by J. R. Ripley
The toot of a car horn caused me to turn. It was Brad. I was happy, unhappy and embarrassed to see him, all at the same time. Most of all, I was glad to get out of the sun. He leaned across the seat and threw open the passenger-side door. ‘Hop in.’
I did.
‘Where to?’ He wore denim jeans and a forest-green polo shirt. He looked adorable. I tugged at my unkempt red hair, conscious of my own slovenliness. Why is it that I’m always a mess, no makeup, tousled hair and wearing my ‘beignet lady’ clothes when a handsome man shows up?
‘I could use a ride back to the café if it’s not too much trouble.’ I snapped into my seatbelt and explored my handbag for my sunglasses, at the very least hoping to mask the bags under my eyes.
‘No trouble at all.’ We waited for a break in the long line of traffic snaking by us. His hands fell over the steering wheel.
‘Thanks. What are you doing out here?’ Had he been coming down to the police station to see if there was anything new about the murder? I suddenly felt uncomfortable. Was it our kiss the other night? Was it that he’d seen me with Mark Highsmith yesterday?
‘I’m on my way to Prescott.’
A bell went off in my head. ‘Oh?’
Brad nodded. ‘I had a tip that Houston Willoughby was seen hanging around Prescott several days before his sister’s murder. That makes me curious. Very curious.’ That made two of us. It must have shown on my face because he said, ‘Want to tag along?’ He rubbed his unshaven cheek with his knuckles.
I said sure.
‘Great.’ Brad pulled behind a mail truck. Trouble is,’ he said, ‘I don’t know where to look exactly. Prescott’s not big but it’s big enough.’
I smiled as the miles ticked off. ‘Try the Hotel St Michael,’ I suggested.
‘Oh? Any particular reason why? There are plenty of hotels, motels, resorts, B and Bs …’
‘Let’s just say I’ve got a hunch about that place.’
Brad found a parking space opposite the Hotel St Michael on the Courthouse Plaza. The Yavapai Courthouse Plaza, as it’s officially known, but just ‘the Plaza’ to the locals, has been recognized as one of the first ten ‘Great Public Places’ in America by the American Planning Association. I know because I’ve seen the Prescott Office of Tourism ads running on TV. A couple hundred trees or so, the majority of which appeared to be American elms, covered the plaza. The broad lawns were crossed by interlocking paver walkways. There was also a bandstand, not unlike ours back in Table Rock. The four-story courthouse that sat in the plaza was built of granite and looked as solid as the surrounding mountains.
We went across the plaza to the hotel. Built in 1901, the Hotel St Michael was reported to be haunted. Maybe that’s why they had all those gargoyles around the outside to protect the guests within. Personally, I wasn’t so sure gargoyles trumped ghosts. Then again, I wasn’t planning on spending the night and finding out. The gargoyles looked menacing enough but the idea of the ghost of Wyatt Earp or Billy the Kid haunting me in a hundred-year-old bed, protected by nothing more than my skimpy lingerie was twice as scary.
Brad paused on the steps and fished around in his back pocket. He unfolded a sheet of copy paper. I looked over his arm. He held a color headshot of Houston Willoughby. Houston looked rather stiff in a button-down pink shirt.
I was impressed. ‘Where’d you get that?’
Brad shrugged like it was nothing. ‘I downloaded it from the management page of his restaurant’s website.’
I pursed my lips. I should’ve thought of that.
A large chandelier hung from the coffered tin ceiling. Brass bankers’ lamps with glass Catalina green shades cast even more light over the counter. Maybe it kept the ghosts at bay. The scent of aged wood, leather and, incongruously, corned beef hash filled the air. There was no one at the reception desk in the lobby so we headed to where we heard voices – the bar slash restaurant.
The bartender nodded our way, taking his eye off the two patrons at the bar only briefly. A young waitress hollered nicely for us to take a seat wherever we’d like and that she’d be with us in a moment.
Brad shrugged and pulled out a chair for me. ‘Hungry?’
I was and said so. ‘I haven’t had a thing all day.’
Brad laid the photo of Houston Willoughby very conspicuously atop our dark table. The waitress brought us a couple of menus. She was dressed in a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a short-sleeve red gingham blouse tied off at the waist.
