by J. R. Ripley
I found a spot to park, shut off the engine and cranked up the radio. I had to flip through several New-Age stations, a station giving the farm report and another station, on which a Dr Jane Denver was telling listeners about her latest trip to someplace called Gamma Orionis in the Orion Constellation before alighting on Patsy Cline. Patsy’s a bit before my time – I’m thirty-nine and intend to be for many years to come – but I liked her style.
I laid my head against the seat and closed my eyes. I rarely got the chance to relax like this these days. Patsy had barely finished her second song on this two-fer Tuesday when Clive jumped in the pickup and slammed the door.
I bounced up and stared at him. ‘What’s wrong? Are you OK?’ He was sweating – hard to do in Arizona where the moisture gets sucked off your skin almost as fast as you can shed it out. I noticed frosting on his pant cuffs and black dress shoes and my brow went up. Clive is a stickler for cleanliness and elegance. They could paste his picture up next to the definition of dapper on Wikipedia.
Clive looked almost giddy, but not in a good way – in a kind of Looney Tunes way. ‘Do you remember that time I was in your café and we found—’
I swear, his eyes bugged out like something in a cartoon and his Adam’s apple swelled up like a Damson plum. I held up my hand like a five-fingered stop sign. ‘Don’t say it!’
I paused and stared him down. ‘I do not want to talk about it. Not now, not ever again.’ My life was difficult enough, what with a ‘dead’ ex-husband who wouldn’t stay away and the struggle of running my fledgling beignet business. And now a cat named after somebody else’s dead wife. Who needs a cat? And who needs a cat named after somebody else’s dead wife?
Mrowl.
‘But Maggie—’
I shook my head. ‘No, Clive.’
He sighed and pushed the door back open with his shaking knees. ‘Fine.’ He gestured with his finger. ‘Follow me.’
I scratched my head and ran after Clive. What the devil was he up to?
We crossed the parking lot. I started to angle toward the covered entrance where I’d dropped him off. ‘Not that way,’ Clive corrected me. ‘The elevator’s broken.’ He led the way to an unremarkable solid unmarked gray door closer to the corner of the four-story brick warehouse that was home to the renowned Markie’s Masterpieces bakery.
Clive grabbed the brass handle and pulled. The door opened out with a pig-like squeal that sent chills up my arms. The body lying beneath that four-tiered masterpiece at the bottom of the narrow stairwell sent those chills coursing through the rest of me.
TWO
‘Clive!’ I spun around to face him. He was huddled near the door, looking scared. ‘What happened? What did you do?’
‘I didn’t do anything, Maggie,’ Clive replied rather shakily. He tugged worriedly at his polka-dot bowtie.
The cake, which smelled like lemon, with vanilla buttercream frosting, was mashed up on the ground. A trail of cake led up the stairs. The body beneath was mashed up under layers of cake, frosting and fondant, arms and legs akimbo. I couldn’t see the face.
I couldn’t even see the head. It was hidden somewhere under the bottom layer of cake. Definitely a woman, though, from what I could see of those black flared trousers and that lavender polo shirt with the Markie’s Masterpieces logo emblazoned over the right breast, not to mention the upside down stone-gray high heels.
‘What happened?’ I repeated, struggling to steady my voice.
Clive was looking pastier by the moment. A few seconds more and his face would match the color of the powdered sugar I sprinkle on my beignets.
‘I don’t know,’ he wept, wringing his hands. ‘The freight elevator was out of order so I took the stairs up to Markies but no one answered. Then I heard noises – voices at the end of the corridor. They seemed to be coming from the stairs I’d just climbed.’ His mouth formed a giant O. His gaze went up the stairwell. ‘Oh, no. Maggie!’
‘What is it, Clive?’
‘Don’t you see?’ He pinched his cheeks together with his palms. ‘When I was up there I pushed the stairwell door open.’ He gulped. ‘What if it’s my fault? What if I knocked her down the stairs?’ His eyes grew wide.
