by J. R. Ripley
Reva nodded. ‘Clive.’ She batted her empty coffee cup from hand to hand across the tabletop. ‘Some cop was up earlier. He said they suspected foul play.’
‘I don’t think Clive did it,’ I replied. Even less after that bombshell Mrs Higgins had dropped. I really needed to talk to Johnny. ‘Did you see or hear anything unusual this morning?’
Reva shook her head and stole a look at her watch. ‘Not really. Everybody was running around, trying to get the day’s orders out. Ben was baking sheet cake. Markie was being Markie …’
‘Markie?’ I interrupted. ‘Markie wasn’t in the bakery this morning. He came in later. After Lisa’s body was found.’
Reva was adamant. ‘You must be mistaken. He was here.’
Was I mistaken or had Markie lied to me? If so, why? A woman had been murdered and she was one of his employees. That sounded like two very good reasons to lie.
‘Can I join the party?’
I turned.
Brad Smith, looking relaxed and easy on the eyes in his usual blue jeans and plain white T-shirt stood behind my shoulder. Brad’s a reporter for the Table Rock Reader, the town’s local newspaper. ‘Hi, Maggie.’ His hand shot across my shoulder. ‘Reva Reynolds of Markie’s Masterpieces, correct?’
She smiled at him. She hadn’t smiled at me once.
Brad looked a lot like my dead ex-husband. Maybe that’s why I was so leery of him. He’d asked me out once or twice but so far I was keeping my distance.
‘That’s me,’ she replied. Eyelashes went flutter-flutter.
Good grief.
‘I’m Brad Smith, with the Table Rock Reader.’
Brad deftly snatched a chair from the empty table beside us. He twisted it around backwards and straddled it, leaning his arms across the arched chairback. A notebook hung open in his left hand. His right hand held a pencil.
‘Do you mind?’ I said.
Brad smiled broadly. ‘Not at all.’
I glowered.
He scooted the chair up until it touched the table. ‘I wanted to ask you some questions about the murder of Lisa Willoughby.’ His electric-blue eyes cast their evil spell.
Reva came alive like somebody had thrown the switch to her central nervous system. I swear she grew two inches taller. ‘Oh,’ her hands flew to her cheeks, ‘it was awful. One minute poor Lisa was alive …’ She shook her head. ‘The next thing I know the police are telling us she’s been murdered!’ Her eyes bugged out like ping pong balls and she fanned herself with her right hand.
‘So you first heard about the murder from the police?’
Reva nodded quickly. ‘That’s right. I was upstairs in the cake shop. Two officers came in and told us.’
Brad scratched something in his notebook. Probably remembered to add bananas to his grocery list. The big monkey. He turned to me. ‘Dinner later?’
‘In your dreams.’
He grinned a big ape grin. ‘How did you know?’
I blushed.
He turned his interrogation back to Reva. ‘Did you know Ms Willoughby well?’
Reva chewed at her lower lip. ‘As well as anybody in the shop, I suppose. Except for Ben.’ She chuckled.
‘Oh?’ Brad scooched nearer.
Reva fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Ben and Lisa went out a few times. Nothing serious.’ She paused before adding, ‘Lisa was like that.’
Scribble, scribble.
Had he forgotten he was out of tomatoes, too?
I felt like a proverbial third wheel. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.
‘So Ben and Lisa were a couple?’ I interjected. ‘Did they break up?’ Did Ben not take the breakup well? I’d seen him mangle that fondant upstairs. The guy had very strong hands. He could easily have given Lisa a shove that would have sent her soaring and then plunging to her death.
Before Reva could answer, Brad asked, ‘What do you know about the lawsuit between Ms Willoughby and The Hitching Post?’
‘What?’ I spluttered. What on earth was the man babbling about?
Brad twisted his head toward me. ‘Didn’t you know? Lisa Willoughby was taking Johnny Wolfe and Clive Rothschild to court. Something to do with her former employment at The Hitching Post – unfair termination and slander.’
I pulled myself together. An unfair termination suit? Slander? ‘Of course I knew. I’m no idiot.’ What an idiot I was! Why didn’t I know this? Why hadn’t I figured it out? Put two and two together and come up with trouble times two: Clive and Johnny. They’d been holding out on me, the weasels.
‘Great, because I’d like to interview Johnny. I was hoping you could set it up for me.’
