by J. R. Ripley
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a Detective Highsmith here to see you.’ She looked uneasy. I guess it’s always tough when there’s talk of murder and police the first day on a new job.
‘Perfect!’ I jumped to my feet. ‘Send him back here, would you?’
A moment later, Detective Highsmith pushed the swinging doors aside with all the swagger of a gunfighter in the Old West. He strode into the room like he owned the place. I checked his feet for spurs. Nope, not even cowboy boots. Adidas. That explained the lack of a jangle.
He’d added a brown sports coat to the cargo shorts and muscle shirt he’d been wearing that morning. It wasn’t an improvement. In fact, it looked like a four-year-old’s attempt at dressing up for church on Sunday.
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Detective.’ I turned to Johnny, who stood glowering near the walk-in fridge. Maybe he wanted to keep his blood chilled. I’d read somewhere that vampires have lower core body temps than we humans – probably in a vampire mystery novel. So it had to be true. ‘You remember Johnny Wolfe?’
‘Of course,’ replied Highsmith. ‘Mr Wolfe.’ He nodded toward Johnny. ‘I’d like to get Ms Miller’s statement now.’ He pointed to the door. ‘In private.’
‘Fine,’ I said rather snappishly. ‘But first, would you please explain to Johnny that you only asked Clive to go down to the station to take his statement.’ I forced a laugh. ‘Johnny here is under the impression that Clive has been arrested. Can you believe it?’ I shook my head and laughed some more. Nobody joined in. Party poopers.
Johnny glared at me. I pulled at my lower lip with my teeth.
‘Yeah, I can believe it,’ Highsmith said, his words falling like stones down a waterspout. He stuffed his hands in his jacket.
‘You see!’ Johnny shouted triumphantly. ‘What did I tell you?’
I swiveled toward Johnny. ‘Quiet,’ I hissed.
He thrust his chin out at me.
I stepped toward Detective Highsmith and looked up into his M&M eyes. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Highsmith shrugged. ‘It means I didn’t really have much choice in the matter.’
I creased my brow. Table Rock’s lone detective could be annoyingly inscrutable.
‘He confessed.’
SEVEN
That thump I heard wasn’t my heart, which I feared for a second had burst – it was the sound of Johnny Wolfe fainting dead and hitting the tile floor.
What a drama queen.
I raced to the sink, filled a glass with ice-cold water from the tap and tossed it in Johnny’s limp face. I wasn’t sure if he needed it or not, but it sure made me feel better.
Johnny sputtered and sat up. Water dripped from his nose to his chin to my floor. I was going to have to mop that up before somebody slipped in it.
I ripped off several sheets from a roll of paper towels and handed them to Johnny. ‘Why would Clive confess to pushing Lisa Willoughby down four flights of stairs?’ Somehow that sounded better than calling it murder. Maybe it was simply horseplay gone awry. Boys will be boys, after all. Had playground antics turned fatal?
‘Lisa Willoughby?’ Johnny wadded up the damp towels and tossed them toward the sink. He missed and they skittered along the counter and hit the floor. ‘That’s the Lisa we’re talking about?’
Highsmith shrugged. It was a move he used a lot.
‘Yes, Johnny. I thought you knew?’
Johnny scrubbed his damp face with his hands. ‘I only knew that Clive had been arrested,’ he sniffed. ‘That he’d confessed to killing some woman named Lisa.’ He collapsed in on himself, his head hanging like it was only attached by the slenderest of spines.
Johnny glanced nervously at Highsmith. ‘I didn’t know it was that Lisa.’
‘What do you mean, that Lisa?’ I was getting a bad feeling about this. Was there something Johnny and Clive knew that I didn’t? And whatever it was, did Detective Highsmith know it too?
Johnny stepped in front of the detective, his hands attached to his boyish hips. ‘I want to see Clive right now.’
Highsmith appeared almost amused as he gazed down at the infinitely tinier and more slender man before him. The side of his face turned up in a wry rictus of a smile. ‘I think that might be a good idea, Mr Wolfe. In fact,’ he said, turning to me, ‘I think it might be a good idea if we all went down to the station.’
