by J. R. Ripley
I stifled a groan. What was it about men and their cars? Or in this case, trucks? I mean, it’s just four tires and a steering wheel. Why couldn’t he get over it already? I had two tires and a pair of handlebars. You wouldn’t see me getting all bent out of shape just because somebody borrowed it for an hour or two.
‘Keep him there!’ I cried. ‘I’ll be right over!’
‘Wait!’ shouted Donna. ‘Do not tell Andy I told you where he was. Promise?’
‘Promise,’ I answered quickly. Whether I’d remember to keep my word or not was another story. I’d try, but still, Donna’s my sister. She ought to know better than to trust me. Despite my best intentions.
I tossed off my apron and grabbed the Schwinn from the storeroom. ‘I’ve got to leave,’ I explained. ‘I’ll be back just as soon as I can.’
Aubrey rolled her eyes, more for Kelly’s benefit, I suspected. ‘There she goes again,’ I heard her say as I struggled to get my bike out the door without too much bumping and scraping.
I pedaled up on my pink beauty in stealth mode, through the alley between the Mother Earth/Father Sun Grocers and Earl’s Hardware. I came upon Andy out back, muscling some bushel baskets of produce from the back of Donna’s Mini Cooper. My pink beauty being a Schwinn, stealth mode was pretty much the norm, unless the brakes started squealing like a piglet missing her mommy at feeding time.
‘Hi-ya, Andy!’ I called. I jumped down from the saddle and adjusted the kickstand.
He frowned. ‘Hello, Maggie.’ Andy jostled a bushel of corn from the open hatch and carried it through the rear of the grocery. I followed. ‘Donna’s up front. Your mom left when she saw you weren’t with me. Chicken.’
‘Bawk-bawk,’ I replied. I’d rather be chicken than mom-pecked. ‘It’s you I wanted to talk to.’ Andy laid the basket from Tinker Family Farms, a local grower, on the ground beside two others. I tailed him like a puppy dog as he went back for another. Donna and Andy took pride in ordering as much of their produce locally as possible. Andy leaned in to grab another basket. ‘Watch your—’
‘What?’ Andy turned and his head bounced off the car’s headliner. ‘Ouch.’ Andy extracted his torso and simmered at me while rubbing the top of his skull.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. Not that it had been my fault. ‘That’s a lot of corn and cucumbers to pack into a little car. Wouldn’t you be better off using your—’
Andy glared at me.
‘Oh.’ That’s right, his truck had been impounded. Sort of my fault. At least I knew that was what he and everybody else was probably thinking. I’m no mind-reader but I was doing a good job reading the expression on my brother-in-law’s face just then. I scuffed the ground with my toe.
‘Look, if you’ve come to apologize, Maggie, forget it. What’s done is done.’ He took a breath and smiled. ‘Next time, just ask, OK?’
I promised I would.
He smiled. For real this time. ‘So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?’
I grabbed the last bushel of cukes and followed Andy back inside. ‘It’s about Clive. You know Clive.’
‘Of course.’ Andy set down his corn, then took the cukes from me and dropped them near the sink. ‘What’s up?’ He wiped his hands down the front of his jeans.
‘He’s in a bit of trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
I twisted my jaw and talked to the cement floor. ‘He’s sort of been arrested for murder.’
‘He what?’
I looked my brother-in-law in the eye. ‘He’s been arrested,’ I blurted. ‘And he needs your help.’
Andy waved his hand side to side. ‘He doesn’t need my help. He needs a lawyer.’
‘You are a lawyer.’
‘Not any more. I’m a farmer.’ His arm arced around the storeroom. ‘And a grocer.’
‘You’ve still got your license. You’re still a lawyer.’
‘Is this about the accident involving that young woman this morning over at Navajo Junction?’
I nodded. ‘Except the police don’t seem to think it was an accident.’ I chewed my lip nervously. ‘They sort of think it was murder.’
Andy flopped onto a stool and sighed. ‘So that’s why they impounded the Chevy. I haven’t been able to get a straight answer out of anybody.’ I knew Andy had a friend or two on the force so I was surprised he hadn’t heard all the details.
Andy scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘So what makes them suspect Clive was involved?’