I considered Clive’s statement. If she had been standing behind the door and, if Clive had pushed open the door … I had to admit, it was a definite possibility. ‘No way,’ I said. I had to reassure him, didn’t I? Clive was my friend. I leaned closer. ‘Maybe she lost her balance and fell all on her own.’ Clive’s cakey footprints were all over the place. ‘Maybe,’ I suggested, ‘she isn’t really dead?’
Clive started shaking his head up and down like a piston in a race car. His eyes were as big as the moons of Jupiter. ‘Oh my gosh. You’re right, Maggie!’ His hands groped at his pockets. ‘We’ve got to call an ambulance. She could be terribly injured. She could be suffocating,’ he gasped, ‘under all that cake!’
Clive threw his phone at me and dropped to his knees. ‘Call the hospital!’ he cried. ‘I’ll start digging her out!’
I watched as he desperately pulled away handfuls of cake, sending lumps flying in every direction. Most of it seemed to be landing on me. I wasn’t sure Clive should be touching the cake like that – there could be a lawsuit in an accident case like this and it could be evidence – but then again, whoever was under all that lemon cake might really be suffocating.
I nodded and dialed 911. As I shouted at the emergency operator to fetch an ambulance and gave her our location, Clive cleared lemon cake away from the side of the young woman’s face. She was very pretty – maybe a little too much blue eye shadow. But it did match the wickedly beautiful azure-blue eyes of hers. I guesstimated her age as somewhere in the mid-twenties. She had been banged up quite a bit on the way down. There were bruises on her face and hands and her fingernails were broken, like she’d tried to catch herself. Gravity had won the battle.
And the way she was looking up at me, it was pretty obvious that she was also dead. ‘You can stop now, Clive.’ I stuck his phone in my shorts and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Clive, you can stop.’
Clive looked up at me. ‘Maggie, is she—?’
I nodded and helped Clive up from his knees. ‘Let’s go outside and wait for the ambulance. They should be here soon.’
I heard the sound of a door opening somewhere further up and a woman’s voice called out, ‘What’s going on down there? Is everything OK?’
I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted back, ‘There’s been an accident!’ I listened to my voice echo through the shaft. ‘The ambulance is on its way!’ I heard the door creak shut and shrugged my shoulders. Some people don’t like to get involved. ‘Let’s go, Clive.’
We tumbled out into the sunlight, rattled and out of breath. I swiveled my head, looking for signs of help arriving in the form of an ambulance, and spotted flashing lights across the parking lot. But it wasn’t an ambulance. It was a Table Rock police cruiser. I saw a man in a blue uniform poking around on the driver’s side of Andy’s pickup.
Another officer, a sturdy woman about my age, stood next to the cruiser talking on a radio. If fireplugs and people could have offspring, she’d be the product. I was too far away to hear what she was saying. I waved. ‘Hey!’ I beat my arms. ‘Over here! She’s over here!’
The woman on the radio looked over at me, said something into her handset then approached. Her partner closed the door to the pickup and came toward us as well.
The man who’d stepped from the pickup slowly unsnapped his holster and drew his weapon. ‘Stay where you are!’ he ordered. ‘Place your hands behind your heads.’
Clive and I looked at one another. I shrugged and took a step toward the officers. ‘You don’t understand,’ I began. ‘I’m the one who called nine-one-one to report—’
‘Remain still!’ he ordered. His partner now drew her weapon, too.
‘Don’t shoot!’ cried Clive. He looked a little wobbly, standing with his fingers laced together behin
d his head. I decided to join him in the assumed position.
The woman frisked me first, then Clive. She nodded to her partner. ‘All clear.’
Which was funny, because nothing was clear to me.
An ambulance siren grew louder and a moment later we all watched as the boxy red-and-white emergency vehicle zoomed into the lot. I bit my tongue, wanting to run to the EMTs and tell them where to find the dead woman, but was afraid one or both of these cops might shoot me before I could get a whole sentence out.
One dead woman was enough for the day.
The male officer slid his gun back into its holster and pointed a finger at me. ‘What can you tell me about that pickup?’
I creased my forehead. ‘Well,’ I began, trying to remember what Andy had told me about the vehicle, ‘it’s a mid-fifty-five Chevy pickup. Originally it had a V8, but—’
The officer held up a hand and glared at me. He wasn’t anyone I recognized from around town. I certainly didn’t remember him ever being a customer of mine. ‘You were driving the vehicle?’
