A Corpse in a Teacup

by Cassie Page

  “Just go straight. And hurry. I saw Holley’s ponytail in the back seat. I know it was her. Someone else was next to her, but no one in the front passenger seat.”

  Clipper raced through traffic, but at the first intersection came to a halt, waiting for a school bus to make a turn. He pulled out his phone, got the precinct and asked for Jameson. “We think we sighted the wife’s car.” He gave the cross streets. “We’ll head over toward the freeway. That makes the most sense, but maybe put some cars on the surface roads.”

  He sped up as soon as he could, but the SUV was gone.

  Just One Bite

  “Just try the soup. It’s delicious.”

  “I shouldn’t. Miss Tuesday wants me off inflammatories and I can see this is full of cream. Looks delicious and I appreciate the gesture, but I think I’ll pass. I’ll make myself a salad when we go home.”

  “Just taste it. Both of you. Just one taste.”

  “Honey, I had a late breakfast. Maybe later. This sure is a nice park. What part of LA did you say this was? I’m new here, you know.”

  “Who else is coming to this picnic? Did you say Roger was coming? What about Harry? She does my hair and works on the films, too, you know. Did you invite her?”

  “I think I’ll get out and look at the view. Let me stretch a bit. Then I’ll try your soup.”

  “Why do you have a pistol, Miss Brava? Are we going to a shooting range?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Follow the Money

  Tuesday’s phone rang. When she heard the voice at the other end, she almost cried with relief. “OMG, I thought you’d never call.”

  Clipper was on the couch reading one of Tuesday’s occult magazines. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s OMG. My friend, Olivia.”

  Tuesday cried, laughed, agreed she was worrying for nothing. She gave Olivia an update, told her that she had not spoken to Holley in more than five hours. She explained the text telling her that Brava had arrived with a surprise offering of soup. No word since and no ideas about a motive, if it indeed it was the director’s wife behind all this. Brava was not at her home and her husband refused to cooperate with the police. They had swat teams standing by outside the Vitale residence and Goren’s studio.

  She ended the call with a sob. “Hold a good thought, Ollie Mollie. She’s still my mother.”

  Clipper stretched out on the couch, Tuesday at the end with his head nested in her lap. He read one page of an article, then drifted off to sleep. She lifted the magazine and slid it on to the coffee table.

  Tuesday watched him dreaming away, the delicious heaviness of his head in her lap. How comfortable he must be with her if he could sleep that easily. Sleeping like that, such an intimate act. He didn’t snore exactly, but made endearing noises, breathing through his nose, his lips riffling softly. If the situation were not so dire, she would have teased him about it, that he looked like a dog chasing rabbits in his sleep.

  When he jerked awake he asked, “What time is it,” then answered his own question by dragging his phone from his pocket. “Two o’clock? I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

  To shake off effects of the nap she offered him coffee and tea, but he took ice water. “Sometimes I cope with nerves by zoning out,” he said, acknowledging for the first time that he, too, was worried. They looked at one another, not knowing what to do, what to say. He guzzled the ice water, patted the seat next to him on the couch and Tuesday sat close to him, yet too anxious to relax into his shoulder. She clicked on the remote and the local news station came to life. It promised an update on the Zombie Deaths, as they called the case, after the weather.

  She got up and went into her bedroom and retrieved her pendulum. She showed it to Clipper and explained its powers.

  “Show me,” he said, and she stood in front of him, closing her eyes and holding the chain as still as she could.

  “Are they alive?” she asked, then peeked and saw her hand trembling slightly from nerves, botching any message that her higher self might be sending her. She threw the pendulum on the couch in disgust.

  Cable news didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. That the police were investigating Zora’s death, but there was nothing conclusive pointing to foul play. A casual mention of Marco as a person of interest sent Tuesday’s phone jangling again. Natasha complaining about paparazzi outside her door shouting for information about Marco.

