11
Max and Joy returned to headquarters and filled the chief in about the scene of the crime.
“Chief, where were you last night?” asked Max.
“Is this still off-the-record?”
Neither Max nor Joy answered.
The chief rolled his eyes, “Fine. I was home, in bed, asleep, and alone. Why are you asking?”
“I found a cigar butt—” The door flew open, interrupting Max.
Two men in suits and two uniformed officers stormed in.
Max knew the look—Internal Affairs. One of the suits said, “Chief, we’re taking you in for questioning. Anything you say…”
“Max! Joy! Find the killer. I’m innocent!” said the chief as they hauled Goldsby out the door and across the squad room.
Joy observed Max’s face, which had a cherubic glow. “Why, Max, I do believe you’re gloating.”
Max gave her his most devilish grin and kept his eyes glued to the chief’s back. “I’ve dreamt of this moment—and worse.”
“Hmmm. Then you do have a dark side. I’m glad.” Joy followed Max’s gaze. “Enjoy every second of it. The case will wait.”
Max took Joy to Belle’s Burgers and Brew for lunch. Joy nibbled on a salad, but she added a strawberry shake strictly due to Max’s cajoling. Max bit into his Western bacon cheeseburger and checked out in pure food-bliss.
Belle popped by to visit, bringing Max a Coke and Joy her strawberry shake. The septuagenarian had gray hair pulled back in a long braid that ran down her back, a strong face with prominent Native American cheekbones, and fierce brown eyes. She wore blue cotton pants with a floral shirt, and over that, a white canvas apron with the title of the restaurant. Her tennis shoes were nothing fancy and well-worn. “Max, good boy, you have a date? Hi, I’m Grandma, Belle.”
“His grandma?” asked Joy, taking a sip of her shake.
“No, darlin’, everybody’s grandma. Been here since the dinosaurs roamed.”
“I’m Joy, nice to meet you, Belle. This is one amazing shake.”
“Lot’sa cream in that ice cream—none of that ice-milk, yogurt, low-sugar crapola.”
Joy’s smile widened.
Max recognized the look on Joy’s face. It was how he felt sitting here—it was home. Joy didn’t have the full-on “this is my hometown” grin, but a twinkle of “this could be my hometown” flashed in her eyes.
“You were here a few days before the funeral, showing me a picture,” said Belle. “And before that with your daddy as a young girl. I remember.”
“Dad passed away, but he left me a house here. I’ve been looking up some of his friends.” Joy pushed her hair back behind her ears like a child who’d been caught spying on the Christmas tree to catch Santa in the act. “So you’ll see more of me now.”
“Well, that suits me just fine—and Max, here, well, it’s nice to see him with female company that ain’t work-related.”
“This is work-related.” Max swallowed hard and raised a hand. “And Belle, you’re not helping me here. You’re making me sound pathetic.”
“Boy, you are pathetic, but in a good way—that’s the new talk, ain’t it—you just tack on ‘in a good way’ onto every insult.”
Joy laughed, genuine and loud. “Yes, Belle, it is—and in a good way.”
“Oh, man, I’m being ganged up on.” Max shoved a couple of fries in his mouth. “And not in a good way, thank you very much.”
“So, Max, is it murder or mayhem today?” Before Max could answer, Belle explained, “I like to know what’s goin’ on in my town, and Max, well, this boy’s lips are tighter ‘n a bad face lift.”
“Belle!” pleaded Max.
Belle ignored him. “So we play a game. I ask him ‘murder or mayhem?’ because telling me that much ain’t breakin’ no laws.”
“It’s both this time,” said Joy with a twinkle in her eye. “Murder and mayhem.”
Belle laughed, loud and genuine. “Thank you, darlin’. Glad you’re a resident now. Welcome to Wine Valley. Your meal’s on me. Max, I’ll bring you your bill.”
Max threw up his hands. “She doesn’t like me anymore. She used to like me, but now she likes you.” He realized after he said it how childish it sounded.
“Max, no matter how young or how old, we goddesses stick together.”
