by J. R. Ripley
I had to hand it to the cops, they were quick. I don’t think if I’d yelled ‘Free beer!’ at an Arizona State University frat that a bunch of guys could have moved any quicker. Maybe it was a slow day. Maybe all the loonies were out worshipping the sun gods or aligning their chakras while listening to some self-help program on the local NPR station.
Whatever it was, they were lightning quick – Zeus quick.
The big detective in the lead burst through my front door, his right hand laid atop the gun snuggled up in his holster. He was quite dashing, actually.
At least, I expected he was a detective, decked out in that cheap brown cotton suit and milk-stained tie. In the movies, these guys were always the detectives. Unless they were from Miami, then they dressed like David Caruso and Jonathan Togo, or so I’d been told. I’ve never been to Miami.
Those guys on CSI: Miami knew how to dress. Well, at least their wardrobe person knew how to dress them. I wouldn’t have minded dressing either of them myself.
Two men in blue followed close behind. Hmmm, either they were with my detective friend or I had misread the situation completely. Maybe this was all a big coincidence. He was a baddie and these two delightful and hardworking officers of the law were in pursuit.
‘Please, step aside,’ ordered the big guy. Before I could move a muscle, he’d placed a hand on each of my trembling shoulders and moved me toward the window.
He pointed at Clive. ‘Check him out!’
Since the boys in blue responded by approaching Clive, who still lay peacefully against my counter, I figured I’d been right in the first place. They were definitely a party of three.
While the stern-faced blond cop focused his weapon on Clive, the second one moved in and felt the side of Clive’s neck. He turned to the big guy in the rumpled suit.
Didn’t he know how badly cotton wrinkles? Sheesh, he’d have been better off, in his line of work, with polyester. Or how about gabardine or wool? No, too hot in summer for wool. This was Arizona, after all. Land of the heat wave. But, hey, it’s a dry heat. Which, if you ask me, is about as pleasant as the dry heaves, but that’s just my opinion—
‘He’s alive,’ said the cop hovering over Clive.
The big man’s well-formed forehead formed ripples. ‘Are you sure?’
The cop nodded. ‘Here come the EMTs. You can ask them if you don’t believe me.’
He sighed. Not a bad sound. ‘I believe you.’ He turned his gaze on me. Those were yummy brown eyes, sort of the color of brown M&Ms. I like M&Ms. He wasn’t exactly looking at me with affection, though.
I squirmed and took a step closer to the window. I’d have gone through it but it was solid glass and I wasn’t good at transmutation. I’ve heard there are several folks wandering around Table Rock who are. I’m just not one of them.
I discovered I was shaking my head. ‘That’s not him.’
The big guy crossed his arms over his chest like he was going in for the kill. Hmmm, this was not the way I wanted or expected this to go. I pushed down the hem of my shorts and swiped at my black T-shirt. That smudge of powdered sugar down the front wasn’t helping my look.
Two EMTs reached for my new neighbor, Clive, while a third ran back from the ambulance with a stretcher.
‘I’m going to need to get your statement,’ said the brown-suited man. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit, pulled out an overstretched sad black leather wallet and extracted a business card, which he handed to me. ‘Detective Mark Highsmith.’
I chewed my lower lip and fiddled with his card.
‘You are?’
I watched poor Clive being carted out the door. ‘That’s not the dead guy.’ I pointed at the stretcher.
Detective Highsmith followed my finger. ‘I know that’s not a dead guy.’ He didn’t sound happy. ‘What made you think he was dead? Didn’t you check his pulse?’
‘Well, no.’ I was beginning to feel a little nervous and defensive. ‘I did adjust his neck.’ He was close enough for me to catch a whiff of Old Spice. So, the guy was old school. And he looked so young.
His left eyebrow twitched.
‘He was leaning a little to the left. I straightened him out.’ I rotated my hands to demonstrate. I could feel the sweat pooling up on the bottoms of my synthetic rubber flip-flops.
He pulled a yellow pencil, with impressive sleight of hand, from inside his coat pocket – what was the man, part magician? Did he keep a white rabbit in there, too? Maybe a string of multi-colored scarves knotted together? OK, so now you know, I love magic.
