She looked across to the kitchen and saw that her dinner was still sitting there on the counter.
She considered whether she wanted to risk getting salmonella from eating room-temperature takeout, then decided she really wasn't hungry. She'd throw it out in the morning.
She sat there, trying desperately to think of something else to think about.
Pajamas. The dog. Dinner. Anything would do, if it would help her block out the image that kept returning to the front of her mind.
Mac was dead. That selfish, infuriating, impossible man who had been the center of her world for ten years was dead.
Not just dead. Murdered.
That silly, shallow bimbo who had been planning her wedding just hours earlier had, for some inexplicable reason, decided to kill him. It made no sense.
"Why would I even care?" she said to the dog. He looked at her, but the tears swimming in her eyes made it hard to read his expression.
The dog muttered something as if responding to her question.
"I don't know, dog. I don't know why I'm crying. I hated him."
The dog muttered again.
"I know you didn't, pup. But I did. I don't even care that he's dead."
She wiped angrily at her eyes. Who was she trying to convince? Jasper, or herself?
She lay back on the daybed, not even feeling like climbing up the stairs to her bed. Jasper got up then, and began pacing around the room. He looked all around, in every corner of the tiny house, then came back to her and let out a bark that made her cover her ears.
"Oh," she said. "You need to go out."
She re-tied the crime scene tape onto his collar and led him outside.
He quickly did his business and then came back into the house with her.
But as soon as she lay down on the daybed he went back to wandering the house.
"Come on, dog," she said to him. "Please don't do that."
She had a feeling he was searching for something. It couldn't be Mac. It just couldn't be. Mac ignored him. He left him alone all the time. Jasper couldn't possibly understand that Mac was dead. That the obnoxious jerk who owned him would never come back again.
She tried to convince the dog that it didn't matter. That Mac wasn't worth being upset about. She sat with him, and told him so, and he nodded his head, and bumped his wet nose against her.
But then, as soon as she let go of him, he resumed his patrol of the house.
But finally she just fell asleep, the sound of the dog's toenails clicking endlessly on the wood floor as he paced back and forth, searching for something, the clicking distracting her from the pillow she was leaning on, all wet with tears she shouldn't even be shedding for a man who was not worth crying over.
Chapter 11
Maggie was exhausted. The dog had fussed all night and she hadn't slept a wink. Now that it was morning, she'd left him in the tiny house long enough to drive to the grocery and spend fifty bucks on some dog food and a proper leash.
She'd driven home, squeezed her car in between the tiny house and Reese's sideways-parked car, and gone into the house to find Jasper had knocked over her bead loom, a stack of papers, and her favorite coffee mug. The last one was broken, the rest were fine.
But he'd looked so sheepish and ashamed when she'd yelled at him that she'd apologized, fed him, and patted him on the head until he'd forgiven her and licked her face.
She'd taken him out to do his business. Then, after bringing him back inside, she'd swept up his mess and got ready for work while the dog shadowed her like a bodyguard, making her trip over him every time she turned around.
She looked at the papers Jasper had scattered. She had picked them up and set them on the kitchen counter, out of his reach. The top paper was the lease Reese had signed for Casablanca.
She stood there flipping through the papers, and thinking about something. Then she looked up the parking app Nora had mentioned yesterday and checked it out. Very interesting.
She was feeling tired, broke, and fed up with life this morning. And she needed to go open the shop in an hour.
She couldn't do anything about being tired and fed up, but maybe she could do something about being broke.
She marched through Casablanca's living room out to the back yard. It was gloriously sunny, hot as blazes, and she was already sweating. She hated confrontations.
Reese was lounging on a float in the middle of the pool. He had his mirror shades on, and was reading a script. "Good morning," he called out. "Feeling better?"
She didn't respond. She stood at the edge of the pool and glared at him. "I need you to stop parking sideways in the driveway." She waved the copy of the lease in her hand.
"No," he said, not even looking up from his reading.
"What do you mean, no?"
"I mean, I rent the house, and that means I get to park my car in the driveway."
"Not sideways."
He pushed his sunglasses down on his nose so he could peer at her over the top of them. "Why not? It's a big driveway."
"But it's already half-full. I have my tiny house on one side, and then I have my Honda Fit next to it."
"Right. And then there's a whole half of the driveway left for me."
"Your lease entitles you to one parking space." She waved the paper. "It's all spelled out here."
He pushed his shades back up and looked back down at his script. "No."
"But you only have one car. If you park it straight I can…."
"You can what?"
"I can rent it out."
He pushed the sunglasses down again to stare at her. "You can what?"
"Rent the driveway space." She felt the sweat running down her neck, and wished she could jump in the cool, inviting pool. But she couldn't. It wasn't hers anymore.
"You know how hard it is to find a parking spot near the ocean," she explained, "especially on weekends. I can rent the spot to tourists who are coming to the beach. I can get fifty bucks a day for it, more on holidays. There's an app for it. People sign up online and then they just show up and park."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. It'll pay for the dog food."
He raised one eyebrow. "You're that broke?"
