The Trouble with Talent

by Kathy Krevat

  “Is Zoey coming?” I asked.

  He paused. “We agreed that it’s better if she doesn’t. I promised to send her a video of the whole thing.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Hey, why are you calling him ‘Little Red’?”

  “Because he’s a bully who hits women a lot smaller than him. He does it because it makes him feel like a big man, but inside he knows he’s nothing.”

  I had avoided thinking too much about the fact that this jerk had actually hurt Zoey. To me she was so tough. She was small and wiry, and far stronger than she looked. She lifted three cases of canned cat food at a time for her job and went to the gym regularly. She also belonged to some kind of martial arts dojo where she’d been steadily moving up in belts.

  “Little Red it is.”

  * * * *

  Norma didn’t show up for Margarita Night on Wednesday, and I could totally understand why. I’d told her everything, so she had a lot of work to do. I hadn’t told her Jaxon’s name, and she didn’t push for it. She said she’d question Ian about what Jaxon had told me.

  Lani was wide-eyed about the idea of a “fixer.” “And he drives around giving orders out of his Mercedes?” she asked.

  We’d already devoured one bowl of Pico’s homemade taco chips when they arrived warm and salty along with the two helpings of salsa we always requested. I picked at the crumbs, a little sad that we had turned down a second serving.

  “That’s what Ja--, the ex-employee said,” I said, struggling not to use her name. “Some kind of luxury car.”

  “You’re not even going to tell me who she is?” She sounded insulted.

  I shook my head. “She’s really not involved. She just provided information that might not even be relevant.”

  “Right.” Lani pointed the margarita straw at me, dripping on the table before setting it back into the frosted glass. “You’ve developed an instinct for all this crime stuff. You know it’s involved in some way, you just don’t know how it all fits together yet.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I asked the ex-employee if she had any ideas of why someone would want to kill Benson.”

  “I’m sure she just loved that question,” Lani said. “Did she tell you anything?”

  “Nope,” I said. “She couldn’t figure out how or why, just that there’s something weird about that company, and maybe he was involved too.”

  Lani sat back against the leather booth cushions. “We need a meeting to update our suspect list,” Lani said. “Do you think Yollie can come over tomorrow? Oh wait. Tomorrow’s opening night! Is Elliott excited?”

  “He’s delirious,” I said. “I can’t wait to see him, I mean, everyone on stage.”

  “Piper isn’t working, so she gets to be there,” Lani said. “Barring an emergency, of course.”

  I looked up to try to catch Pico’s eye for some more chips at the same time that Gemma walked in. She looked around the restaurant, and I was so stunned that I didn’t hide in time.

  “Oh. My. God,” I said. There was only one reason she was here. She saw me across the restaurant and headed my way.

  “What?” Lani looked over her shoulder. “Oh. This can’t be good,” she added as Gemma moved toward us. Every man she passed stared after her as if she had some magic thread that caught them.

  “Maybe you should go to the bathroom or something,” I told Lani, who surprised me by actually leaving right before Gemma made it to my table. Of course she knew I’d tell her everything anyway.

  “Kai said you always come here,” Gemma said, looking around as if trying to figure out why.

  No way was I telling her about the yummy food and margaritas, or giving her any reason to eat here. “Is everything okay with Joss and Kai?” I asked.

  She sneered at me. “Of course it is. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh?” I tried to mimic her self-confidence but it came out nasally and unpleasant instead.

  She slid into Lani’s side of the booth. “I’m here to appeal to your good nature.” She batted her eyes at me with a self-righteous expression. “To ask you, for the sake of our family, to step back. To give our family a chance.”

  “What do you mean?” She was going to have to spell it out.

  She gave a little huff. “I want us to be a family again. Look, Joss is too much of a gentleman to make you feel bad by breaking up with you.” She leaned toward me, pretending that she felt sorry for me. “You know that our divorce was all me. Once Joss knows I want him back, he’ll feel terrible, but he will get rid of you. You could save him that grief.”

  I laughed, and her face changed to cold anger.

  Then I thought more about what she said. “Are you coming to some kind of revelation just because he’s dating me?”

  “Of course not,” she said.

  “Then why do you suddenly want him back?” I asked.

  “I’ve, I’ve just changed is all,” she stumbled at first, but then her voice grew stronger. “I see now what I threw away, because life in Alaska was just too hard. Joss understands that it was never about him, it was because I wasn’t made to thrive in such a cold place like that.”

  If I believed her, I might actually consider doing what she suggested, especially if I thought that was what Joss wanted.

  “Okay, how’s this?” I leaned forward. “We’re all grown-ups here.” I paused, raising my eyebrows in a “right?” expression. “So, like a grown-up, I’m going to ask Joss what he wants. We’ll see what he says and we’ll go from there, with no hard feelings. What do you say?”

  Her eyes flashed. “Fine. We’ll see who he chooses.” She slid out of the booth.

  I had to admit that when I saw most of the restaurant watch her leave, I had a moment of misgiving. Even scowling, she was beautiful.