Not that there’d been any magic in my love life of late.
Highsmith scratched behind his right ear with the eraser end. The tip was all smudgy black. Looked like the guy made a lot of mistakes.
Like he was making now.
‘I’m telling you, Officer—’
‘Detective.’
I gulped. ‘Detective.’ My eyes followed the EMTs as Clive was shoved into the rear of the ambulance and whisked away, lights flashing. ‘If you’ll just let me explain—’
‘Clive! What’s happening?’ A white-fleshed fellow no wider at the shoulders than he was at the hips had burst through the door. His hands were thrust out at his sides, fingers spread. ‘What’s happened to Clive?’
He wore a black button-down short-sleeved shirt that looked like real silk and tight black jeans. Man, I’d never have dared wear a pair of jeans that tight. Well, if I had as little body fat as this guy, sure, but not in my current condition.
His eyes bounced off Highsmith and me, then zeroed back in on me. Just my luck. ‘What’s happened to Clive?’ he demanded. There was a feminine quality to his voice and I didn’t think it was merely the heightened emotion of the moment.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ I said, thrusting out my hand. ‘I’m Maggie Miller. Clive came in to introduce himself and then when I screamed and he saw the dead guy—’ I shrugged. ‘Well, he just fainted.’
The stranger gasped and his hands flew to his cheeks. Up close, I could see that his wavy hair was blacker than nature had ever intended. His eyes were a nice charcoal blue though. His affect, however, was all coxcomb. That’s the kind of affect that affects me. And not in a good way.
‘Who are you, anyway?’ Seeing as how he wasn’t going to shake my hand, I put it back where it belonged – masking the powdered sugar blotch on my T-shirt.
‘Johnny Wolfe.’ He turned to the detective. ‘Who are you? Are you the police? Where have they taken Clive?’
Detective Highsmith took a deep breath, which seemed to pull all four walls of the bakery closer together. Man, this guy had some lungs. ‘Relax, Mr Wolfe. The emergency team has taken your friend to the medical center for evaluation and treatment. Mesa Verde, I’d guess.’
‘Hey,’ I said, gears in my head turning and suddenly meshing. ‘Johnny Wolfe.’ I beamed. ‘I know that name.’ I pointed an accusing finger. ‘You were the nineteen ninety-six Winter Olympics bronze medalist.’
‘I should have won the gold,’ he grumbled as he pirouetted out the door or whatever it is that figure skaters do when they spin around on dry land instead of hard ice.
He stepped out into the sun and, I swear, I almost went blind. The glossy hair gel he drenched his au not naturel hair with must’ve had a reflectance factor that was off the charts. His follicles lit up like Fourth of July sparklers. They’d probably catch fire just as easily too, given how flammable I’d read some of those hair products currently on the market can be.
Where did Johnny think he was? At the XIX Olympic Games? I had news for him. This wasn’t Salt Lake City, home of the Salt Lake City Ice Center, nor BYU, home of the MRS degree. This was Table Rock, Arizona. Home of the University of Metaphysical Theology where you could get your degree in something with real world application, like paranormal studies and crystal skull communications and analysis.
Hmmm, well, I guess I had to give Johnny that one. He fit right in here in Table Rock.
I watche
d him disappear into a black BMW convertible and wondered what his relationship to Clive was all about. Was this the husband he’d mentioned? Was this Mr Clive? Heaven help him if it was.
I caught sight of the two men in blue idling beside their squad car parked at the edge of the sidewalk, stiff paper coffee cups in hand. I recognized the logo and the branding. Karma Koffee occupied one of the storefronts across the street from me. I’m not sure that they were keen on me opening directly opposite them – we did both sell coffee, after all. But I was mainly pushing the beignet and chicory coffee experience. They were more the organic, exotic, home ground, high-end place that people like me couldn’t afford.
I could tolerate them if they could tolerate me. Live and let live, I always say. Well, except for the dead guy in my storeroom.
‘You wanna tell me about this dead body you keep telling everybody about?’