“Oh, I see. Goddesses. Hmmm. My dad gave me great advice. Know what he’d say right now. ‘Son, you gotta reign in this horse before it runs over the cliff.’ So I’m letting the goddess question burning in my brain go—like what makes a woman a goddess? I’m sticking to murder—it’s much easier to solve than women.”
Joy leaned over, snatched a couple of Max’s French fries, and noshed them down. “And that, Max, is why you’re going to be a great detective. Of course, we have yet to solve this case.”
“Careful, Joy. Those will kill you.”
“There are so many ways to die, Max.” Her monotone and deadpan face gave him a sudden chill. “At least this one tastes good.”
Max didn’t know what to make of her. His detective brain shot multiple warnings and questions and…and…missing pieces. There were lots of missing pieces. But he didn’t want to tip his hand. Not yet. He’d observe her a while longer. “Let’s go talk to the Chens. They were low on my list, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t kill Anne or Shane. And then we’ll visit A-gamer.”
Max and Joy stepped into Lee Chen’s flower shop, ironically located on Flower Street, within the Vineyard Mall complex, a spider web plan with a central hub of megastores, like Walmart, Costco, and Macys, surrounded by a ring road with offshoots to restaurants, theaters, hobby shops, gyms, and more.
The glass-faced refrigerator chilled the shop and the sweet-scented air gave Max and Joy a welcome respite from the afternoon heat outside. They approached the counter where two people, presumably Mr. Chen and his wife, worked together to construct a flower arrangement for a female customer who punched keys on her cell phone while she waited for her order.
Max and Joy paced the room until the customer left with her arrangement and then they stepped up to the counter. “I’m Detective Max King, and this is Dr. Joy Burton, special consultant. We have a few questions, Mr. Chen.”
The Asian pair had petite figures and features. They moved with synchronized movements and ease: he put away the cellophane; she gathered the stem bits and placed them in the trash. Mr. Chen had thinning black hair and his wife, straight silver hair.
“We’re investigating the murder of Anne Martin—”
“Murder!” blurted Mr. Chen.
Mia put her fingers to her lips. “Eugene called us. Say it may be an accident.”
Max explained, “We didn’t have the autopsy report then. Mr. Chen, did you see anything unusual last night at the poker game?”
Mr. Chen’s crescent eyes widened. “Same as always. I left early as always—they play too late! Play late, get tired. Get tired, make mistakes. Make mistakes, lose money.”
Mia patted him on the arm. “Don’t play at all. Lose even less.”
The synchronicity between them had been broken.
“Eugene is bad luck.” Mia waved her hand and disappeared into the storeroom.
Mr. Chen sighed. “Sorry, officer—”
“Detective. Detective King.”
“Eugene helped make us successful when we came to Wine Valley. Mortuaries and flowers—natural combination—lots of business from him. But Mia still blames him for our daughter running away. Not Eugene’s fault.”
“When was this?” asked Joy.
Max thought her question fell into the off-topic range, but he let it slide.
Mr. Chen waved his hand. “Long time ago.”
Joy prodded him. “Mr. Chen, it may not help solve this case, but it could. So what happened?”
“Mayleen was friends with a tough crowd in high school. Bad crowd. Drug crowd. She ran away with her loser boyfriend to Los Angeles. We only heard from her when she wanted money. But we give h
er no money.”
Mr. Chen’s mouth puckered like he’d tasted a lemon. “Then, Mayleen shows up here three years ago. With a tattoo across her lower back. Our culture—no respect tattoos. Gangs wear tattoos. She says she wants to change. Done with bad crowd she says. Sorry, she says. Forty-two and wants to change. I don’t buy it but her ma takes her in. She works in our shop, delivers flowers. She dates Eugene. I think this is a good match for her. Eugene is only thirteen years older. Eugene is happy. Mayleen is happy. Mayleen packed her bags to go to Hawaii with Eugene. Then Eugene calls me. Mayleen leaves him a note. Breaks up with him. Leaves town. Not one word after that.”
“And Anne?” Max directed the conversation back to the present case. “What can you tell me about her? Was she dating anyone?”
Mr. Chen peered round to make sure his wife was out of earshot. Still, he whispered. “Anne and Grant were together for many years. But Anne paid attention to Eugene last night. Grant is angry. When Deon and I left, Grant is outside with Anne yelling at her. They stop when they see us and go back inside.”