  Tuesday calmed her down, her efforts to reassure Natasha comforting herself as well. She had a brief sense of control. The catastrophic thoughts about what might have happened to Holley and Tessa stopped for a moment.

  After that, Tuesday hunkered down by the phone waiting for a call from Jameson. Clipper said he had to leave for a while.

  “I have work to do,” he’d explained.

  “On the case?”

  “Yes. Maybe that nap cleared my head. I’m going to follow the money.”

  “What money? What are you talking about?”

  He pulled out his keys, checked his phone for texts and emails, then stood up.

  “I’m paid to look in corners the PD and coroner might not think of, or not have sufficient reason to investigate. My job is part sleuthing, part luck.”

  He smiled down at her. “You’re my luck. In more ways than one.”

  She stared back at him, her eyebrows knitted in a question.

  “I’ve been bothered by something ever since we had dinner that first night. When you stuck my nose in the Café. I never paid attention to your business card, but then you told me about Holley. Here were two people connected to both the murder and the Café. Then I remembered Brava at the memorial bragging about the food. It was from the Café. She talked about what a genius chef Marco was.

  “Then the cat comes into the picture. There’s the link, but what does it mean? Now it just hit me. You know what they say, follow the money. I’m going to go home and do some research. I have some programs on my computer that will help me. I have a hunch.”

  “Tell me,” Tuesday begged.

  “I can’t. I don’t want to jinx my investigation by talking about it before I have proof. And I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.”

  Tuesday perked up. “Superstitions?”

  “Yeah. Don’t laugh. You have tea leaves, I have superstitions.

  He kissed her goodbye, light, tender, then held her for a moment. “Call me if you get any news,” he said. She walked him to his car, went back inside and turned on the TV. Nothing new.

  At six, Clipper returned and tried to interest Tuesday in some dinner but she refused. “I can’t eat. Please don’t make me.”

  He foraged in her kitchen and made some eggs for himself while Tuesday wept freely on the couch. He couldn’t see her from where he ate standing at the counter. She feared she was becoming a burden, but convinced that by now they’d been killed.

  She wandered into the kitchen and cleaned up his dishes, even though he protested. “I don’t mind,” she said, forlorn. “It gives me something to do.”

  “I’m bothered by something,” he said, putting the eggs back in the refrigerator. “Before he starts at the Café, Marco has a job that pays no more than a fry cook’s wages. But public records show he and Natasha are partners.”

  “So. Everyone knows that.”

  “Where’d he get the money? He’d have to put up some partnership equity. Where did he get the money? Someone else is behind that restaurant. I just can’t figure out who.”

  “Could the director be an investor in the Café?”

  “He’s not listed on the partnership. It’s a matter of public record. A silent partner, maybe, but why? And why would he sabotage his own business. That’s not it. I’m stumped.”

  Clipper turned on the TV to a talent show to pass the time. Tuesday was restless. She went to her computer and checked for messages, then Facebook posts. She suddenly had a brainstorm of her own.

  Soon she said, “Clipper, look at this.” He leaned over her shoulder at
the page on deadly plants that are hard to detect in humans. One in particular had caught Tuesday’s attention. “Read what it says about the death camas.”

  Clipper scanned the article. “I’ve heard of it. Yeah, that’s the one I was telling you about. Also called a death lily. That’s what I found. Mimics a heart attack in humans. That makes sense, but look. It grows up in the mountains. Where would somebody get it? And there was no food at Electra’s place. That’s why I discounted it.”

  Tuesday rushed to explain. “When Marco showed up late and Natasha made me work in the kitchen, Rowena the sous chef. That’s his assistant. Anyway, she took over the cooking. She was all upset because they were supposed to have some special soup on the menu or something. Anyway, it was made with spring onions from Marco’s garden. I saw the recipe. Read the description of the lily. It resembles spring onions. People pulling wild onions can mistake it for the garden-variety onion. And it’s impossible to detect without special tests.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Marco’s garden is the heart of the Café’s food. He’s got this famous green thumb. His garden has been in magazines as well as his recipes. Maybe he’s been growing the death lily himself. Didn’t you say there was a half empty bowl of soup in Ariel’s apartment?”