‘I’d love to,’ I said through gritted teeth with a plastered-on smile.
‘I’ve got to cover a zoning commission meeting after we’re done here but I’d like to get his take on this story. Maybe later this evening?’
‘Wonderful,’ I lied.
Brad turned to Reva. ‘Think there’s any way you can get me an interview with Markie?’ He gave her five dollars’ worth of charm. ‘He shot me down on the phone.’
Reva’s tongue made tsk-tsking noises even as she shook her head. ‘Sorry, Markie’s in a mood, you know? Even for Markie. What with the murder and the lost cake and all.’
Brad nodded. He patted Reva’s hand. ‘I understand.’
Reva smiled. ‘How about tomorrow? I know I can get him to talk to you then.’ Yeah, right, I thought.
Brad agreed.
I fumed. I could feel my innards heating up like a steam engine train firebox. I’d read somewhere that the flue gas temperatures in a firebox could reach as high as a thousand degrees Fahrenheit. That’s why they contained a safety valve called a fusible plug, to prevent catastrophic firebox failure. I feared my own fusible plug was in danger of being exceeded. I looked at my tummy and considered the possible explosion and its ramifications. It wasn’t a pretty thought. I’d eaten Ethiopian food.
Reva pulled out her cellphone and checked the time again. ‘Sorry, break time’s over. Markie’s going to throw a hissy if I don’t get back to work.’ She stood and grabbed her purse. Brad stood too. Very gallant of him.
Rummaging around a moment, she came up with a pale blue business card that she handed to Brad. ‘Here’s my number,’ she said with a smile, ‘if you want to talk some more later.’ Brad took the card with thanks. Reva ran a hand through her locks and headed for the elevator.
‘If you want to talk some more later,’ I mimicked wickedly under my breath. The woman hadn’t answered my question about Ben and Lisa. My fingers thrummed the tabletop. Nor had she offered me a business card.
‘What’s that?’ Brad loomed over me.
‘Nothing,’ I practically spat. ‘I mean, about dinner. Later. That would be great.’
‘It would?’ Brad eyed me suspiciously.
‘What?’ I said. ‘A girl’s got to eat, doesn’t she?’
‘Yeah, it’s just that I didn’t really think you’d say yes.’ Brad looked downright flustered. Good, it served the normally unflappable reporter right. I’d taken him by surprise. Like I said, he’d asked me out a time or two in the past and I’d always turned him down flat. I knew trouble when I saw it. And I was looking right at it.
I pushed back my chair. ‘So, what do you say? Pick me up around seven?’ I fluttered my eyelashes the way I’d seen Reva do it. I felt like an idiot. ‘Why don’t we meet at Hanging Louie’s?’
‘OK, see you then.’ Brad shoved his notebook in his back pocket and walked off.
I noted the time spinning away on a stylized rust-colored coyote clock above the elevator. Perfect. Hanging Louie’s is a bar slash restaurant located about midway between Sedona and Table Rock. Legend says the joint was erected on the spot where Louis ‘Louie’ Dumbrowski met the hangman’s noose back in 1885 or so – at least, that’s what the engraved wood sign at the entrance would have one believe. I believed. Hanging Louie’s featured Southwest cuisine with an intergalactic flair, like the mesquite smoked UF
O burger. This is Arizona. We Arizonans have a unique perspective on things.
I’d have just enough time to get back to the café to close it down for the day, head home, shower, change and then leave again. Plenty of time for me to be long gone before Brad got tired of waiting for me at Hanging Louie’s and decided to come looking for me at home. And wait for me he would. I wanted Brad Smith the reporter out of the way while I went tracking down Johnny Wolfe. If I hadn’t made the date with Brad to distract him he might have beaten me to the punch, with or without my help. As much as it pained me to say it, the guy was good at his job.
Maybe I was fighting dirty. But Brad was a news reporter. Fighting dirty was probably the only kind of fighting he knew and respected.
ELEVEN
‘Where is he?’ I demanded, storming into The Hitching Post like a gunslinger out of the Old West.
‘Maggie.’ Clive stood straightening a rack of Johnny Wolfe label bridal gowns in an alcove. Besides the popular high-end designer gowns they carried, the shop had a small section of Johnny Wolfe originals. No two were alike. There were no two quite like Johnny and Clive either. ‘This is a surprise.’ He stepped forward, tugging at his bowtie. ‘Where’s who?’