I nodded. ‘That’s right, why?’ My arms were aching from holding them behind my head. ‘Can we put our hands down now?’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw the female officer talking to the EMTs as they spilled out of their ambulance.
The officer nodded. ‘We got a report that this vehicle,’ he pointed at Andy’s pickup as if I didn’t already know what vehicle we were talking about, ‘was stolen.’
I squeezed my eyes shut. Andy was going to kill me.
I heard Clive groan loudly. ‘Why, why did I listen to you?’
Hey, was he talking about me? I screwed up my face and turned to Clive. ‘What are you blaming me for? I didn’t know, I couldn’t know that Andy would report his pickup stolen. Besides,’ I snarled, ‘you asked me for a ride, remember?’
Clive was shaking his head and clutching his chest. There was buttercream all over the lapels and knees of his suit. Clive, as meticulous as he normally was, didn’t seem to mind or even notice. He frowned at me. ‘Johnny’s always warning me about you. But I never listen.’ He shook his head forlornly. ‘This is what I get: a stolen truck, a dead woman.’ He sighed deeply. Sweat dripped from the sides of his face. The Arizona sun showed no mercy on any of us.
The paramedics pushed closer. ‘What dead woman?’
‘That’s what I was trying to explain earlier,’ I began. ‘There’s a woman,’ I pointed toward the Entronque building, ‘inside, lying at the bottom of the stairwell. We think she’s dead.’
The paramedics sprinted toward the door and disappeared inside.
‘Keep an eye on these two, Ellen.’ His badge identified him as Officer Ravi Singh. He ran his free hand through his cropped black hair.
The woman nodded. Her right hand rested lightly on the grip of the gun that was holstered at her side.
We stood sweating in the sun for a minute or two and then Officer Singh beckoned us over. He held the door open and we stepped into the stairwell. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ he ordered.
Clive and I did as we were told. The paramedics were standing to one side.
‘Is she definitely dead?’ whispered Clive.
‘Afraid so,’ said the paramedic on the left. His partner nodded. ‘Probably broke her neck.’
‘Do you recognize this woman?’ Officer Singh asked.
‘Not me,’ I answered. ‘Never saw her before in my life.’
‘I do.’ Clive’s voice was still nothing more than a whisper. ‘It’s one of Markie’s assistants, Lisa.’
Officer Singh nodded curtly. He took a careful step closer to the body. There was cake scattered everywhere, but then part of that was Clive’s doing. Her short mahogany brown locks, which had probably earlier been styled into an updo, were now more of an up-goo. Who knew hair could hold so much buttercream?
‘What’s this?’ Officer Singh pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, bent down and gingerly pulled out a scrap of fabric from under Lisa’s left hip.
He straightened and held up the cake-smeared material. It dangled in the confined space between us like an accusation. ‘Do either of you recognize this?’
Clive sucked air in between his teeth and blanched.
It was the swatch he’d been carrying.
THREE
I swiveled in Clive’s direction. His mouth was hanging open. ‘It’s mine,’ he finally croaked.
I cleared my throat. ‘Well,’ I began, turning to the paramedics, ‘it’s an awful, terrible accident.’ And some bride was probably going to have to settle for a store-bought wedding cake. ‘But shouldn’t you guys be, you know,’ I motioned with my head, ‘removing the body? Notifying the next of kin?’ It seemed wrong seeing the woman simply lying there amid all that cake. Disrespectful, even. Something told me nobody would be bringing cake to her wake.
I wished they would let us go. I’d been around enough death to last me a lifetime.
The two paramedics looked at Officer Singh who shook his head in the negative. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’ I replied.
He looked first at me, then at Clive. His dark brown eyes were flat. ‘Because first we must rule out foul play.’
Clive hiccoughed then covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking awkwardly around the stairwell. His cheeks had flushed red. ‘Just nerves, I guess.’
I took a step toward the victim and scrunched up my nose. ‘What makes you think there might have been foul play?’ The very suggestion sent goosebumps rising along my forearms. ‘The woman slipped, probably on some buttercream, and fell down the stairs.’