‘Well,’ I cleared my throat, ‘he sort of confessed …’
Andy barked out a laugh. ‘Then he’s going to need a criminal defense attorney. I practiced corporate law.’
‘Come on,’ I pleaded. ‘You’ve helped me before.’
He shrugged those skinny shoulders of his. ‘That’s different. You’re family.’
‘Clive is a close friend of mine. That’s like family.’
‘That’s a stretch, even for you, Maggie.’
A produce clerk swung through the doors from the front of the store and glanced at the two of us. ‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘What do you need, Len?’
‘Miss Donna asked me to restock the lettuce.’ The gangly, freckle-faced kid in denim bib overalls and a white T-shirt had a soft style of speech, like he was in church. ‘We’re running low.’ He scratched his chin. ‘It’s on sale today.’
Andy smiled at him. ‘I know. Go ahead, Len.’ Andy waved toward a pallet of food cartons near the far corner. We watched in silence as Len moved quickly to a large, waxy box of lettuce heads, hefted it and disappeared. Andy slapped his thighs and stood. ‘Sorry, Maggie.’ He rested a hand affectionately on my shoulder. ‘I really don’t think I’m the man for the job.’
‘Of course, you are,’ I retorted. ‘Please?’ I can whine like the best of them.
‘I said no.’
I reached into my purse. It was time to pull out all the stops – bring out the big guns, go for the jugular, bring out my secret weapon. I extracted a four-inch long, two-inch-thick bar wrapped in clear plastic.
Andy’s eyes lit up. ‘What is that?’ His tongue flickered along his upper lip. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
I unwrapped the tip of the bar and waved it under his nose. ‘Yep, a nanaimo bar.’ I took a whiff myself. Heavenly. ‘I made a fresh batch yesterday.’ I cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘I thought you might like one. In fact, I’ve got a whole batch of them back at the apartment.’ These yummy confections were Andy’s absolute favorite. There was no way he’d turn this down. I’d eaten his wife’s cooking – the poor guy deserved a break.
Andy’s hand reached for the bar and I snatched it back. I shook my head, holding it aloft. ‘First Clive, then the bar.’ Donna was always getting on Andy about eating too many sweets. She frowned on such things.
Andy looked at me for a moment. OK, he was looking mostly at the bar. Then he did the unexpected. He shook his head adamantly and locked his arms across his chest. ‘No can do.’
‘No can do what?’ We both turned. I stuffed the bar back in my purse. Donna peered at us quizzically. ‘What’s going on?’ She looked up at her husband. Donna’s shorter than me and Andy is as tall as a skyscraper. ‘What can’t you do, Andy?’
Andy looked at me, opened his mouth, looked at his wife then snapped it shut again. He looked at me once again. We both knew he wouldn’t turn me down in front of my sister.
‘I was just telling your sister how I couldn’t wait to go down to the police station to see what I can do to help out her friend,’ Andy explained.
Donna turned to me, her eyebrows pushed together. ‘What friend?’
‘Clive’s been accused of pushing Willoughby down the stairs at the Entronque building this morning,’ I replied. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Donna replied.
‘Worse,’ said Andy, wrapping an arm around Donna’s waist. ‘He’s confessed.’
‘He what?’ Donna’s hand flew to her m
outh. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Neither do I,’ I said.
Donna extricated herself from her husband’s arms. ‘Clive is such a gentleman. No wonder you can’t wait to go down to the station and help him out, Andy.’
‘Yeah,’ I grinned. It was a sort of evil grin, but only Andy and I knew that. ‘Andy’s a sweetheart.’
Donna planted a kiss on Andy’s cheek. ‘Don’t I know it.’ She snatched the rag tucked into her belt and swatted it at Andy. ‘You two go on ahead. We can manage here.’
I planted a kiss on him too before climbing into the Mini beside him. ‘Thanks, Andy.’
Andy’s sigh shook the car side to side. Or maybe it was a gust of wind. ‘I needed to go down to the station to see about getting my pickup back anyway.’ He shot me a look. ‘I guess it couldn’t hurt to talk to Clive.’
I grinned – a normal one, this time. ‘That’s the spirit.’
‘And I want all the nanaimos.’
As we pulled out onto Laredo and waited for the light to change, Andy turned to me. ‘Your mom is waiting for you at your apartment.’ He smiled wickedly.