  Lani must have been watching because she was back in her seat in a flash. I told her what Gemma wanted.

  “You have nothing to worry about. I’ve seen the way Joss looks at you,” she said with certainty. “That witch doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Chapter 15

  Quincy wanted to make sure he caught Little Red at home, or at his mother’s home, so we met early at the kitchen and headed over. We parked about half a block away, with a perfect view of his front yard.

  The “process server” knocked on the front door several times, before an older woman opened it. We couldn’t hear what they said, but the woman yelled back into the house.

  Red came to the door wearing a stretched out T-shirt that may have been white at some point, and long basketball shorts. He looked really angry when he realized what was happening, but then he opened the summons and read it.

  He broke into a wide grin and went back inside.

  Quincy hit stop on the video app on his phone.

  “That went well,” I said, as Quincy pulled out and we drove back to work.

  “So far, so good,” he said. “Maybe this will keep him away from her for a while. She needs a break.”

  * * * *

  Tod dug up some old dirt on Marco Anderson, the HOA president in Benson’s neighborhood. It seemed that he hadn’t really “retired” from his last job as much as “was fired.” He’d been working for a small nonprofit in Los Angeles as part of their fundraising team. He’d been so pushy that potential donors complained to the staff, and the board of directors actually removed him from his post.

  I’d never been involved with a nonprofit other than the PTA, but it probably took a lot to be pushed out of that kind of position. It still seemed totally implausible that his zeal to uphold the HOA standards would result in Benson’s murder, but I had to meet with him to be sure.

  Marco was more than happy to meet me and tell me everything he knew about Benson. We met outside Benson’s house and after about ten minutes of listening to Marco list all of his complaints about the property, I realized that he jus
t wanted someone new to vent to.

  He was spitting mad that someone had killed Benson and stymied his efforts to have the property made perfect.

  “But now someone new will move in,” I interrupted, trying to make him feel better and also to stop his ranting.

  He waved both hands at the bombed out garage. “Who’s going to fix this? The owner lives overseas and takes forever to fix anything!” He pointed to a brown patch in the grass. “Do you know how many times I’ve cited them for that mess?”

  “That mess” was about a foot in diameter at its widest. “How terrible,” I said. “What do you know about Benson personally?”

  “Basically nothing,” he said. “He never participated in any HOA activities. Not the potlucks. Or the pool parties. Or even the Bake-Offs.” He was getting even louder. “What kind of sociopath doesn’t like Bake-Offs?”

  “Hmm.” I gave him a sympathetic nod.

  “I told everyone, just you wait,” he said. “He’s going to be some kind of serial killer and we’re all going to be standing around saying, ‘But he was so quiet.’” He said the last sentence with a sneer.

  “Well, at least that didn’t happen,” I said cheerfully.

  “Yeah.” He scowled at the house, clearly undecided which was worse.

  “So he didn’t interact with anyone around here?” I asked, needing any excuse to get away from this Eeyore in human form.

  He shook his head. “Not that I know of.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Wait. He hired my housekeeper, Fabiola. You should talk to her.”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “Can I have her number?”

  “I shoulda thought of her earlier,” he said, after reading off her number. “Definitely talk to her. Housekeepers know things.”

  * * * *

  I was still trying to extricate myself from the claws of the one-sided conversation with Marco about how incredible Fabiola was at cooking eggplant parmesan, “just like you’re in Florence,” and complaining that he couldn’t find a good Italian restaurant anywhere close to Sunnyside, when my phone rang. It was Yollie.

  “Excuse me!” I was forced to practically yell over his latest harangue and walked toward my car. I waved good-bye, pointing at my phone with an expression of fake regret on my face. “Oh thank goodness,” I said to Yollie when I closed the car door.

  He watched me leave and I wondered if he was going to file a complaint about my car needing to be washed.

  “Can you come to the salon right now?” She spoke in a hushed mumble.

  I matched her tone. “Sure, why?”

  “That rich girl is here.” She hung up.

  It took me a while to remember that one of her stylist friends had said something about one of her rich clients and college when we were talking about Benson. Maybe there was a connection I didn’t know.

  Looks like I was getting my wish to have my copper stripe updated.

  I made it to the salon in a few minutes and Yollie was waiting at the receptionist’s desk. “Hurry,” she said, and led me to a different chair, right beside an eighteen-year-old who was getting her shoulder-length hair dyed an interesting shade that seemed to be somewhere between gray and lavender. She snapped her gum and tapped her fingers on the leather armrests incessantly.

  Yollie went to the back to mix my hair dye, and I met the teen’s eyes in the mirror. We both smiled awkwardly and looked away.

  Her stylist must be in on what I was trying to accomplish because she asked, “How are those college apps going, Bo?”

  “All done.” She threw both hands in the air as if she’d just made a slam dunk.

  “Already?” I gave her an admiring glance in the mirror. “My son’s not even close.”

  She grinned smugly.

  “Any suggestions on how I can get him going?” I tried.