‘Please step back, ma’am.’ Officer Ellen Collins gripped my upper arm firmly and pulled me away. ‘Maybe you two should wait outside.’ Her eyes connected with her partner’s and he nodded his agreement.
We stepped back out into the sunlight. I used my hand for a visor and watched as an old but clearly well-maintained bright red Pontiac Firebird slowed off the main road then surged into the parking lot. I don’t know much about cars but I knew this model with the flashy black decal of a Firebird on its broad hood was straight out of the eighties. Several of the boys at Camelback High School had driven similar cars, including my then boyfriend.
The Firebird roared to within inches of us and then came to a tire-squealing halt. Whoever sat behind the wheel of that tinted glass ode to testosterone was so high school.
I lowered my hands to my hips and watched as the driver-side door popped open.
I should have known.
I stared as Table Rock’s one and only detective slowly unfolded himself from the Firebird and stepped toward Officer Collins. ‘Morning, Ellen.’
The corner of her mouth inched up. ‘Sorry to bother you on your day off, Mark.’
Wearing baggy cargo shorts and a sleeveless pale green shirt that showed off all his muscles, Detective Mark Highsmith glanced at Clive then loomed over me. He made a sour face. Even so, those chocolate M&M eyes of his still looked mighty appealing. I don’t know what it is, but I practically got type-2 diabetes just looking at them. ‘Ms Miller,’ he sighed. He rubbed his temples. ‘I should have known.’
What was that supposed to mean?
I pursed my lips but stayed mum. Officer Singh must have contacted the detective.
‘Ravi thought you’d want to be in on this,’ Ellen said. ‘There’s a dead woman inside. It might be an accident but Ravi says something doesn’t seem right.’
‘He thinks it might have been foul play,’ I added.
‘Maggie!’ cried Clive.
Sorry, I mouthed, realizing I shouldn’t have said that.
Clive shot a handful of green-eyed daggers at me.
Highsmith silently studied us for a moment then nodded. ‘Where?’
Ellen jerked her thumb toward the side entrance.
‘Fine.’ He pointed a finger at Clive and me. ‘Make sure these two stick around.’ He disappeared inside.
Several minutes later the door s
queaked open and Detective Highsmith beckoned us with his finger. That digit of his was a real multitasking tool.
‘What does he want with us?’ Clive whispered urgently.
I shrugged. ‘I guess he just wants to hear what happened.’ I started for the door.
‘But I don’t know what happened,’ complained Clive.
‘Tell him that.’
Highsmith held the door open. ‘Tell me what?’
I answered for Clive. ‘That we don’t know what happened to her. This Lisa woman.’ Except that she’s wearing a lot of cake, that is.
‘Lisa Willoughby, age twenty-seven,’ said Highsmith, filling in the blanks. ‘Single.’
I arched an eyebrow.
‘We found her purse under the cake.’ He pointed to a small bubblegum-colored clutch. Very nice. She’d been carrying a four-tiered cake down a narrow flight of stairs and a clutch? No wonder she’d lost her footing.
We all looked upward upon hearing the sound of light footsteps above. A woman turned the corner of the next landing up and cried out. ‘Oh my gosh! What happened?’ She was probably in her twenties. There was a streak of white in her hair. I couldn’t tell if it was paint or early graying. She wore a loose pair of paint-and-varnish-stained overalls with a sleeveless cotton T-shirt underneath. Her light brown hair was knotted in back.
‘Please,’ said Highsmith, thrusting his hand up like a stop sign, ‘don’t come any further. There’s been an accident.’
‘An accident?’ She looked downward. Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘I’m Detective Highsmith. You are?’
She wiped her lips with her tongue. ‘Blake Sherwood.’ She gestured with her head. ‘I have a studio on the second floor.’
Detective Highsmith patted his pockets and came up empty. ‘Sherwood, right. Got it.’ He nodded to Officer Singh. ‘One of us will be up later to get your statement.’
‘But I don’t know anything, I just—’
The detective cut her off. He was good at that. ‘Please wait for us upstairs, miss.’