I pointed at Johnny’s name on the sign above the rack. ‘Him, that’s who!’
Clive’s green eyes followed the line of my finger. ‘Johnny? He isn’t here, I’m afraid.’
‘Where is he then?’ I pushed up on my tiptoes to see over Clive’s shoulder. ‘Is he in back?’
Clive shook his head. ‘Johnny isn’t here at all, Maggie.’ He rested a paternal hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ He quirked a smile. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘Don’t get all solicitous with me, Clive Rothschild. It’s not me you should be worried about, it’s Johnny who—’ I screeched to a halt and took one giant step back. I took a deep breath, sucking in the odor of vanillin – no doubt emanating from the three vases of red-brown Chocolate Cosmos clustered on a glass table in the center of the store. Three-dozen Chocolate Cosmos. Those bundles much have cost a bundle. Chocolate Cosmos aren’t cheap.
‘Wait a minute.’ I pointed at Clive’s chest. ‘What are you doing here?’ I had so many questions that I wanted to ask Johnny building up inside me like a champagne bottle about to blow that I hadn’t seen what was right in front of me.
Clive.
‘We’re closed for the day,’ Clive said, working his way toward his desk on the opposite side of the store near the back. ‘I was straightening up.’
‘No,’ I said, pushing my fists against my temples until it hurt. ‘What are you doing here?’ I waved my arms around. If I’d kept squeezing my skull like that I’d end up with a rectangular-shaped face or, worse yet, a burst cranium. ‘Surrounded by poufy wedding gowns?’
He sat and elegantly folded his arms and legs.
‘The last time I saw you, you were surrounded by crooks and drunks.’ I shook my head and flopped into the chair opposite. ‘Not sashes and garters.’
Clive smiled and offered me a pink sugar cookie on a silver platter. I declined. ‘Your brother-in-law, Andy. He arranged bail.’ He leaned on his elbows. ‘It wasn’t cheap, let me tell you.’
‘Well,’ I sighed, ‘I’m glad you’re out. But I’d really like to talk to Johnny.’
‘What about?’
I frowned. Should I tell Clive that Johnny might be involved in Lisa Willoughby’s death? That he might be so spineless as to be letting his partner, Clive, take the fall for him? No, better to talk to Johnny first and hear his side of the story.
I squirmed in my chair. ‘I’d really just like to talk to Johnny, Clive.’
Clive tapped the desk for a minute and looked at me. He stood. ‘Fine. Johnny’s at the house. Let me lock up and we’ll go.’
The café was already closed for the day. Aubrey and Kelly had locked up. I felt both a little guilty and a little uneasy about that – and about my lackadaisical management skills. But I had more important things to worry about right then, so I’d leave my uneasy guilt for another day.
I’d left Mom’s Bug on the curb out front. I unlocked the door for Clive then hopped in the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t get it. Why did they let you out? You confessed.’ Like an idiot. Maybe that was it – he and Andy were opting for the insanity defense.
Clive shrugged as he clipped on his seat belt. ‘I don’t know, but after some discussion Ms Vargas and the judge agreed to my bail. Your brother-in-law is quite good.’
‘Yeah, still … that’s weird.’
Clive shot me a look. ‘Turn left here.’
‘I mean, I’m glad you’re out but still …’ I spun around the corner.
‘Still what?’ He sounded like he was getting annoyed. Or maybe offended.
‘Why did they release you?’ Did the police know something Clive and I didn’t?
‘Would you rather they hadn’t?’ He sounded offended.
‘Of course not.’ I followed Clive’s instructions as we headed toward a gated community at the edge of town called Four Seasons. I’d passed it a couple of times. Very snooty. Very pricy. I wondered how many beignets I’d have to sell to be able to afford to live in one of these houses. Probably more than I could make in my lifetime. Too bad. I figured I could be a rich snob as well as the next gal. How hard can it be?
I pulled up to the guard house. Clive waved and the serious-looking guy at the gate let us pass after getting my name and license plate number. I was surprised he hadn’t asked for a DNA sample. ‘What’s this business with you guys and Lisa Willoughby?’
Clive ignored my question and pointed to an immense hacienda-styled house on the right. ‘That’s the one.’
My jaw dropped. ‘You guys live here?’