Detective Highsmith was way too close for comfort. A girl could overdose on Old Spice if she wasn’t careful. I gulped and nodded, tugging the hem of my shorts down again. Darn things kept riding up. ‘Follow me,’ I said. ‘He’s through here.’
I took a step toward the space between the genuine Formica counter and the wall that led to the storeroom, then paused. ‘Better yet,’ I said, pushing the cop forward, ‘you first.’
The long countertop bisecting the shop to maintain the shopkeeper/customer relationship was a hideous lime green and flecking away at the corners. Its color pretty much summed up how I was feeling. If I had my way, I’d take a sledgehammer to it. But it sort of goes with the theme, so I’m making it work by working around it. Besides, it came with the place and replacing it would cost money I didn’t have for such frivolities.
There was a hinged section of the counter that I could drop down to keep the customers at bay. So far, I hadn’t seen any reason to use it. I hadn’t had any customers. Except for dead guy and I didn’t think he’d paid for anything – customer wasn’t technically the word I’d use to describe him.
He certainly hadn’t left a tip in the jam jar from the local Safeway supermarket that had been reincarnated into my tip jar. I’d check the till later to double check. Maybe he’d helped me out by putting the money directly in the register. Crazier things had been known to happen. Like the way he’d stuffed himself into a carton in my backroom when I wasn’t watching.
Maybe if I’d used my piano-hinged countertop earlier it would have kept the dead guy out of my storeroom.
Then again, he may have come shipped from the factory direct. And that big box store down in Phoenix had tacked on shipping charges based on the weight of my order. Dead guy must’ve weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, maybe more!
I pulled a face. No way was I going to pay the shipping charges for that carton!
Before stepping behind the counter, the detective gave me a wary look like he suspected I was going to trick him – maybe clobber him when he wasn’t looking and steal his gun – but after only the briefest moment of hesitation he stepped ahead of me. I guess he figured he was so tough that even if I did try to clobber him, he wouldn’t be fazed one bit.
Sadly, I thought, inspecting my bare arms and under-toned biceps, he was probably right.
I guided him to the box in question with its questionable contents. I mean, all I’d wanted was a couple of chairs for my dining room. He inched toward the box and pulled back the flap, then extracted a handful of bubble wrap. He spoke calmly in clipped tones into the radio he’d somehow dug out of his pocket without anyone seeing. Magic, see?
‘Chip, Webster. You guys better get back in here.’
He shot a picture with his cell phone then drew a knife from his pocket. His pants pocket this time. I guess the magic was gone, dissipated like the effects of a fine glass of zinfandel the morning after. ‘You wanna step back?’
Gladly, I thought, taking two giant steps to the rear. I watched as he sliced the box down the side seam. A man’s body came into view. His head was slightly turned. I fought the urge to barge in and straighten him out to get a better look. As it turns out, that wasn’t necessary. As the bubble wrap fell away, his face became clear.
‘Rick!’
Big Easy Beignets
The beignet is the Louisiana state doughnut. Personally, eating a plateful always puts me in sugary heaven … Here’s what you’ll need to create your own little bites of heaven:
1/2 cup water
1 tablespoon yeast (active dry yeast – none of that lazy inactive yeast – but not too active. I don’t know what hyperactive yeast will do to a beignet but I’d rather not find out. You don’t want your beignets flying around the kitchen, just into your mouth)
7 1/2 cups flour
1/4 cup shortening
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup give or take confectioner’s sugar for dusting
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup boiling water
1 quart vegetable oil (I recommend cottonseed, but you can substitute your own)
1 cup evaporated milk
2 large eggs, lightly beaten (you may not know what they did wrong but they do)
Combine active dry yeast and half a cup of warm water in a bowl; let stand for five minutes. Then, combine the shortening, sugar and salt in a second bowl. Pour the boiling water over the shortening mixture and then stir in the evaporated milk. When the mixture cools to lukewarm, add the yeast/water mixture and beaten eggs. Mix in the flour until the dough forms a ball. The dough should be relatively soft, not firm like a pie crust. Cover the dough with plastic wrap and refrigerate for thirty minutes to one hour. Longer is OK, too. Personally, I just can’t wait any longer!