  “Well, you can remind him that it is the rest of his life.”

  Could she be any more pompous? I forced my smile to stay on my face. “Done that. Any other ideas?”

  Her stylist asked, “You should give her the name of the guy that helped you.”

  Bo lost a bit of her bluster. “I don’t actually know the guy,” she said.

  “What guy?” I asked.

  “Tell her,” the hairdresser said.

  She gave in to the woman who held the fate of her hair color in her hands. And would soon be holding scissors. “My parents dealt with him. I don’t have, like, a number or anything.”

  “What did he do?” I kept my voice friendly with just a little bit of pushiness behind it.

  “He helped you with your grades, right?” the stylist said.

  “No,” she said. “Well, yes.”

  I wasn’t sure where this was going. “Like a tutor?”

  “No,” Bo said. “He changed grades.”

  What? “Cool,” I said. “I didn’t know that was even possible.”

  Bo’s face was beginning to look panicked. “I’m not sure. I don’t know how he did it. He just helped my GPA a bit.”

  Yollie returned and started partitioning my hair into sections.

  “That sounds awesome,” I said, meeting her eyes in the mirror in between chunks of hair falling in my face. “Can you give my number to your parents and they can give it to him?”

  “Sure,” she said, relieved that I wasn’t asking more uncomfortable questions.

  “Wait, here’s my card.” I pulled it out of my purse.

  She shoved it in her pocket without looking at it.

  I had a feeling my card wasn’t going anywhere but the nearest garbage can, but I’d picked up one more piece of the puzzle. And had someone else for Norma to question.

  * * * *

  I headed home with a dazzling copper stripe and the wonderful feeling that my hair looked great. On the way, I tried Fabiola, but it went to voice mail. Then I called Jaxon, my new expert in everything college counselor related.

  “Hello Colbie.” Her voice sounded resigned as if she’d already figured out that I wasn’t done with her.

  “Thanks so much for taking my call,” I said. “I just have one hypothetical question. Is it possible to change the grades in the system that high schools use to send to colleges?”

  She thought for a minute. “I hate to say it but it’s not impossible. It would take a lot of coordination. Like, I have access to the grading system here at the school. But if I changed a grade and it didn’t match what the student put in for their grade, then it would raise a red flag. But, if the student was working with me, or their parents were, we could both put in the same grades. Then I’d have to put them back or a teacher here might notice. And I’d have to be really organized because colleges require us to send grades at the end of the semester and a final transcript at the end of the school year. Any differences would be a problem.”

  “But it could be done,” I said. Okay, I had more than one question.

  “Yes.”

  “But only by someone inside the school, like someone in counseling.” Someone like a counseling secretary.

  “Right.”

  I swore.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I have someone to talk to.”

  * * * *

  I tried to tell myself that just because it was possible, didn’t mean it happened. And even if it happened, like Bo said, that didn’t mean that Opal was guilty of changing grades.

  But my instincts were telling me this was an important piece of the puzzle. Unfortunately, I knew that Opal wouldn’t let me anywhere near her.

  I called Norma and told her my latest suspicions. That maybe Benson and Opal worked together to help kids get into college. Benson wrote the recommendation letters and Opal changed the grades. All for money.

  “Interesting theory,” she said. “I’ll add that to my list to ask her when she comes back from v
acation.”

  “What?” It seemed like a really bad time for her to be on vacation. Wasn’t she supposed to be helping students with their college apps?

  “She sent an email yesterday saying she had to go home for a family emergency and was taking vacation to cover it.”

  “That was the day after I talked to her,” I said.

  Norma was quiet for so long that I worried she was mad at me for talking to Opal. Then she nodded. “I guess I better try harder to find her.”

  Chapter 16

  I put the whole Benson mess to the side in time to pick up Elliott from the middle school and drive him and a few friends over to the high school. They were all so excited they were practically jumping in their seats. “I can’t wait until the audience sees us come in!” said someone from the back seat.

  Elliott turned around with wide eyes. “They are gonna sh—. Go crazy.”

  The boys laughed loudly at his almost slipup.

  I gasped, pretending to be offended. “I have no idea where he learned such language.”

  “Right,” Elliott said.

  I drove behind the school to the loading dock for the theater and saw Tuesday, the puppet inspecting lady, unloading her minivan. “Boys, help her out.”

  They all crowded around happy to help by puppeteering the puppets into the prop area. I wheeled a rack of costumes down the ramp of the rental truck and up the loading dock, delighted to have some small part in the production. I usually got much more involved in Elliott’s theater projects but I’d held back from committing to any volunteer work during the last few months. Gearing my business up to put my products on the shelves of Twomey’s stores had taken all of my time.

  My phone rang with an unknown number and I answered. “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice with a slight accent said, “Hello, this is Fabiola.”

  I walked away from the crowd of middle school students. “Thank you for calling me back. I was hoping to talk to you about what you knew about Benson Tadworth.”

  “All I did was clean his house,” she said. “I don’t know anything about him, really.”