‘You can pull in behind Johnny’s BMW.’
Clive led the way through a double-door archway that took us into an expansive courtyard. ‘Holy cow,’ I breathed. The burnt sienna brick pavers that covered the drive extended throughout the courtyard. A ceramic-tiled fountain gurgled in the center. My heart went pit-a-pat.
Clive smiled. ‘You like it?’
‘I want it.’ I think I was drooling. Clive fished in his trousers and pulled out his house key. I fished around in my handbag for a tissue to wipe my chin with.
We found Johnny in the kitchen. He wore a black sweater with the sleeves pulled up to the elbows and loose black trousers with matching house slippers. ‘Clive,’ Johnny said, tumbler in hand, ‘what’s she doing here?’
I answered for myself. ‘I’m here to ask you about Lisa Willoughby.’ I anchored my hands on my hips. ‘And what you were doing at the Entronque building this morning.’
Clive and Johnny shared a look. Whatever they were thinking, they weren’t sharing with me. Clive worried his hands. Johnny downed whatever was in that diamond and wedge-cut crystal tumbler.
I stared out the window. They had a pool – a freaking pool. With a diving board and an infinity edge! I forced myself to turn away. If I didn’t, any second I’d probably rip my clothes off and jump in. ‘Well?’
Johnny frowned. ‘Have a seat, Miller.’
I dropped onto a cherry-wood barstool at the marble counter.
Clive poured us each a glass of whatever it was that Johnny was quaffing.
A tentative sip told me it was bourbon. A gulp that sizzled its way down my tongue told me it was the good stuff. From my vantage point, I spotted a quiche in the oven. My stomach began making ‘feed me’ sounds. I pushed my tumbler aside and rubbed my hands together. ‘Talk to me, guys.’
Johnny flopped onto a buttery leather sofa in the great room and I was forced to turn. ‘Lisa worked for us at The Hitching Post for a time.’
Johnny’s eyes were glossy. I wondered if that drink in his hand was only his second.
I quirked my right eyebrow. ‘And neither of you thought this worth mentioning earlier?’ I glared at Clive, who’d taken up a position on the sofa as well.
Clive f
idgeted and tugged at his bowtie. I felt like strangling him with it. Oh, not enough to kill him, just enough to get his attention. Get him to take this murder – and me – seriously. ‘Like when you were showing me Lisa’s body at the bottom of the stairwell?’
Clive cleared his throat. ‘Well, you see, Maggie—’
The doorbell sounded, sending the peal of sweet chimes echoing across the Spanish-tiled floor. These tiles were the real deal, too. You could see the footprints of the coyotes in them from when the clay tiles were left out in the sun to dry.
I looked toward the door as the bell chimed a second time. ‘Isn’t anybody going to get that?
‘Ignore it,’ said Johnny with disdain. ‘It’s probably one of our neighbors.’
‘Could be a salesman,’ I said, ‘or some little girl trying to sell her first box of Girl Scout cookies. You could be breaking her heart if you don’t answer. She could be traumatized for life.’
‘This is a gated community, Maggie,’ replied Clive, dryly. ‘Nobody just gets in.’
‘Except for neighbors,’ Johnny said with a scowl.
I got the impression that Johnny wasn’t big on the whole ‘let’s be neighborly’ deal. ‘Fine,’ I said, with my most put-upon sigh. ‘I’ll just take a peek.’ The bell ringing for the third and now fourth time was getting to me. If it didn’t stop soon I feared I’d be hearing bells in my sleep. I sauntered down the hall and peeped around the corner. The front doors were glass. I could see straight outside … into a pair of M&Ms. A pair of M&Ms I knew all too well.
I narrowed my eyes. ‘It’s Detective Highsmith,’ I murmured over my shoulder.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Clive said.
‘How did he get past the guard gate?’ demanded Johnny.
‘I guess having a badge trumps having a security gate,’ was my answer.
‘Still,’ hissed Johnny. ‘The guard should have called and warned us.’ He stood. ‘I mean, told us. I’m going to have a word with his supervisor.’
I rolled my eyes. Those two worried about the strangest things. ‘If neither of you are going to let him in, I will.’ I turned back toward the foyer. ‘Before he decides to break down the door.’ I turned on my most welcoming smile as I twisted the doorknob. ‘Detective Highsmith, what a surprise.’