‘What? Why?’ My body tensed. I love my mom but she can be quite the handful. A handful that went better when I had another hand filled with a margarita glass.
‘She’s spending the week with you.’
‘OK.’ I was wondering how Clive was making out. He’d been in that jail cell for hours. Personally, I’d be going stir crazy … ‘Wait.’ My arms jerked forwards and my hands slapped the dashboard. ‘What?’ The glovebox popped open and slapped me across the knees. My eyes bugged out and I glowered at Andy as he laughed. ‘Why is my mother staying at my apartment for a week?’ I demanded between his irritating snorts of laughter.
I didn’t think it was possible, but Andy’s smile grew to twice the size of his face. ‘Because they’re replacing all the roofs over at her condo. She’s got no place else to stay. You know we haven’t got room, except on the sofa. Can’t have Mom sleeping on the sofa for a week, can we?’ Andy jostled my shoulder. ‘She is family, after all.’
One week. One whole week living with my yoga enthusiast mother. How many poses would she urge me to try? How many awkward positions would I be forced to see her contort her frame into? ‘You’re a real rat.’
‘Squeak,’ Andy twittered.
NINE
‘What are you dropping me off here now for?’ The Mini rolled to a stop on the street outside my fourplex. ‘I thought we were going to the police station first?’
‘I work alone.’
‘But you need me,’ I protested.
‘I need you to let me do my job.’
‘But my bike’s at the grocery.’ I was grasping at straws.
‘I’ll drop it off later.’
‘But—’
He pointed toward the apartment. ‘Out you go. Your mother’s waiting.’ I pushed open the door and started to rise. Andy’s hand clamped down on my knee. ‘Leave the bar,’ he ordered.
Mom’s metallic-green Volkswagen Beetle was parked a couple spaces up under the shade of a juniper. Its Beetle eyes, lashes and all, seemed to wink at me as I turned the key in the lock and stepped into a frigid blast of air. Mom’s going through one of those phases where even a week in the Antarctic would have required packing a bikini. ‘Mom,’ I called, ‘I’m ho—’ Yikes! Mom had moved the coffee table away from the couch and rolled out her yoga mat – a green mat with a cherry blossom pattern. She travels everywhere with it.
Mom looked at me from between her skinny legs. Her unitard was the color of a ripe peach. Her butt was in the air, facing the ceiling, and her legs extended like somebody should be pulling on them and making a Thanksgiving wish. The tops of her feet touched the ground behind, which I was pretty sure was impossible. A knee squeezed each ear. She’d somehow managed to tip so far over backwards that I thought she might be in danger of turning herself inside out.
‘Hello, Maggie.’ Her voice sounded a bit strangled but then she was upside down, backwards and, possibly, soon to be inside out. Everything about this situation was off. Her red locks dusted the floor. The floors did need dusting, but still.
‘Mom,’ I said, dropping my purse on the displaced coffee table and staring down between her legs, ‘what are you doing?’
‘It’s the karnapidasana pose, darling. You should join me.’
‘The karna-what?’ I flopped onto the sofa. I’d seen enough. Things a daughter shouldn’t have to see. ‘No, thanks. I think that move is illegal in Arizona.’ Besides, one pretzel was enough; two would be an obscene tangle.
Mother uncoiled herself easily and sat up, pulling one arm behind her head, then the other.
I don’t know how she’d managed to unwind so facilely. It would have taken me hours to disentangle my arms and limbs from a position like that. I’d have been screaming like the maiden victim of Torquemada’s rack the entire time, too.
‘I hear we’re going to be roommates.’ A travel-weary red plaid canvas suitcase sat just inside my bedroom door. It looked like I’d be sharing a double bed or going solo on the lumpy green sofa that came with the apartment.
‘And I hear you stole Andy’s pickup truck.’
‘I didn’t steal it, Mom.’ My voice instantly reverted to whiny teen mode. ‘I borrowed it. Clive needed a ride. I couldn’t say no, could I?’ I rose and crossed to the tiny kitchen. ‘I’m making a margarita. You want one?’ Please say yes. Mom was better when she’d had a margarita. Mom was better still when I’d had a couple myself. I grabbed the tequila.
