by J. R. Ripley
Officer Singh cleared his throat. ‘If I may?’ Detective Highsmith nodded and Officer Singh led our small group to a rather ordinary-looking brown door in the corner. Glancing at it, you’d never know the secret it concealed – a dead woman lying in a pile of cake. A fire-exit sign hung above the door.
The officer slipped a latex glove over his hand and held the door open for the detective.
Highsmith pointed to me and Clive. ‘You two stay here.’ I rolled my eyes. Detective Highsmith crept slowly down the stairs, careful to keep his feet near the inside edge. I guess he didn’t want to destroy any evidence. Of what, I couldn’t say.
He stopped just above the landing between the fourth floor and the third and stooped over. His right hand reached out and he nodded. He turned and looked back up the stairs. ‘Let’s make sure that no one uses these stairs.’ He pulled himself up to his full height. ‘And let’s get the photographer up here, Ravi. I want shots of everything. Top to bottom.’
Clive and I raised our eyebrows at one another. ‘You mind telling us what’s going on?’ I demanded as Detective Highsmith brushed past me.
His jaw tightened. ‘What’s going on is that it looks like Ms Willoughby had some help falling down those stairs.’
Clive gasped.
I frowned. ‘What makes you think that?’
He laid his hand on my shoulder and pointed. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but do you see those marks near that far step? The one right before the landing?’
I nodded. The wood had been scarred and frosting and cake were scattered everywhere.
He turned to me. ‘If the young lady had slipped, why are all these first steps up here near the top clean?’
‘Because she only slipped when she got to that step?’ I suggested.
Highsmith shook his head. ‘If she’d slipped right there she’d only have ended up on the landing. A matter of inches. She might have dropped the cake she was carrying but she wouldn’t have tumbled down the entire stairwell.’
He mumbled something about momentum and inertia. Was he a detective or a quantum physicist? I was neither, so I had no idea what he was going on about.
‘No,’ Highsmith said, leading me back into the hall, ‘I’d say someone gave her a good solid push.’ His eyes fell on Clive, who had his back pressed against the wall.
FIVE
‘I’ve seen enough.’ Detective Highsmith turned to Officer Singh, who’d snapped off his glove and thrust it in his back pocket. ‘Escort Mr Rothschild downtown, would you, Ravi.’
Highsmith turned to Clive. ‘You don’t mind going down to the station and answering a few more questions, do you, sir?’
‘No, I don’t mind at all.’ Clive’s eyes said otherwise, but what choice did he have? Clive and Officer Singh headed for the passenger elevator at the opposite end of the hall.
‘I’ll see you back at the café!’ I waved as the elevator door swung across Clive’s troubled face. The poor guy. I knew how much he hated being around dead guys. And women. ‘What about me?’
‘What about you?’ The detective folded his arms across his chest. Showing off his biceps, no doubt.
I tried not to look or act impressed. ‘Am I free to go?’ His arms were impressive. I imagined he could likely lift me one-handed.
‘Yep.’ He nodded and pulled at his watch.
‘Great.’
‘In fact, your ride ought to be here by now.’
‘What ride?’ I sniffed. ‘I don’t need a ride. I’ve got my pickup.’ Well, it wasn’t exactly my pickup. It wasn’t even sort of or even remotely my pickup. But I had brought it here so in that sense the truck was mine. And I did feel a certain obligation to Andy to return it.
‘Like I said, you’re free to go.’ Why was he smiling? ‘But not in the pickup.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘We’re impounding it. The tow truck is on its way as we speak.’
‘But you can’t do that!’ I cried. ‘It’s not even mine; it belongs to my brother-in-law, Andy.’ I grabbed Highsmith’s wrist. ‘You’ve met him. Tall, skinny guy. Ponytail. Loves his truck,’ I said with emphasis.
‘Sorry, nothing I can do.’ Highsmith plucked my hand from his wrist like my vice-like grip had meant nothing to him. The show-off. ‘At this point we’re holding it as potential evidence.’ Now he outright chuckled. ‘Not to mention, I hear it was reported stolen.’
I groaned. Why the heck had Andy reported it stolen? ‘Evidence of what? We didn’t do anything. Clive is innocent.’
‘Can he prove it?’
‘Not yet.’
Highsmith shrugged. ‘There you go.’