  She paused. “How can I get Gregory’s last name and phone number. He’s the lily guy.”

  Clipper got on the phone and called a friend. After a few minutes Tuesday had the number and made a call. “Okay, thank you so much, Greg. Yes, I’ll let you know when I hear anything. Thanks.”

  She gave the news to Clipper. “Growing it in the garden is easy peasy. Just that no one does it because it is so dangerous.”

  He was excited. He paced, walking them through the possibilities. “Ariel’s stomach contents didn’t show any food. But we’ll put that aside for the moment. He could make a special dish for the victims and put the onion slash lily in it. I really like this, except for one thing. How does he feed it to the victims? He has an air tight alibi for all three murders.”

  “Brava delivers the soup. Does the deed. Can we go and look in his garden?”

  “Would you know what you were looking for? Can you identify this plant?”

  “Um, no. Not my specialty, but there are photos here on the website.”

  “We don’t need a warrant because we’re not the law, but we would be trespassing. Not that I’m not above getting quote lost in someone’s backyard. But if LAPD has let him go, then he’d most likely be home and would never let us in. We have to call Jameson. Let her follow up.”

  “And then what? Do nothing?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  Tuesday settled on the couch again, unable to shake the feeling of déjà vu. Hadn’t she done this at Olivia’s? Find the important clue for the police department?

  At nine Natasha called again. “Come do your thing with the tea.”

  “What do you mean? You want me to come to work?”

  “No. I vant you to rrrrread my leafs. Tell me vat’s going on. Give me some good news. The customers are staying home tonight.”

  Normally, she made every effort to hide her accent, trying to become as American as her citizenship papers avowed.

  Tuesday’s face registered the disbelief she felt at Natasha’s turnaround in her opinion of readings. But, she agreed and Clipper said he would drive. It was something to do.

  Backing out of the parking spot in front of Tuesday’s apartment building, he speculated, “Maybe I can figure out how to ask her about her financial arrangement with Marco.”

  But that was not to be. A few customers dotted the tables in the front dining room. The kitchen, where Rowena reigned this night, was quiet. Natasha poured Clifford a Drambuie while Tuesday made the tea. He sat at the bar while she rushed off to hear Tuesday explain what she could expect from the reading.

  “I can’t predict the future. You know that.”

  “Just tell me something good. I’m going crazy worrying what’s going on. How did my cat kill those women? That’s vat I vant to know. Am I going to jail?”

  Tuesday tried to get Tessa and Holley out of her mind. She forced herself to focus and not let distractions interfere with the reading. She instructed Natasha on how to leave a few drops of tea in her cup and turn it upside down to distribute the leaves.

  Tuesday wrapped her scarf around it and studied the symbols.

  Natasha leaned over, anxiously. “Vat do you see? Tell me.”

  “Just give me a minute, Natasha. Don’t rush me.”

  “This is a mistake. Vat does a bunch of tea leafs know. Hurry up. I have to tend to my customers. There is such bad news on TV about the Cat tonight. I have to be at my best.”

  Tuesday put her hand on Natasha’s. “Stay calm and listen. I have some information for you.”

  Natasha’s eyes were as wide as moons. “Tell me.”

  Tuesday pointed to the bottom of the cup. “You see the ape?”

  Natasha looked at her perplexed.

  “Here are the arms climbing up the side. The head is over here. You have a secret enemy. Someone wants to do you harm. You must be on the alert.”

  “Bah. You need to read leafs to tell me that? Everybody wants to do me harm. They ruin my cat, bring suspicion of murder on my head, take my chef away from me. Who isn’t my enemy tonight? They vant to ruin my business.”

  Then Tuesday pointed to a cluster of leaves near the handle. “See here? A scissor. You will have to cut something or somebody loose. Let go of something important to you.”