‘Hey, I know him.’ She rested a finger on the edge of the sheet.
‘You do?’ Brad and I said as one.
She bobbed her head up and down. ‘Sure, he stayed here a few days. Good tipper.’ She tilted her head back and laughed, exposing her belly button. ‘I always remember a good tipper.’ Her hand rested on Brad’s shoulder.
‘Was he alone?’ I asked. Was she flirting with Brad? And with me a foot away?
She scrunched up her nose. ‘You mean, like did he have a wife or something?’
I nodded. Her hand finally left Brad. About time. Not that I cared. It’s not appropriate, that’s all.
‘Nah. He was alone. Not that he wanted to be, if you get my drift.’
I smiled. ‘He asked you out?’
‘Yep. I turned him down. A little too old for me.’ She waved her hands. ‘No offense. I mean, it’s not like you two are old or anything.’
‘No, of course not,’ I mumbled, feeling suddenly quite ancient.
Brad shot me a look like he wanted to get a word in edgewise. Who was stopping him? I made a face. ‘So this guy.’ He twisted the picture so it faced directly at our waitress. ‘His name is Houston Willoughby, by the way.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Houston. Funny name, right?’ She giggled. Her long brown locks shook. Big gold hoops hung from her earlobes. They matched the tiny gold navel ring.
Brad continued, ‘Do you remember anything else in particular about him?’
She tapped her foot against the floor and thought for a moment. ‘Not really. Your typical tourist. Wanted directions to stuff like Sedona, Table Rock, places like that.’
I stiffened. ‘Table Rock?’
She nodded briskly. ‘Yeah.’ She scratched her scalp with her pen. ‘Said he was going there.’
Brad cut in: ‘What about this person?’ He dug into his jeans pocket and unfolded yet another sheet of paper. This one showed Lisa Willoughby in a crisp black chef’s jacket with a Markie’s Masterpieces name patch. ‘Did you ever see her here at the hotel?’
‘Together with Houston?’
‘Well …’ She leaned closer. ‘Looks sort of like him.’
‘It’s his sister.’
Her teeth dug into her lower lip. ‘No, sorry. Can’t say that I did. So,’ she tapped her order pad with her pen, ‘you guys ready to order?’
‘Give us a minute, please.’ Brad pulled a pair of readers out of his pocket and slid them over his nose.
‘I’ve never noticed you wear those before.’
‘I try not to wear them any more than I have to.’ He shrugged. ‘Self-conscious, I guess.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I quipped, ‘old age becomes you.’
He looked through his glasses at me for a moment then returned to his menu.
After I’d had my fill of pasta and Brad had polished off a cheeseburger, we headed back to the car, taking South Montezuma Street, better known as Whiskey Row – and that wasn’t because it was populated with flower shops and Christian bookstores.
I was doing some window-shopping when I thought I spotted a familiar face. I grabbed Brad’s shoulder.
‘Ouch!’
‘Sorry,’ I said, letting go. ‘Look, isn’t that Houston Willoughby right over there?’
Brad turned. ‘Where?’
‘Getting into that white four-door.’ I pointed. Houston, if that’s who it was, had his back to us.
Brad shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ He said it as if what he really meant was ‘who cares?’ ‘Do you even
know what kind of car he drives?’
‘No,’ I admitted. My mind jumped ahead. ‘But if it is him, what’s he doing here? Do you suppose he was following you? Maybe,’ I said, taking a leap, ‘he knows we’re on to him and wanted to keep tabs on us – see what we’re up to. See how close we’re getting to naming him as his sister’s killer.’
Brad didn’t look impressed with my logic. ‘Maybe he wanted to do some shopping or some sightseeing. People do that around here, you know.’
I pointed again, then pulled Brad across the street. ‘Look, a New Mexico license plate – yellow with red lettering.’ The state plate was quite distinctive.
‘OK.’ Brad slowed his pace.
‘Don’t drag your feet.’
‘Huh?’
‘We’ve got to follow him.’
‘What for?’ Brad pulled free from my grip.
‘To see where he’s going, what he’s up to.’
Brad groaned but let himself be pulled to the car. ‘Quick,’ I said. ‘Drive.’ I stuck my arm out the window. ‘That’s his car over there near the intersection. Behind that motorcycle.’