‘So now what? Are you going to give me a ride home?’ In that bright red testosterone-fueled Firebird?
‘Don’t worry.’ Highsmith smiled, his M&Ms twinkling. ‘Like I said, your ride ought to be here.’ He laid his hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘I’ll call you later this afternoon. Will you be available?’
I said yes.
‘Great. After I’ve interviewed Clive in detail I’ll want to get your story.’ Highsmith told me to see myself out. I guess he was staying to make sure nobody came in or out of the stairwell. Evidence and all that.
I rode the passenger elevator to the ground floor, crossed the lobby and stepped out into the midday sun. I saw a green-and-red tow truck turning out of the Entronque building’s parking lot with Andy’s precious Chevy pickup on its flatbed. No doubt it was on its way to the Table Rock Police Department’s impound lot.
Then I saw Andy.
I flushed and came to a stop. ‘Andy! Boy, am I surprised to see you!’ I flashed a bright smile.
He scowled. That wasn’t the way this body language stuff was supposed to work. ‘That’s funny, Maggie,’ he said, ‘because I’m not at all surprised to see you.’
I tried again. I’d read an article recently while waiting in my dentist’s office. Body Language 101. ‘What do you mean?’ I fluttered my eyelashes and let my hands relax at my side. It’s supposed to set the other person at ease.
‘You stole my truck is what I mean.’ Andy stepped toward me and stuck his chin out. There’d been an edge to his voice that belied his usual laconic nature. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’
I stepped back, looking up at my brother-in-law who’s as tall as a redwood, and blubbered, ‘I can explain everything!’ Besides, stole was such an ugly word. I mean, it was a completely appropriate and accurate word in this particular instance, but still … talk about ugly.
Andy swatted his ear and his ponytail danced like a snake. ‘Forget it, Maggie. Let’s get out of here.’
‘How?’ The Table Rock PD had impounded his Chevy pickup. ‘I mean …’ I stopped talking. He knew what I meant.
Andy pointed to Donna’s blue-and-white Mini Cooper. Oh, great, Donna probably knew about the whole stolen vehicle thing now, too.
I took a heavy step toward the Mini, then came to an abrupt stop. To an outsider it might have looked like I’d hit a pocket of heavy gravity. But I knew better. I hadn’t hit any anomalistic gravity pocket. I’d hit the realization that if Andy knew … and if Donna knew … I groaned.
Mom probably knew too.
I groaned some more and squeezed my eyes shut.
Andy chuckled as if reading my mind as he opened the car door and somehow folded his long frame into the short car. ‘Mom and Donna are waiting at the store.’
‘Blabbermouth,’ I said sourly.
Andy started up the Mini and rolled into traffic. ‘Hey, it wasn’t exactly a secret. When I went out to the dumpster my truck was gone. I ran in and told Donna and Donna called the police.’
I frowned. ‘So who told Mom?’
Andy smiled, his hands gripping the wheel in a proper ten and two position. Me, I was lucky if I had ten fingers anywhere on the steering wheel at the same time while I drove. Another reason I was better off with the bicycle rather than the old car I’d sold because I’d needed to raise funds to open the beignet
café.
He shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘That was a lucky coincidence. Your mom came in to do some shopping and overheard your sister talking to the police dispatcher. She felt real bad when she heard somebody had stolen my truck.’ He turned his eyes from the road for a moment. ‘When we got the call that the police had found my truck and that that somebody was you—’ He chuckled some more. ‘The look on your mom’s face was precious.’
I’ll bet. I folded my arms across my chest and sunk down in the car seat. Everybody always complains about Mondays but, so far, Tuesday wasn’t exactly turning out to be the prize in a box of Cracker Jack.
We drove in awkward silence for several minutes. ‘You can drop me off at the café,’ I said stonily.
‘OK,’ Andy acceded, ‘but you’re going to have to face your mom sometime.’
‘I know,’ I replied glumly.
Andy shook his head and sighed loudly as he pulled to the curb outside Maggie’s Beignet Café. ‘Poor Mrs Malarkey.’ That’s Mom. ‘The poor woman’s devastated to learn that she’s got a car thief in the family.’ His eyes danced. ‘She blames it on that videogame, Grand Theft Auto. I didn’t know you were a gamer, Mag.’
