Buried in Beignets

by J. R. Ripley

  He snatched it from my lips and handed it back to the medic. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘She’s in shock.’ The blonde’s blue eyes flashed warning signals.

  ‘She’s a witness to a murder. Heck, she might be a murderer,’ he said, lowering his face to mine and searching my eyes as if a written confession might be rolled up in my cornea somewhere.

  ‘I didn’t kill anybody. I found him like that. Then I called Information.’

  ‘You called Information?’ The medic looked confused. I guess it was because she was a blonde.

  ‘Not on purpose. I got confused. Then I called you guys.’ I waved at Highsmith and the million-odd other men and women sucking all the air out of my storeroom. ‘The cops.’

  ‘Do you want to explain about this Clive person I found on the ground when I got here? What’s Clive’s relationship to you? How did he get hurt? Was there a struggle?’

  I swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of air. I figured I’d better get a couple in before all these people used it all up. ‘In the first place, Clive was not on the ground. He was leaning carefully, neatly, against the counter.’ I was getting a bit hot under the collar from all this negativity. The infrared light that was supposed to be used to keep beignets warm but I was using for a work light at the back counter could also have been part of the problem. I was mad, though. And tired. And just a wee bit queasy.

  Dead guy, remember?

  ‘In the second place, there was no struggle. Unless you want to count the struggle I had lugging Clive’s unconscious butt out of the storeroom.’ I glared at Highsmith. ‘After he fainted.’

  The medic unwound the blood pressure cuff. ‘A little high,’ she said brightly. ‘But considering the circumstances,’ she glanced at the crime scene behind us, ‘not unexpected.’

  I nodded.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Maggie,’ I replied. ‘Maggie Miller.’

  The medic turned to Detective Highsmith. ‘Miss Miller here has had quite a shock. She needs to be evaluated more fully. Shock can be dangerous if not treated.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ I squeaked. What was the worst that could happen?

  She nodded sagely. ‘Hypoxemia, cardiac arrest, diaphoresis, poor end-organ perfusion.’ She paused, then added, ‘Confusion.’

  Confusion was right. I didn’t know what most of that gibberish was she’d just spouted but fear of them was only serving to make my shock, well, more shocking.

  ‘I suppose …’ Highsmith said, somewhat reluctantly. Gee, what a sweetheart.

  ‘Detective?’

  It was Chip again. Good old Chip. Help a man when he’s down, Chip.

  ‘What is it, Kurkov?’

  Chip held out his hand. Rather girlish fingers, if you ask me. ‘We found this in the box between the victim’s legs. There’s blood on it. Probably the victim’s …’

  Huh, so that’s where my rolling pin had gone.

  Detective Highsmith’s fingers latched over my wrist. ‘Let’s go down to the station,’ he said.

  Somehow, I didn’t think he was asking me out on a date.

  As we swung through the front, I tossed the parka over the counter, then grabbed my purse from the table where I’d dropped it when I came into the shop. I hitched the strap over my shoulder. ‘What about my shop?’

  ‘Closed for business.’

  Ouch. I hadn’t even officially opened yet.

  FOUR

  ‘Is there a Mr Miller?’ Highsmith asked.

  ‘Is there another detective I can talk to?’ I countered. I was still mad that he’d kept me waiting while he changed into a clean pair of trousers he kept stashed in his locker. It wasn’t my fault he’d fallen in barf. Not completely, anyway.

  He smiled. I didn’t like it. It was the first time I’d seen him smile since I’d met him. ‘Nope.’ He flattened his hands against the table.

  I turned up the corner of my mouth. ‘Why not? The rest of the bunch out raiding yoga studios for serving up non-organic chai tea? Or scouring kiddie daycare centers looking for underage toddlers?’

  I had a bit of a smart mouth and I was on a roll. Sometimes it could get me into trouble so I tried to watch myself. Apparently, I wasn’t watching myself too closely this afternoon. And after finding a dead guy in my shop and my rolling pin between said dead guy’s legs, you’d think I’d be at the top of my game.

  Highsmith’s reply cut into my self-analysis. ‘Because I’m the only detective the department’s got.’ The smile never left his face. ‘Table Rock’s got as many dog catchers as it’s got detectives. Animal control officers, if you want to be politically correct.’

  Wow. One detective in the whole Table Rock Police Department? Who’d have thought? Not me.

  And one dog catcher? Now I knew who not to call if I ever had a wild animal like a coyote to deal with or even a hyperactive poodle. I pulled myself up. The slouch was never a good look. Mom always chided me about my tendency to curl into myself.

  ‘Sit up straight, Maggie, dear,’ she’d always say. ‘A man doesn’t want to marry a jellyfish.’ Those words had always annoyed me. Still did. But I made an effort to heed Mom’s advice now because I really needed to be a little nicer to this guy. Table Rock’s only detective, remember?