Brad grumbled but complied. ‘I don’t know why we’re bothering,’ he said as we pulled away from town and hit the state highway. ‘He’s probably going back to Table Rock.’ He swiveled his head in my direction. ‘Same as us.’
‘Then you’ve got nothing to gripe about,’ I quipped. ‘And keep your eyes on the road.’ I pointed ahead. ‘And on him.’
Brad shook his head and drove in silence. The distance between us and Houston’s car kept growing. Every time we hit a dip in the road we lost sight of him. I gnashed my teeth in frustration. It was making me crazy. Of all my possible suspects, Houston Willoughby had the most to gain. ‘You know his aunt died, leaving him and his sister her entire estate.’
‘I know.’ His hands tightened around the steering wheel.
‘You know that he could be meeting some accomplice, like Irwin Acheson.’
‘Who?’
I smiled smugly. The white sedan had become a mere dot on the road. ‘Catch up with Houston and I’ll tell you.’
Brad scowled my way. ‘I’m going the speed limit already.’
‘So go faster. He is.’ I lowered my voice and looked gloomily out the windshield. ‘Heck, practically everybody is.’ A Toyota Prius passed us as if sent from above to prove my point.
‘What’d you say?’
‘I said, so go faster. There’s nothing out here. You could do seventy-five easy.’ Nothing but some dirt, rock, a cactus or two and maybe a roadrunner or a rattlesnake for color.
Brad’s eyes widened. ‘Are you nuts?’ he bridled. ‘That’s twenty miles over the limit!’
‘Please,’ I explained. Sheesh, it was like talking to a child. ‘Everybody just naturally goes nine or ten miles over the speed limit, right?’
‘Well, I suppose …’
‘So,’ I said, ‘going twenty miles an hour over the posted limit is really no more than going ten miles over the actual de facto limit.’ I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘And going ten miles over the actual de facto limit is just normal.’
‘I don’t know …’ His face wrinkled up like a month-old prune. ‘There’s something about your logic that doesn’t sound right …’
‘Trust me, you’ll only be going with the flow of traffic. And that’s simply the normal rate of speed if you factor in the posted limit weighed against the de factor limit and don’t go more than ten miles an hour over that. So,’ I concluded, wagging my finger toward his nose, ‘keep the speedometer at seventy-five and no more. We’ll be fine.’ And, just maybe, we wouldn’t lose Houston Willoughby. I was certain it was him and I wanted to know what he was up to.
Brad didn’t look convinced but he nervously pressed his foot down further on the gas pedal.
We were making good time, too – I was really proud of Brad – until I heard him groan, swear and ease up on the gas.
‘Hey,’ I began, ‘what are you doing?’ Was there a problem? Had we run out of gas? Got a flat tire?
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. I caught sight of a large white SUV with a gold-and-blue insignia and flashing red, white and blue lights closing in on us.
Very patriotic, really.
THIRTY
I reached into the basket of lemon and pepper seasoned buffalo wings. ‘You’re not still mad, are you?’
Brad scowled and dug his elbows into the table. ‘Two hundred and fifty dollars,’ he said morosely.
I took a bite. Delicious. ‘I said I was sorry.’ Who knew a speeding ticket could be so expensive? There’s no way I was going to go twenty miles over the limit if it was going to cost that much.
‘I know,’ he sighed, running his hands through the corners of his scalp. He looked over his shoulder toward the long bar. ‘So this is where you saw that partner of Houston’s, eh?’ We had retired to Hopping Mad for a drink and to talk over what we knew. And what we didn’t know.
I nodded and took another greasy bite. ‘Irwin,’ I said, filling in the name. Grease. What’s not to like? I licked my fingers and took a swig from a bottle of orange cream soda. I loved the stuff. Sweet, creamy and tart. And plenty of sugar to keep the heart pumping and the synapses firing.
Brad hoisted his bottle of beer and took a weary swig. ‘You know, it could have been a stranger in that car, an innocent tourist.’ He took a second swig. ‘Though I suppose it might have been Houston or even that partner of his you mentioned, whathisname?’
‘Irwin,’ I repeated. ‘Irwin Acheson.’ It was Houston, I just knew it.