‘Very funny.’ I slammed the car door harder than necessary and took a step toward my café. I stopped on the sidewalk and turned back to the Mini. I gestured for Andy to roll down the window. I stuck my head in. ‘I’m sorry I took your truck without asking, Andy. It’s just that Clive came running into the shop all desperate and—’
Andy held up his hand like a stop sign. The tattered, spiral-patterned hemp bracelet that I’d never seen him without, even in his lawyer days, flopped around his slender wrist. His lips formed a smile. ‘Next time, just ask.’
I nodded. Andy was OK.
I pushed through the door, listening to the tinkle of the leather string of bells. ‘Hey, Aubrey! Did I miss anything?’ About half the tables were occupied. That was a good sign. I’m a table is half full kind of person.
Aubrey pushed the register shut and adjusted her visor. ‘Nope. Nothing special. There’s been a steady stream of customers. Nothing Kelly and I couldn’t handle.’
I nodded. The empty tables were spic and span and everything appeared in order. ‘Where’s Kelly?’
‘I sent her to pick up some lunch. Did you want anything?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Are you sure? I could call her on her cell.’
I shook my head. I’d had my fill at Ethiopia. And after seeing that woman, Lisa Willoughby, lying under a pile of lemon cake, dessert might be off my menu for a while. I stepped behind the counter and threw my white apron over my neck. I was reaching back to tie the apron strings when the door banged open.
‘Miller!’ screamed Johnny Wolfe. He aimed his finger at me like a scud missile. ‘Clive’s been arrested and it’s all your fault!’
SIX
I was happy to be on the opposite side of the counter – something to protect me from the wrath of Johnny Wolfe. Johnny’s a white-fleshed fellow no wider at the shoulders than he is at the hips, so you’d think it would be an even match. But he’s also a former pro skater, a former bronze medal-winning Olympic skater, too. He’s got the ego to match.
Right now, his charcoal-blue eyes were flashing like a storm crossing the desert. And that storm was aiming straight for me. Yes, better to have a sturdy counter between the two of us.
‘What do you mean, all my fault?’
Johnny’s a real coxcomb and a pain in the patooty.
‘He was with you, wasn’t he?’ Johnny jammed his fists against his hips. He wore an expensive tailored gray pinstriped suit with a solid black silk shirt underneath. Johnny’s also a real clothes horse.
Aubrey swiveled her head back and forth, catching all the action while sucking lemonade through a skinny straw.
‘Well,’ I stammered, ‘sure he was with me. But what’s that got to do with anything?’ Not that there wasn’t a certain logic to his argument, borne out by history, but still, who did this guy think he was? An Olympic gold medalist? Heck, he’d come in third. There were days when I slipped in the shower reaching for the towel rack and twisted in ways that could have seen me take the silver if there’d been any judges there to score me.
‘Don’t play coy with me, Miller. I heard from the police. Clive has been charged with murder and they say you were with him.’ His eyes blazed at me as he planted his hands on the counter and pushed. ‘Why they haven’t arrested you, too, I’ll never know!’
‘Uh,’ Aubrey raised an index finger, ‘would somebody mind telling me what’s going on?’ She raised a hopeful brow.
Kelly Herman came through from the storeroom. ‘What’s with all the shouting, peeps?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ replied Aubrey. ‘Something about a murder?’ She scrunched up her nose.
Kelly gaped. ‘A murder? Where?’ Kelly’s a half-Havasupi, half-Jewish beauty about Aubrey’s age – twenty-three. The color drained from her face like somebody’d just pulled her plug.
‘That’s right,’ Johnny spat. ‘Murder.’ He glared my way. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
I bit the inside of my cheek. ‘Now, now,’ I said, pushing my palms at him. Customers were getting up and leaving, their faces troubled. ‘Let’s all calm down.’ I didn’t want people thinking they weren’t safe stepping inside Maggie’s Beignet Café. I took a chance and leaned closer to Johnny, hoping he didn’t punch me in the nose. ‘Let’s talk about this privately.’
He scrunched his brows together and pouted. ‘Fine,’ he huffed finally. Johnny pirouetted across the tiles and followed me into the storeroom. I gave him a six-point-five for execution and a perfect ten for obnoxiousness.