I rode with Johnny Wolfe down to the Table Rock police station in his fancy BMW 335i convertible. Black on black, of course. What else? Perfect for those hot and sunny Arizona days when you felt like burning the flesh off your thighs. I rubbed mine as we drove. If I left a couple of pounds of skin and flesh behind on his seat I’d count the weight loss toward my eternal diet goals – the number one goal of which was to actually set some diet goals.
Detective Highsmith pulled up at the red light beside us on Laredo and Gibson and revved the engine of that puerile Firebird of his. Johnny’s fingers tightened around the leather-wrapped steering wheel and I was sure I was about to see a drag race. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ I cautioned.
Johnny pouted. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you might end up sharing a cell with Clive.’
The light turned green and Highsmith zoomed ahead. I caught the glint of sunlight on his teeth as he smugly pushed ahead. A guttural growl emanated from Johnny’s throat as he lifted his foot from the brake. Johnny looked a little green himself. I guess it was his competitive nature. That had probably served him well as a professional ice skater but it wasn’t always a good thing when dealing with the real world, especially when that real world included real cops with real guns. And real attitudes.
Then again, boys will be boys. Even when they grow up to be men.
‘I don’t get it,’ I said as Johnny tailed the detective at a more sedate speed. ‘Why would Clive confess to murdering one of Markie’s employees?’ I shook my head, hoping to rearrange some brain cells into a picture that made sense. ‘I mean, he didn’t say anything even remotely resembling a confession when we were at the Entronque.’
‘I don’t know,’ Johnny shot back, his jaw set, his fingers tight. I didn’t know either so I remained mum the rest of the drive. Johnny and Clive had been married for over three years. I knew. I’d been a guest at their recent anniversary party. Markie’s Masterpieces had supplied the cake, a replica of The Hitching Post.
Detective Highsmith was waiting for us inside the police station, which was located along the main highway that skirted the edge of Table Rock. I led the way inside. ‘Let me do the talking, Johnny.’
‘I can speak for myself,’ retorted Johnny. ‘I’m not about to be bullied by some small-town cops.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said under my breath, ‘that’s the kind of attitude that’s going to get us far – like tossed in the slammer along with Clive.’ Or buried in a shallow hole in the Painted Desert.
‘Fine,’ chuffed Johnny. He waved me forward.
‘So, a Firebird, huh? Nice car,’ I said to Detective Highsmith as he led us back into a restricted area of the building. ‘High-school graduation present from mommy and daddy?’
‘Very funny.’ He punched some numbers on an electric lock and opened the solid door. ‘And it’s a Trans Am.’
‘What’s the difference?’ I asked as I sidled past him.
The detective rolled his eyes and sighed heavily.
‘Maggie!’
‘Hello, Clive. How are you holding up?’
Clive’s fingers were laced tightly around the thick steel bars. He looked an utter wreck. Clive pressed his pallid skull to the bars. He looked a little like a lost sheep. I half-expected him to ‘baa’ any minute. He glanced hopefully at me, then he spotted Johnny and his eyes fell. ‘Oh, hello, Johnny.’
‘Clive.’ Johnny reached through the bars.
‘Did you really have to lock him up like this?’ Was I really looking at a cold-blooded killer? A cold-blooded pusher down the stairs? No, not Clive Rothschild. I may not
have known him all that long but I did know that Clive was a pussycat. I meant that in the kindest fashion, despite the agony my recently adopted cat put me through on a daily basis. I mean, it’s not that having a cat is so bad, but why can’t they clean their own litter boxes? Surely, as advanced as science is these days, some biologist can come up with some genetically modified cats who can handle a pooper scooper? After all, there are dogs out there who can play Frisbee. How hard can it be to create a cat capable of cleaning his or her own litter box?
And why was it that Carole Two would gladly scarf down anything I laid in her bowl from kibble to probiotic yogurt but steadily ignored any food I dropped on the floor? Didn’t cats believe in the five-second rule?
Detective Highsmith leaned against the wall and said nothing. We stood in a narrow hall along which were three modest jail cells. All very clean. All very scary.
The walls were painted yellow and drawings of Disney characters were scattered along the backs of the cells. See? Scary. I raised an eyebrow toward the detective. ‘Disney?’
Highsmith grinned. ‘Some shrink’s idea. He said it would make the prisoners more docile.’