‘Right.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘I keep forgetting.’
‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘once you’ve seen him you won’t soon forget him.’
Brad pulled a face. ‘You said he’s from New Mexico, too. What’s he drive?’
I had no idea and said so. ‘I’m guessing some big black muscle car.’
‘I can understand why you think Houston might want his sister dead – that’s easy, the money.’ He grabbed a wing as he said, ‘But why Acheson?’
‘Because Houston himself admitted that the restaurant was having money problems. Irwin Acheson seems to have made a big investment in the place. Maybe the two of them saw Lisa’s death as a convenient solution.’ I tapped the tip of my soda bottle. ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘they even killed Houston’s aunt, Willow Willoughby.’ I nodded, allowing myself to go with the thought. ‘First kill the aunt then kill the sister. Neat.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Brad, some life finally coming back into his eyes. It was about time he got over this whole speeding ticket melodrama. ‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
I nodded.
‘Murder the aunt then the sister and all the money flows to Houston.’
‘And our Mr Acheson.’
‘And our Mr Acheson,’ Brad said, appearing thoughtful. ‘I wonder how this Willow Willoughby died …’
I grinned. I’d been hoping he’d finally come around to that thought. ‘You’re a reporter,’ I replied. I fluttered my eyelashes. Scarlet O’Hara, eat your heart out. ‘I bet you could find out.’
‘Absolutely,’ he said self-assuredly.
I took a pull on my orange soda. ‘Tell me, what did VV have to say?’
‘Veronica Vargas?’ Brad smirked. ‘Don’t worry, I left out the part about her boyfriend ministering to you on the streets of Table Rock.’
The corner of my mouth moved down in displeasure. ‘I wasn’t worried about that.’ Actually, I was quite worried about that. In a town the size of Table Rock one had to worry about the gossipmongers. Who else besides him had seen our little … what? Kiss? Rescue? Special moment?
No. Car accident. That’s all it was.
If VV found out I’d been in the arms of her boyfriend, albeit all completely harmless, mind you – though people might exaggerate what they’d seen, people always exaggerate, especially in such circumstances – what evil might she be tempted to deliver my way? With her clout, she c
ould she have the café shut down for some sort of health-code violation.
I vowed to get in early one day soon and give the place a good cleaning.
‘You know what she’s like. She likes to play things close to the vest.’ He jiggled his brow. ‘She did say the police had more evidence than what had been released to the public.’
I leaned forward. ‘Really, like what?’
Brad shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t say. Believe me, I tried to get more out of her but it was hopeless. I can tell you this, though—’ He stopped and took a swig of beer. I suppressed the urge to scream.
‘What?’ I got ready to throw a buffalo wing at him.
He held up a palm in surrender. ‘She thinks Johnny Wolfe did it.’
I snorted. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I’m just telling you what she told me. And she said she’s convinced that Johnny killed Lisa Willoughby. Well, Johnny and Clive.’
‘She thinks they did it together?’
Brad snatched the wing from my fingers. ‘Yep. She figures Johnny did the deed and Clive helped cover it up. She thinks he got you to go out to Navajo Junction as part of their murder plot.’
‘Preposterous,’ I spat. ‘The guys wouldn’t do that.’
Brad chomped into the wing as he spoke. ‘Ms Vargas thinks they would. She told me she was going to see that attorney Lisa had hired to sue Johnny and Clive and The Hitching Post. Today, in fact.’ He glanced at his watch. It was after nine in the evening. ‘This afternoon.’
‘I wonder what she learned.’ My fingers drummed the oak tabletop.
Brad smiled. ‘You could ask her.’
‘Very funny. What should I do, go knock on her door later tonight like I wanted to borrow a cup of sugar and say, “Oh, by the way, what did Lisa Willoughby’s attorney tell you about her case against Johnny Wolfe and Clive Rothschild?”’
‘Yeah,’ Brad nodded, fingering his beer, ‘you could do that. Or,’ he flashed his teeth, ‘you could just walk over to her table and ask her now.’
I blanched. ‘What?’
He jabbed his chin to the right. ‘I said you could go ask her right now.’ He aimed his eyes across the room. ‘She’s sitting right over there in that booth in the corner with her boyfriend.’