  Natasha scowled. “I don’t like that. I’m going to lose something? What kind of reading is this? You are supposed to give me good news.”

  “And I will. The good news is here, on this side of the cup. All these leaves form an apple tree. You will come through this in good shape. The change is for the better. I assure you. There is good news in this cup.”

  Natasha seemed at a loss for words. A mantle of tension lifted from Tuesday’s shoulders. Her cup was largely positive. Perhaps, by association with the Café, things would also turn out well for her. Holley and Tessa would appear, unharmed. Not only that, by demonstrating the power of the reading, she might have a higher standing in Natasha’s eyes.

  “So,” insisted Natasha. “Where is it? Where is this good fortune? I look around me and I don’t see it. I want it now! You promised me.”

  Tuesday rolled her eyes. And for this she wasn’t even getting paid.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Shortcut

  On the way to his SUV, Clipper put his arm around Tuesday’s shoulders and drew her to him. “It’s almost eleven. Let me take you home so you can try to get some sleep.”

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “You look good enough to eat with a spoon. But this has been a day. A good night’s sleep cures many ills.”

  “Will it bring them home?”

  “Try it, okay?” As he reached for his keys, he pulled out his harmonica and blew a few lines of a country and western song. Tuesday sank her forehead into his chest. She didn’t know the music, but she let the sweet, nostalgic tune sweep over her.

  “I know a short cut,” he said. “I’ll have you home in fifteen minutes.”

  “Impossible,” she answered. “I’ve driven this route for almost a year and I know every shortcut. Can’t be done in under twenty-seven minutes.”

  “Watch me.”

  “No driving over anybody’s lawn,” she said and buckled up. “And don’t rush on my account. You know I won’t sleep a wink until I know they are safe.”

  For ten minutes they wound through streets, some well lighted, some dark, some familiar, some new to her. He turned a corner and at the end of the street they saw a bright streetlight overlooking a stop sign. A woman leaned against the pole. As they got closer and Clipper slowed for the stop, Tuesday stared, leaned over the dash to peer through the windshield.

  “STOP!” she yelled. Her hands flapped frantically, signaling him to pull over.
<
br />   She turned her head, gazed openmouthed at Clifford. “That’s my mother.”

  Chapter Forty: Cut To The Chase

  Within minutes of Clipper ending his call to Jameson, helicopters droned overhead, their spotlights sweeping over the neighborhood like gigantic Cyclops. Sirens screamed in the distance, the decibels climbing louder as they got closer. Suddenly, the blue, red and white lights of a dozen squad cars careened down the street and surrounded the SUV, armored SWAT team vehicles right behind. Residents streamed out of their houses to investigate, some shouting that their children were sleeping.

  Tuesday and Tessa clutched each other, teary, disbelieving.

  Without waiting for introductions, Clipper separated them. “Ma’am. Time is running out. Where are they? Where were they heading when you got out of the car? We need to know.”

  The search continued through the night. Tessa explained their day. Brava promised a picnic with other cast members, a short break in Griffiths Park. Then she began behaving oddly, insisting they stop someplace else so they could have soup. She pulled out a gun and made them throw their phones out the window. Tessa, new to LA, had no idea where they’d driven, but often it was in circles. After dark, Brava slowed down. Tessa rushed the console in the front seat and unlocked the back doors. She fell out of the back seat, but by the time Holley realized the plan, Brava took off, the back door swinging open and she careened around a corner.

  She didn’t know where she was or how long she’d been standing by the streetlight. Thirty-minutes? An hour? She was in a state of shock. She was coming round and had decided to knock on doors for help just as Clipper and Tuesday arrived. Where was Brava? Who knows?

  At the police station, the director, sobered by the latest development, answered all questions, but shook so badly he couldn’t hold the coffee cup that Detective Butel offered him in the interrogation room. The hefty detective was conducting Vitale’s interview while Jameson headed up the search for his wife and Holley.