the front door. “I can hear you in there. Could you have this conversation later? I need to talk with Ms. Rhodes. Alone.”
“Didn’t you get enough alone time with her earlier this evening?” asked Clara.
CHAPTER 4
After shooing her friends out of the house and promising Clara she’d call if she needed help, Emily showed the detective into the kitchen.
“Coffee?” she asked. She’d be polite and throw him off balance with kindness.
“No.”
Not even ‘no thanks’, she noted. Her act wasn’t working. He’d probably seen it many times before. She was expecting another round of questions about her relationship with Davey, but Lewis’ next words surprised her.
“How well do you know Clara?”
Emily drew in a breath and did a slow exhale. Yoga. She needed to be careful here.
“You know her a lot better than I do. She’s my boss. And we’re friends, better friends now thanks to you and your propensity for carting me off to police headquarters the past two nights.”
“She really your attorney?”
Emily didn’t know how to answer that question. Would Clara suggest she tell the truth about the attorney thing or avoid telling a lie? Emily tossed this one around in her head for half a minute.
“I didn’t think I needed a lawyer,” she said. Lewis gave no reply, but picked up a spoon and began tapping it against the table top.
“Stop that,” said Emily. She reached out and took the spoon away from him.
Lewis looked chagrined. “You sound like a teacher or a mother.”
“I was.”
“I know about the teacher thing, but my file on you says no kids.”
“And my file on you says you snoop into areas that have nothing to do with police work.”
“Okay. Look. Truce for now. I’m here to return your keys and your cell phone. We got . . .”
“. . . prints off both and checked my cell phone records. And they told you what? Or am I not supposed to know that?”
“The records told me that the call to the police station the night of Davey’s murder was made from your cell.”
Emily could feel laughter rising in her throat. Or was it fear that made her feel as if she was being strangled?
“That means the murderer was probably in the bar while I was taking out the trash. He was there? Within feet of me after he killed Davey?”
Lewis thought Emily looked as if she might pass out, and he knew he was no good with fainting women. His greatest fear was that she might swoon dead away into his arms, and he would have to resuscitate her. He began to sweat at the thought of Emily Rhodes with her cupid’s bow lips close to his, her pale blonde hair lying across his arm, her long lashes shadowing deep, blue eyes. He needed air, distance, a stiff drink.
Good thing I’m not a fainter, thought Emily. Sharing close quarters with a killer was frightening, but she was still alive. Detective Lewis, however, was looking very grey, she noticed. No. That was green. What if he passes out on me?
No one passed out, and that was good, thought Emily. She was lying in bed with the early morning sun pouring through her windows, making the room too light and too hot for her to fall back asleep. Not that she’d done much of that anyway. She should have gotten up and turned on the air conditioning or opened all the windows, but she was too exhausted to move from the bed. She hoped she wasn’t going to make a habit of spending most of each night in police custody.
She wanted to interpret what Lewis told her last night as evidence the police were looking in another direction for the murderer. Good news for her since she had Fred’s ex-wife to fight in court soon, but bad news for Clara, if the investigation was going in that direction. And it appeared it was. Lewis told her the cell phone records indicated that, immediately before making the call to the police from Emily’s cell the night of the murder, someone called Clara’s home number.
Emily threw b
ack the damp sheet and exchanged her hot pillow for Fred’s cooler one. She pushed her nose into it and thought she could still smell his scent, impossible, she knew, after so many launderings.
How could Clara be involved in Davey’s murder? Emily remembered Clara’s look of pain when the death of Davey’s older brother came up earlier that night. What was that about? If Emily had any gumption she should call Clara now and tell her what Lewis was up to and then ask her about Davey’s brother. Instead she fell into a restless sleep for a few hours.
The words, “He’s a man who needs killing,” yanked her from her dreams, and she sat up in bed with a jolt. Who said that, she wondered, then remembered. Clara, the night of the murder, when driving her to her car, remarked on Davey’s violent death. Emily had assumed Clara was simply trying to comfort her with the remark.
“No one deserves to be killed,” Emily had said. Clara’s response had been a dismissive laugh. But that was hardly hard evidence for murder. Was it?
She almost forgot her appointment with her lawyer in the afternoon. A water line in her condominium mobile home park had broken, and the water was shut off. That meant no shower for her, and after a night of tossing and turning preceded by being sweated out in the police station, she felt less than fresh. She wanted to make a good impression upon Palatier both because she needed him and because she hadn’t paid him the full amount of his retainer.
Emily was not one to use her feminine wiles on a man, but she did believe that cleanliness might help her case. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and applied a bit of lip gloss. That’ll have to do it, she thought when she looked in the mirror. The image there gave her reason to hope. She looked a youthful fifty plus, tan, fit, and petite—an appealing, non-threatening client any lawyer should be happy to represent. She stopped at Mickey D’s for a quick lunch and spoiled the effect by dribbling ketchup down the front of her white blouse.
“Ms. Rhodes.” Palatier stood as his assistant ushered her into his office. “Right on time.”
Dumpster Dying Page 3