"None of your business. And that's not the point. You signed a lease. It says you get one parking space, to the right of the front door."
"There's bougainvillea to the right of the front door."
"So what?"
"So it's got big thorns and it might scratch my Porsche."
"Seriously?" she said, raising her eyebrow right back at him. She regrouped. "Okay. We can amend the lease and you can have the spot to the left of the front door, and I'll rent out the spot next to the bougainvillea."
"No," he said calmly. "I'm not having some minivan-driving yokel bang his car door into my Spyder."
"Yokel? Seriously, Stanley?"
"Are you really upset about the parking, or are you still upset about Mac?"
"Don't change the subject," she said.
"I think you're the one changing the subject," he pointed out. "This is about you having a terrible day yesterday and seeing the dead body of your husband."
"Ex-husband. And no. It's not about that. This is about you following the rules."
"I'm rich. I don't have to follow rules."
"Don't rub it in."
"If you need money, I'll lend it to you," he offered.
"Don't you dare." She waved the lease at him. "I'm setting up the parking space rental right now. Move your car or I'll have Lieutenant Ibarra ticket you. He hates rich people. He'd love that."
"Fine," he said, pushing the shades back into place and going back to his reading.
"Fine," she said.
That morning at the shop, Abby continued working on the Euro bead display.
Maggie realized she'd never opened the second box that had been delivered yesterday. She knew it contained nothing interesting, just more seed beads she'd ordered in bulk from her supplier. These were Toho
Aiko beads, a new style. They came already neatly packaged, and she would just put price tags on them and hang them up. The monotonous task would be a good distraction from her worries.
Maggie slit open the box, then pulled out the first plastic clamshell package of colorful beads, and set it on the table in front of her.
She reached for the price gun, then froze. She slowly set down the price gun, still staring at the seed beads.
She picked up the package and shook it gently, so the tiny beads sparkled in the light.
Abby chattered on about her classes, and the beads, and her last argument with her partner. They had spent the whole evening debating whether superhero movies qualified as art or not. Or something like that.
Maggie barely heard her. She picked up a second package and looked at it. Closely. She felt a terrible, wonderful idea forming in her mind.
She arrayed the little plastic boxes filled with richly colored beads on the table in front of her, and tried to not let the idea in. But it kept poking through her resistance.
"They're so perfect," she whispered.
"I'm not claiming they're perfect," Abby corrected. "But they're not junk. She thinks superhero movies are merely created to appeal to the masses." Abby had the air of someone whose favorite genre had been insulted. "She thinks they're not on the same level as a true artistic vision."
Maggie shook her head. "Not that." She held up a third package and admired it. "These."
"Let me see," Abby said, so she handed her one.
"Wow," the girl said after examining it. "I've never seen seed beads like these. They're exact cylinders." She held it up to the light streaming through the front window. "Each little bead is exactly alike. Amazing."
"It is amazing." These were size 11 seed beads, which meant eleven of them lined up in a row were one inch long. Despite being so incredibly tiny, these particular glass beads were precision-cut into circles that were exactly the same, one after another, without any variation in shape.
"They'll weave together seamlessly," Maggie said absently, fighting that treacherous thought.
"Maggie?" Abby asked warily.
"Huh?" she answered, not really paying attention.
"You're not thinking what I think you're thinking, are you?"
"What?" Maggie replied, trying to make sense of that sentence.
"You're thinking of making your Chi Rho tapestry out of these, aren't you?"
"I didn't say that." Maggie stared at these wonderful beads, visualizing the epic tapestry she was beginning to beadweave. Her project was based on the medieval Book of Kells' Chi Rho page, a classic piece of art that had fascinated her ever since she'd first seen it in a college history class.
But instead of weaving her design out of the Czech glass seed beads she'd already carefully picked out, purchased, and charted on her pattern, she was imagining the tapestry made out of these flawless beads instead.
The effect would be completely different than what she had planned. The beads sitting on her craft table at home were rounded, and varied a bit, so the tapestry would look a bit rustic and handmade. Which is what she thought she wanted. Until now.
The new beads would give the pattern a completely different effect, like liquid glass, seamlessly blending the pattern colors into a shimmering fabric.
Maggie started to slowly unpack the beads, noticing the variety of colors and the incredibly precise form of each tiny, individual bead.
"Maggie?" Abby's voice held a warning. "You can't change your mind now. It's too late for that."
"Oh, no," Maggie said, picking up one of the packs and knowing all hope was lost.
"What?"
"Fiber Optic Light Amethyst," Maggie read on the label.
She lifted her eyes to Abby, who looked at her with alarm.
"Fiber Optic Light Amethyst, Abby," she repeated to the girl. "Just look."
Abby shook her head. "No, Maggie, you can't be serious."
"But they have little pale lavender stripes on them," Maggie whispered. "Tiny little stripes…."
"Maggie…? You just can't."
"But just imagine the whole background of the design with little lavender stripes."
"Maggie, you already bought a million beads for your tapestry. You're done. You can't change now."