Spread a generous layer of flour on your countertop or prep surface, then roll out the dough a quarter-inch thick. Cut the rolled out dough into two- to three-inch squares. You can use your pizza cutter for this, if you have one. It works perfectly.
If you do not have a fryer, heat your oil for frying in a deep and wide skillet or pot. You want a vessel deep enough for them to float in. And remember, the temperature to shoot for is 370°F. Carefully slide your cut dough into the deep fryer and cook until puffy golden brown. This could take three to five minutes. Remove finished beignets and place them on a paper towel to drain and cool for a moment. Next, sprinkle powder sugar to taste and … enjoy!
THREE
The next urge I found myself fighting was the urge to barf. Have you ever seen a dead guy? Twice?
OK, then, twice within the span of several minutes in the back of your own shop? Your own beignet shop?
I didn’t think so. Well, I just had. Though his face was puffy and gray and his eyes looked like miniature billiard balls had been callously lodged in his eye sockets, I recognized this dead guy. This was my landlord, Rick Wilbur.
My mouth snapped shut when Detective Highsmith’s neck turned around and I found those M&Ms of his staring down at me. I straightened my back but I wasn’t getting any taller.
I tried not to look at Rick but the battle was lost. It’s hard to look at a dead guy. It’s even harder not to look. I pushed Detective Highsmith to the right, hoping to block Mr Wilbur from my view.
Unfortunately, it was at that time that I lost the fight I was having with my acid-filled stomach. I barfed all over Detective Highsmith’s lace-up brown shoes. They must have cost a pretty penny, too, because boy did he howl. You’d have thought I’d stepped on his toes or ran over his precious puppy with my bicycle or something. Did he even own a dog?
‘Hey!’ he cried, leaping back and swatting at his pants. I’m not sure why. My barf hadn’t come anywhere near his trousers. Highsmith lost his balance, slipped on something wet on the floor and went careening into the box containing my landlord. ‘What the—’
There were a couple of snickers from the boys in blue. And, well, there might have been one or two from me as well, but I attributed that to the state of shock I was falling into. That wet slick on the floor I attributed to the vomit I’d just scattered over my storeroom floor. I’d just
had, and passed, my county health inspection, too. I sure hoped this didn’t cost me any points on my health certificate.
The young man named Chip Kurkov, according to his very handsome badge, stuck his hand out. Highsmith latched on and together they heaved him off the box and out of Rick Wilbur’s lap.
After dusting himself off, Detective Highsmith slowly turned and approached. I’d flopped down on a wooden stool at the work counter along the wall between the storeroom and the storefront. I was having a hard time seeing straight and felt like my body was trying to turn itself inside out.
As his shadow fell over me, I said, ‘Is it crazy cold in here, or is it just me?’ I attempted a disarming smile. A failed attempt, as it turns out.
His scowl didn’t exactly signal compassion. Neither had he been disarmed – both arms were present and accounted for. In fact, he was heavily armed judging by the girth of the textured grip of the gun at his side. At least it was still in its holster. Always a good sign when talking to an officer of the law.
Still, he grabbed a ratty old navy blue parka I kept on a stickup hook beside the walk-in cooler and held it out to me. ‘Put this on.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. My mouth tasted like the inside of a garbage disposal and I was pretty sure that my tongue had swelled to the size of a boiled liverwurst. I draped the parka over my shoulders. I was shaking so badly I started making plans for a dental appointment to order some new teeth. These were definitely at their breaking point.
A woman in a crisp white shirt and loose black slacks moved Highsmith gently to the side. She pushed a strand of way-too-healthy-looking blonde hair behind her ear, then strapped a blood pressure cuff over my upper arm. ‘She’s in shock.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ That was me.
‘Tell me about Rick.’ That was Detective Highsmith.
My eyes fluttered toward the carton o’Wilbur. When had the storeroom filled with people?
Wow, if I could get this many paying customers tomorrow, the business would be off to a flying start. I forced myself to meet the detective’s gaze. The blood pressure cuff hurt like the dickens and I hoped this woman would finish up. Instead, she stuck a thermometer in my mouth. ‘Heshmylanard.’ The thermometer moved like a Radio City Music Hall Rockette.