I shrugged. Images of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Minnie didn’t normally lead one to run amok, explode in rage or engage in murderous mayhem, so the shrink might have been onto something. Either that or he’d been having a laugh at the Table Rock Police Department’s no doubt significant expense. ‘Don’t worry,’ I promised. ‘We’ll get you out of here, Clive.’ I turned to Detective Highsmith. ‘Have you got a hacksaw handy I can borrow?’
‘Quiet, Maggie!’ Johnny hissed between gritted teeth. ‘Must you always make jokes?’
‘Sorry.’ Jokes were my defense mechanism. I was lousy at kung fu.
Johnny gripped Clive’s hands through the bars. ‘How are you, Clive? What on earth were you thinking?’ He looked over his shoulder at me and the detective then turned back to his partner. ‘And why on earth did you confess to killing Lisa?’
Clive’s eyelids drooped as he jutted out his chin. ‘I had to,’ he said firmly. ‘I did it.’
‘Oh, please,’ I whined while Johnny gasped and made rapid up and down motions with his right hand in the universal gesture of shut your freaking mouth before you dig yourself down a deeper hole. It was at that precise moment that Veronica Vargas made her grand entrance. Veronica Vargas knows how and when to make an entrance.
VV, as she’s known to her friends and admirers – though I suspected she had more admirers than she had friends – is a real piece of work. She was rocking a pinstriped charcoal-gray jacket with peaked lapels and matching slacks. The detective’s jaw went a little slack just looking at her. I suspected other parts may have gone less slack.
VV’s elegant auburn tresses were pulled severely back behind her skull, no doubt held in place by sheer willpower alone. No hairpins or barrettes need apply. Her pumps rattled across the tiles like a burst from a Thompson submachine gun as she came toward us. I expected to see a sea of dead men strewn in her wake like empty shell casings.
Highsmith straightened. The big jerk.
‘Sorry it took me so long to get here.’ She dropped a hand lightly on Highsmith’s arm, then pulled it quickly away. ‘I had a hard time getting away.’
Sure, she’d probably been having tea at the country club with all her privileged friends and been forced to wait while a good-looking young valet in khaki shorts and a polo shirt ran to fetch her Mercedes.
I am not jealous. I just want what she’s got. Like her car and her house and maybe those shoes she was wearing, though I doubted I could squeeze into them. VV must have had her feet bound as a child.
VV’s sharp eyes scanned over our small group, mostly with disapproval. Her irises were the color of – and I suspected the hardness of – hazelnut shells. She brushed past me and stopped in front of Clive’s cell. I smelled a subtle top note of orange blossom from her fancy perfume. ‘This is the suspect in the death of Ms Lisa Willoughby?’ Though VV’s looks said all Latin, her lingo sounded all Manhattan snooty.
‘That’s the one,’ Highsmith answered from behind her.
She nodded once. When you’re a princess, once is enough.
‘Clive didn’t do anything,’ I said. ‘He was with me the whole time.’ I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘He couldn’t have.’ So there.
Ms Vargas looked down her aquiline nose at me. ‘The beignet lady, right?’
Well, that seemed a bit, I don’t know, denigrating? The way she’d said it, she might as well have said bag lady. ‘That’s right.’ What else could I say? When you’re right, you’re right.
A hint of a smile passed her lips. ‘Just checking. For a minute I thought perhaps you were Table Rock’s prosecuting attorney and I a mere civilian.’
I pulled a face. Who did this woman think she was? I mean, she was Table Rock’s prosecuting attorney, but still. It was only a part-time gig. And she’d only gotten the position because dear old Daddy was mayor. ‘Listen,’ I said sharply, ‘Clive is innocent. I know he is.’
She paid me no mind. ‘Take him to the interrogation room,’ VV ordered Highsmith. ‘I’ll talk to him there.’
Highsmith popped the cell door and Clive limped out.
‘I want to come too,’ Johnny said. He placed himself between Clive and Veronica.
‘Just a minute,’ I said, squeezing between Johnny, Clive and Veronica. It was getting awfully tight in here. ‘Nobody’s going anywhere until Clive’s had a chance to talk to his lawyer.’ I took Clive’s hand. Wow, cold. Had he died in that cell? Should we notify his next of kin? Was I holding hands with a walking corpse? Yuck. ‘Have you talked to your attorney yet?’