“Do you know what they argued about?” asked Joy.
“I heard her shout that Grant is not her keeper.”
Max handed Mr. Chen his card. “If you think of anything, no matter what, give me a call.”
Mr. Chen took the card. “Do you have children?”
“Need a wife first,” said Max.
Joy held up two empty palms.
Chen scowled. “Cannot control them. Get no respect. They break your heart.”
“Maybe your daughter was trying to turn around, Mr. Chen,” said Max. “At least you had that time with her.”
Mr. Chen frowned. “Bah! Bad seed stay bad seed. No turn into good seed.”
12
Every town has its ugly side, its dark recesses, its underbelly, and Wine Valley had its dark corners and shadowy crevices.
Max had pulled up A-gamer’s record and located his choice hangout: a bar called The Stinky Mule. The bar sat in a cheap part of town, surrounded by a vintage brick-faced auto repair shop with a sign that simply read “Garage,” a small grocery store, a liquor store, a hardware store, a day-old bakery, and several empty stores in need of tenants.
The Stinky Mule had a façade reminiscent of the Old West. A painting of a blue mule covered the wall to the left of the black entrance door. The mule hee-hawed as he lifted his tail to expel gas.
Max and Joy entered the establishment that had no front windows and grill-type security bars covering its back windows.
Even in daylight, darkness enveloped the room the moment Max and Joy stepped inside and the door closed behind them. Neon signs advertising beers and other alcoholic beverages did little to infiltrate the blackness or light the faces of the bartender or the few people hunched over the bar. But one area stood out. Green glass shades with bright white bulbs hung over three pool tables, where a motley group of boys joked, drank, and played.
Max, in the lead, and Joy, just behind him, quickly located A-gamer, who was easy to spot—white, skinny, baggy jeans, and an oversized tank top. He leaned over a pool table. His crew, a mixture of ages, sat in chairs around the wall. Mean streaks or dull wits crossed each of their brows.
A-gamer ignored Max’s approach, but he did check out Joy. With confidence and force, he struck the cue ball. Max reached out and stopped the ball before it hit its target.
A-gamer stood tall, holding the pool cue like a weapon. Max sized him up. He clearly wanted nothing more than to be king of the bad-asses. His chosen grunge-wear included a tattoo on his neck that said “HATE is GR8.” Despite the message, the rhyme made it sound like a license plate slogan. Other sayings and messages spilled down his shoulders and arms. He had the standard chain on his wallet—probably needed it in this bar—and a thick gold chain with an upside-down cross around his neck. Top that with a backwards baseball cap over buzzed hair, and Max couldn’t resist a barb. “Eminem—you made a comeback.” A-gamer’s crew, a punk group of half a dozen, held their breath.
“And you got that funk-ass buzz cut, trying to be the rebel you’re not, but you call me Eminem. I know who I am, Dude. And you’re a cop with a bad haircut.”
“Ouch,” said Max. He turned to Joy. “I totally deserved that.”
Joy smiled. “Yes, you did.” She turned to A-gamer. “Nice salvo. Now I know how you got your name.”
“That’s right. I’m on my game at all times.”
Joy said, “We have a couple of questions, then we’re out of your life.”
Max jumped in. “You loaned some money to Anne Martin.”
A-gamer tensed. “On my game here too. You’re not pinning her murder on me. I had nothin’ to do with it. I was here with my boys.”
“But you did give her a loan?” asked Max.
A-gamer kept his mouth shut.
Joy tried. “If we can’t clear you, then...”
Max finished the sentence. “Then we have to take you in for questioning. So help us to help you.”
“Yeah, I helped her out,” said A-gamer. “I’m generous like that.”
Joy added, “And you upped the interest so she couldn’t pay it back.”
“She paid me back—go ask your chief. I’m pretty sure he banged her and bankrolled her,” sniped A-gamer. “I’d be happy to testify against him.”
Joy ignored his comment. “She paid you in cash?”
“Or other goods?” asked Max, giving A-gamer some latitude.