‘No, thank you.’ Mom followed me to the kitchen. Her snug peach unitard showed off her figure. For someone a generation older than me, she was in annoying good shape. ‘And I don’t think you should be drinking, Maggie. Not when you’re going to be driving.’
No sign of a bulge around her middle at all. She definitely was not eating enough beignets for her own good, or mine.
I blinked at Mom, my eyes falling to the crystal hanging around her neck. I was beginning to think maybe aliens were controlling her mind via the rock thing. That was the only explanation I could come up with for the way she’d been thinking and acting since Dad died. ‘Where exactly am I going to be driving?’
Mom pulled her lower lip with her teeth. ‘Well, I suppose Navajo Junction might be the best place to start. That is the,’ Mom drew a pair of quotation marks with her fingers, ‘“scene of the crime,” as they say.’
My eyes lit on the tequila. One little drink, that’s all I wanted.
‘You are going to figure out what happened to that poor dead woman, aren’t you, Maggie, dear?’
There was an empty margarita glass right there, next to the sink. And it was practically clean.
‘Clive is one of your best friends.’
‘Why don’t we let the fuzz handle it, Mom?’
Mom frowned. ‘Don’t say fuzz, dear. Fuzz is what grows in your navel.’ She waved her fingers. ‘Now, off you go.’
‘But Mom,’ I persisted, ‘are you forgetting? It’s ninety-five degrees outside. And that’s in the shade. I drive a Schwinn, for pity’s sake.’ I reached for my glass. ‘And I left the bike at the grocery.’ Not that I’d intended to.
‘And,’ I said rather smugly, ‘you know Andy’s not about to let me borrow the pickup again so soon. Fresh wounds and all that.’ Not to mention, it was still in the police impound yard. I chuckled and grabbed the tequila bottle, its golden yellow insides beckoning.
Tinkle, tinkle.
I spun around. Mom’s Beetle keys dangled from the tips of her fingers. ‘Drive carefully, dear.’
‘You do remember that the last time I stuck my nose into a murder, I almost got killed, right?’
Mom nodded. ‘Be more careful this time, Maggie. Look before you leap. Remain open; let your spirit guide you.’ Mom spread her hands and gazed upwards. I don’t know what she saw. I saw cracked plaster. ‘The answer is out there if you open yourself to it.’
Right, and meas
ure twice, cut once. Mom’s great at aphorisms. ‘Thanks for the advice, Mom.’ Apparently there’d be no margarita, no curling up on the sofa with a good book in my near future. ‘Thanks a lot, spirits,’ I muttered to the cracked ceiling and said a wistful goodbye to the eighty proof spirits I’d be leaving behind in the tequila bottle.
I plucked the car keys from her fingers. Mom was right. A drive was just what I needed. After phoning the café to tell the girls to hold down the fort, I headed out to the Entronque building for a look around. I figured Andy would call me if there was any news.
The parking lot was nearly full. A couple of Table Rock squad cars stood by the side entrance, as a warning no doubt to lookie-loos or anyone else thinking of pushing an unsuspecting soul down four flights of stairs. If indeed that was what had happened. Personally, I was still hoping Clive’s confession and current incarceration had all been a silly mistake – maybe he had low blood sugar and had needed a cookie and it had addled his mind. Maybe Lisa Willoughby had unfortunately slipped and fallen to her death.
The entrance to the elevator that Clive had claimed was broken earlier today was marked off with yellow crime-scene tape so I headed for the front of the building. I rode the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on the door to Markie’s Masterpieces. The frosted glass held an etching of a classic wedding cake.
A fluty voice shouted, ‘Come in!’
I pulled the handle and walked into a large kitchen with a lofted ceiling. Rough-hewn beams crossed the room lengthwise. A modestly rotund man in a tight black T-shirt and loose black jeans was skipping in the background. He waved and kept on flying. I say flying because he was wearing a purple cape. I suspected his feet, which I couldn’t see because of the solid counter between us, were on the ground – at least half the time.
Plenty of Table Rockers believe people can fly. I’m just not one of them.
I’m funny that way.
I’m not sure what superhero he stole the billowing purple cape from – Captain Eggplant, maybe – but I was pretty sure, whoever it was, they were going to be wanting it back.
I approached the long worktable that ran parallel to the front and edged up to a man grimly working a clump of dense white dough while ignoring the commotion behind him.