I pulled a stool over to my office desk. OK, so it was a cardboard box turned on its side, but it was a pretty sturdy one. Though I’d been a little annoyed with Aubrey when she’d drawn a couple of drawers on the face of it as a joke, I was over it now. ‘Have a seat.’
I looked forlornly at the pile of invoices and receipts scattered across my cardboard box slash desk. Bookkeeping is miserable work. That’s why I kept putting it off. Too bad my dead husband Brian wasn’t still around. He used to work in a bank; he’d have been great at all this mindless paperwork.
Johnny remained standing, obviously preferring to loom over me – something he couldn’t do if I was standing as well. After all, I was about five-seven and I figured he was about the same depending on how much gel he’d bathed his hair in that day. Today his unnaturally black locks were swept back across his swelled head like a wave of ego externalized. Perhaps he was trying to channel Elvis. Maybe I’d buy him some blue suede shoes for Xmas.
Johnny’s right hand twisted the Rolex on his left wrist. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Miller.’
‘Are you ever going to call me Maggie?’ I smiled. Maybe I could counterbalance his strident attitude with a rident one.
His eyebrows formed a single line and he stared down his nose at me. ‘When there are so many other things I’d like to call you first?’
I chewed my lip. Boy, I’d really thrown him a softball that time. ‘OK, OK,’ I said, waving my hands. ‘I can see you’re upset about this.’ Lesson learned. Strident definitely tips the scales in a contest with rident.
‘Of course I’m upset!’
‘And you have every right to be.’ I glanced at the café’s electric bill lying open on my corrugated cardboard desk. Did electricity really cost that much? If I paid my Table Rock Electric Co. bill I might not be able to afford to eat for a month. I’d be reduced to mooching canned food from my mom’s condo when she wasn’t looking. Worse yet, I’d be taking potluck – and I do mean luck – at Donna and Andy’s house. Trust me, there’s no luck coming out of those pots. More like bulgur wheat, soggy tofu, beansprouts and broccoli. Stuff I wouldn’t even force my cat to eat. And she enjoyed stuff like sardines and kidneys. ‘I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding.’ I crossed and un
crossed my legs. ‘Detective Highsmith told me he was only taking Clive down to the station to ask him some questions. You know, to try to figure out what happened to Lisa. Put all the pieces together.’
Though there was no way they’d ever put all the pieces of that cake together again. Lisa Willoughby and Markie’s latest masterpiece had done a major Humpty Dumpty. And a unidirectional one at that. There was no way of putting either back together again.
I suddenly wondered who’d ordered that cake and if it might have something to do with the young woman’s demise. An ex-lover, perhaps? Someone with a grudge who’d ordered the cake, intent all along on using that cake to send her to a messy death? Improbable? Maybe. But impossible? Who was to say?
Johnny shook his fist at me. His jacket popped open revealing a slash of bright pink silk lining. It looked every bit as garish as some of those costumes he used to wear out on the ice during his pro performances. Once a showman, always a showman, I suppose. ‘Clive telephoned me and told me he’d been arrested!’
‘Oh, please.’ I sighed. ‘You know Clive.’ I tossed a hand in the air. ‘Always so melodramatic. Overreacts to everything.’ Like Johnny Wolfe was doing now. ‘He’s probably sitting in a cozy room down at the police station, sipping coffee, nibbling on a maple donut and having a grand old time.’
I glanced at the Boar’s Head-branded clock on the wall, a remnant from the previous deli owner of my space. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t done by now.’ I leaned forward and placed my hands on my desk. It wobbled and caved. I hastily straightened. ‘In fact, I’ll bet he’s next door at The Hitching Post wondering where you are.’ I turned in the bridal shop’s direction. ‘Why don’t you go check?’ Please. I snapped my fingers. ‘If he isn’t there I’ll bet he’s resting at home, out on the veranda, watching the sun skate across the sky—’ I threw the skate metaphor in there for Johnny’s sake. ‘A nice piña colada in hand.’ Go join him.
Kelly Herman popped her head between the swinging doors. ‘Ms Miller?’ She tugged at the white headband on her forehead. She wore indigo jeans and a white shirt with Mother Earth/Father Sun written over the chest in green script. I’d have to ask Aubrey to make Kelly an outfit to match ours. I love my sister but I needed my staff to promote beignets not vegetables.