“Blondie—she’d do anything it took to keep her account current.” A-gamer used caution in choosing his words. “She had some things I valued besides cash.” He eyed Joy and smirked.
“But not sex.” Max turned to Joy. “She clearly refused. She’d rather steal than take that plunge.”
“Like I wanted that Marilyn Monroe phony? I didn’t want your chief’s seconds.”
Max had gotten to know Anne, a troubled girl with a kind heart who proved to be her own worst enemy. She’d hit bottom. He could picture her stealing from her own hospital, terrified at the level to which she’d sunk, terrified more by A-gamer’s hold on her. Grant had cut her off, so had the casino. She made stupid mistakes. Maybe she really did see Eugene as more than just a way out. She had confessed her crimes to him, like someone trying to make a new start. At least, that was how Eugene wanted to see her. Maybe it was how he wanted to see her too—but he had to see the true Anne—the good nurse and the possible thief.
In one swift move, Max grabbed A-gamer’s cue stick, shoved him up against the wall, and pressed the cue stick against his throat. “Anne Martin—that was her name. A nurse. A screw-up. A kind lady. Maybe you didn’t kill her. But you didn’t help her either. Let’s be clear about that.” Max let him go.
Joy neither smiled nor frowned. She tilted her head, like examining a specimen under a microscope.
A-gamer grinned at having riled the cop. He sauntered back to the table and chalked the tip of his pool cue. “Looks like he’s playin’ bad cop and you’re playin’ good cop. If you play bad cop, I’ll let you handle my cue.”
At this, A-gamer’s crew laughed.
“Thanks for the invite,” said Joy, turning to leave. “But it looks to me like you’re happier playing with your stick all by yourself.”
“Ouch,” said Max, following her out. “Nice salvo.”
“Thanks. But he was right about your hair.”
“I know. I did it strictly to piss off dad and assert my independence—I didn’t fully comprehend that until he passed.”
“I shaved my head just before I started high school.” Joy pushed the door open and stepped into the daylight. “I was over trying to make friends.”
“Did your dad give you crap for it?”
“A former profiler? Not even close. He knew exactly why I’d done it. So he did the worst thing possible.”
“He said he liked it.”
“Yep, said I had a well-shaped head, so it looked good. I let it grow out starting that day. Rebelling again
st someone with stellar skills in criminal psychology wasn’t easy.”
“I know that feeling. Dad would say he knew what I was thinking before I did—and he wasn’t kidding. I know a great spot for iced tea, and we can go over the fact set.”
“Iced tea sounds good. I’m parched.”
Max drove to the valley’s first vineyard, Raedwald Wolf Estate Winery, at the end of Via Vendage. He parked before a sprawling modern-day Scottish castle. They strolled through a beige stone archway and into a massive square with signs pointing to the restaurant, tasting rooms, and a quaint three-story hotel.
As soon as Max entered the restaurant, a woman with long, red hair with natural curls rushed forward, threw her arms around him, and kissed him on both cheeks. “Max! Who’s your friend?”
“Kate, this is Joy. Joy, Kate.”
Joy began to put out a hand to shake, but Kate grabbed her and kissed her on both cheeks instead. “Sorry, love, but if you’re with this boy, you’re family. Come. Red will want to see you too.”
Kate led them back through the courtyard and to the tasting room, where Max received the same reaction from a burly man with thick red-blond hair and a full beard. “Max!” He gave Max a bear hug, before extending a hand to Joy. “I’m Red.”
A red-haired, freckle-faced, clean-shaven man behind the counter, about thirty and clearly Red and Kate’s son, waved. “Hey, Max.”
Max waved back. “Hi, Alfie.”
Joy shook Red’s hand.
“Tis a joy, indeed,” quipped Red. “I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.”
Joy couldn’t help laughing. “A time or two.”
“Come on—I’ll get you some iced teas. I assume you’re on duty,” said Red with a lilt of Scottish brogue.
“We are. Can we sit out back? We have some noodling to do, and I couldn’t think of a nicer place to noodle,” said Max.
Kate gushed, “That’s because there isn’t a nicer place. How have you been, Max? Doin’ okay?” Kate had the same Scottish brogue. Her voice held genuine concern.
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