"One-point-two million beads," she said absently, fingering the plastic case that held the wonderful cylindrical beads. "But they're all just sitting in trays on my work table at home. I haven't started the beadweaving yet."
"But doesn't the pattern have a hundred different colors?" Abby asked desperately.
Maggie was thumbing through the brochure that came in the box. "Six hundred," she mumbled.
"What?"
"These beads come in over six hundred different colors."
"But Maggie, be reasonable. What are you going to do with all those beads you already bought?"
"I'll repackage them and put them back into inventory."
"You'll repackage them?"
Maggie gave Abby her most winsome look. "I and my wonderful, understanding, and extremely patient assistant will repackage them."
Abby let out a big sigh. "You're not going to give up this crazy idea, are you?"
"Nope," Maggie said. "If I'm going to spend years weaving a huge beaded tapestry, shouldn't I use the most perfect beads possible?"
"But you thought the beads you had before were the most perfect ones."
"I thought that before I opened this box," Maggie said. "Now I know these are the perfect beads."
Abby sat down on the stool. "One-point-two million beads to repackage," she muttered.
"Think of it as job security."
"I'm graduating in two years. Think we'll get it done by then?"
Maggie ignored that. "Help me with this box so I can start picking out colors."
Abby shook her head. "You'll never make a profit if you keep this up."
"Money isn't all it's cracked up to be," Maggie said. "Let's see what colors we have…."
Lieutenant Ibarra stopped by about an hour later and asked more questions to fill in details about her statement. He was very closed-mouthed, and wouldn't answer any of her questions about the case.
"You don't think I'm a suspect, do you?" she asked.
"Of course not, Mrs. McJasper," he replied. "We have our suspect. We just need to get all the details to complete our reports."
After he left, they worked quietly for a while.
No customers came in, and Maggie started to get worried about money again.
"Any customers at all today?" Abby asked at one point, and Maggie shook her head.
"Not yet. But don't worry. I have until the end of the year before I need to start actually making a profit."
She'd sold her brand new car and many of the clothes she'd bought during the marriage, and it had set her up with the kind of savings account the average person would be pleased to have. But she was spending faster than she was earning, and the cash would eventually run out if she didn't make a go of the business. She might end up slinging burgers at In-N-Out if she couldn't make a success of this place.
About eleven, a pretty young woman stopped outside the shop. She had short-cropped black curls and dewy skin the color of Swarovski Smoked Topaz crystals. She wore a conservative navy blue button-down shirtdress and low-heeled pumps, and with her was a dog even bigger than Jasper, a purebred German Shepherd from the look of him. Unlike Jasper, this dog sat patiently while the woman pondered the display in the store window.
Then, apparently having made up her mind, she looked around to find a place to tie up the dog and come inside.
Maggie went over to the open door."You can bring him in," Maggie said from the doorway. "If he's friendly."
"He's very friendly," the woman said.
She came in to check out the shop.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?" Maggie asked, but the woman shook her head.
"Just browsing, really."
M
aggie waved her hand. "Feel free," she said.
Maggie watched the dog. He was bigger than Jasper, solid muscle, yet the woman wasn't getting pulled around, lunged at, bumped, or dragged.
The woman noticed her watching. "He's friendly. Honest."
Maggie reached out and let the dog sniff her hand. He did so politely, then at a whispered command, he sat primly.
"He's so well-trained," Maggie said. "What's his name?"
"Hendrix," she said. "And I'm Lauren Douglas."
Lauren spent some time in the shop. She seemed particularly drawn to the Swarovski pearls, and Abby took her over to a display and pointed out the coordinated sets they carried, with crystals and pearls bundled into kits.
All the while Maggie stood behind the counter and watched the dog. He followed right at Lauren's heel, stopping when she stopped, walking when she walked. She didn't even seem to be giving him directions. The leash hung loose, and he followed her, anticipating her every move.
Lauren finally made her choice and came up to the cash register to check out.
"I just have to ask you a question," Maggie said. "Do you mind?"
Lauren nodded. "Go ahead and ask."
"How do you get him to do that?"
"Hendrix? Get him to do what?"
Maggie lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. "Everything. Just get him to be so good."
Lauren laughed. "He just had his run on the beach. So he's feeling pretty mellow. And I'm about to drop him off at doggy daycare before I go to work."
"Doggy daycare? I suppose that's expensive, though?"
Lauren named a daily cost that would move up Maggie's bankruptcy date to September instead of December.
"I can't afford that."
"You can do it yourself if you put in the effort," Lauren said. "You just need to make sure they have enough of everything they need. We take agility classes, and he does brain work every evening. And of course there are our beach runs every day."
"Is that the trick?" Maggie asked. "Exercise?"
"It's part of it. They go crazy if they don't have a job. They can be really destructive."
Maggie nodded. "Yeah. I just found that out. But how do you keep that from happening? My dog—well, he's not mine, but I'm taking care of him for a little while. He destroyed my place this morning. Not on purpose, but he knocked everything over and made a big mess."
Maggie and the Inconvenient Corpse Page 7