Clive’s shoulders rose and fell. ‘I don’t have an attorney.’ He looked at Johnny.
Johnny draped his arm around Clive’s waist. ‘Don’t worry, Clive. I’ll call my attorney in New York.’ He faced down VV. Not an easy thing to do. ‘He’s the best there is. He’ll straighten this whole mess up in no time.’ His hand ruffled Clive’s hair. ‘I’m sure it’s all just a big mistake.’
‘Fine.’ Veronica turned to Detective Highsmith. ‘After Mr Rothschild has spoken with his attorney, have him give me a call and we can arrange a proper interrogation.’
At the word ‘interrogation’ Clive and Johnny blanched. Johnny patted Clive’s hand once again. ‘Don’t worry,’ he cooed, ‘I’ll take care of everything.’
Highsmith locked Clive back in his cell and we all spilled back out into the world of the un-imprisoned.
Seated in the BMW, which I figured was now hot enough inside to bake a medium-sized pizza in under five minutes, I said to Johnny, ‘Look, I sort of feel like somehow Clive being in jail might be my fault.’
Johnny sighed as he started the engine. ‘It isn’t Miller – forget it.’
‘I can’t forget it,’ I replied. ‘Clive is my friend. I want to help.’ Had my ears heard correctly? Had Johnny actually absolved me of blame? Not accused me of being the source of all his troubles? Wow. Something was definitely wrong here.
Johnny turned to me. His face sagged and his eyes were rimmed in red. I’d never seen the guy look so down before. I’d seem him look angry plenty of times – like the time I’d plowed into him with my bicycle – but never depressed; certainly not this depressed. ‘I’ll call O’Neal and Partners as soon as I get back to The Hitching Post. I’m sure O’Neal will know what to do to extricate Clive from this mess.’
I nodded. But I didn’t believe it. ‘Forget about this big-shot lawyer of yours, Johnny. What’s he going to do? He’s thousands of miles away.’
‘But—’
I cut him off. ‘But nothing.’ My hands slapped my knees. Partly to make my point, partly to see if they still had any feeling left in them. That black leather was tanning my hide. ‘You leave this to me.’ I beamed. ‘You and Clive need a local attorney. Somebody who knows the town, the people. All the players. And I’ve got just the guy.’
Johnny pulled t
he BMW to the curb between my café and The Hitching Post. ‘Who?’ He eyed me skeptically. ‘Your brother-in-law? The grocer?’
‘Yep, my brother-in-law, Andy.’
Johnny’s jaw dropped. ‘He’s a hippie.’
‘He’s not a hippie, he’s a—’ Well, he was a hippie but before that he was a darn fine lawyer too – when he wanted to be. I could only pray this was one of those times. ‘Let me call him.’ I escaped from the oven on wheels then checked the passenger seat to ascertain just how much skin I was leaving behind. Always good to know. ‘I’m sure he’ll be glad to help.’
EIGHT
Johnny grumbled, as was his way, but caved.
I ran inside and immediately called Andy. He wasn’t answering. Either he was away from his phone or he was avoiding my call. I cursed the inventor of caller ID and dialed my sister. ‘Where’s Andy?’ I blurted as she picked up. ‘I need to speak to him right away.’
Donna made tsk-tsking noises on the other end of the line. ‘I don’t know,’ she teased. ‘I’m not sure I’d be going anywhere near him right now if I were you. Even on the phone.’
‘C’mon, Sis,’ I pleaded. ‘Clive’s in jail. He needs Andy’s help.’
‘Clive? Your friend from the bridal shop?’
‘Yes. He’s been arrested. Held on suspicion of murder!’ I shouted into the phone. Several customers over at the tables were eyeing me. Aubrey and Kelly looked at me like I was nuts. I stuck my tongue out at the girls and they went back to work, or at least pretended to.
It seemed being a manager wasn’t so tough after all.
I pleaded into the phone. ‘So, can I talk to him?’ There’s not much worse than having to plead with one’s kid sister.
After a long, pregnant pause, Donna said, ‘He’s unloading goods at the back of the store. He’ll never agree to talk to you right now. Not after what you did to his precious truck.’