  He repeated his last question. ‘So, Ms Miller, is there a Mr Miller?’ He was holding his magic pencil. It hovered over a top-hinged spiral notepad.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Highsmith’s eyebrows shot up so fast I thought the inertia would lift him right out of his chair.

  ‘Don’t get all flustered,’ I added quickly. ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  I sensed a certain dubiousness. ‘Hey, if you don’t believe me,’ I said, my impatience showing, ‘just ask him.’

  The detective leaned back in his chair and huffed out a breath. The chair balanced precariously on its back two legs. I wondered how long that would last. I’d seen lesser legs break under the strain.

  ‘OK,’ I said, letting out a woof of air myself. Unfortunately, I’d let it out through my nose and the accompanying whistle was definitely unladylike. Sounded a bit like Yankee Doodle – and I’m a Georgia girl. I’ve never even been to Connecticut.

  ‘He lives in Phoenix and he’s driving a truck.’ I paused and glanced out the window. Maybe I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a happier time. Maybe I just needed to look at something besides Detective Highsmith. ‘We’re divorced,’ I added, still looking out the window.

  ‘I see.’

  I doubted if he did. Heck, I didn’t really see it myself.

  I blotted back a tear before turning around to face Detective Highsmith. The last thing I wanted was for this guy to see me crying.

  After running through the basics: name, address, ad nauseam, Highsmith got down to business. He leaned in for the kill. That freshly sharpened pencil looked terribly weapon-like. I promised myself not to say or do anything that might provoke a pencil attack.

  ‘You said you randomly opened the box with your box cutter. Did you notice any sign that the box had been tampered with?’

  I thought hard. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that a question or an answer?’ he scowled.

  I really wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of anything right now except that my nerves were frayed. I answered as definitely as I could. ‘Yes?’

  Highsmith squeezed his eyes shut. ‘How well did you know Richard Wilbur?’

  My shoulders bounced up and down. ‘Not well.’ I ran the back of my hand across my forehead. It came back damper than it had been when it started its journey. ‘Is it hot in here?’ I fanned myself.

  ‘Define “not well.”’

  I resisted the urge to shrug once again. ‘I’ve only been in town about six weeks.’ I thought back to those, in hindsight, simpler times. With the divorce finalized but my feelings for my now ex still fresh in my mind, I’d made the trip from Phoenix to Table Rock.

  Time for a new start and all th
at. Besides, I had a support system here. Like I said, a sister, her kids and our mother. The fact that my new start was a hundred-plus miles from my dead husband was a bonus. A Big Bonus.

  Barely divorced six months, Brian had already found and made an honest woman out of a divorcee with two kids of her own. Funny, when we were married, he’d never wanted children.

  I couldn’t get far enough away from Brian and his new family for comfort. And I’d have gone further, too, but Table Rock was far enough for the old Plymouth Neon. Maybe Old Red, as I liked to call her, had been drawn to the red rocks this part of the world was known for. I got that.

  ‘I met Mr Wilbur – Rick – a week or so after I got here. I was shopping for a location for my business. Wilbur Realty owns a number of properties in the area.’

  He nodded, so I continued. ‘I signed the lease about a month ago.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw the victim?’

  I gave it some thought. ‘Two, three days ago?’ To tell the truth, I had no idea. The detective had me so worked up I couldn’t think straight.

  ‘Is it two or is it three?’ His pencil went up and down.

  I thought harder. ‘Two.’ He started writing. ‘No. Three.’

  He stopped writing. He glared.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I growled. ‘Let’s call it two and a half.’ I smiled prettily.

  Highsmith cleared his throat and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘So, you saw Mr Wilbur two or three days ago.’ He sounded a bit rattled. He rubbed his cheek. ‘How did he end up in a box in your storeroom?’

  ‘Parcel post?’

  Highsmith responded with a stone-faced silence. It had been a lame joke and I knew it. Here I was poking fun at the dead. Shame on me.

  ‘Look, Detective, Rick was kind enough to give me thirty days free rent to give me time to get Maggie’s Beignet Café up and running. He was nice to me,’ I said. ‘Why would I want to kill him?’

  The knock on the small conference room door kept the detective from replying. A tall, skinny young man who could only be described as a hippie entered the room. He had long, dirty blond hair pulled into a stiff ponytail that hung over his left shoulder. His tie-dye shirt was so bright pilots of small planes could use it to guide themselves safely in on night landings. His denim shorts were too big on him, but then anything was probably too big on this rail-thin specimen with legs like volleyball net poles.

  Come to think of it, this young man was just about tall enough to pass the test to become a flagpole. Hoist up the shirt and presto! No need for air traffic controllers.

  ‘Detective Highsmith?’ he inquired, one hand reaching forward. A tattered, spiral-patterned hemp bracelet flopped around his slender wrist.

  Highsmith rose. By the look on his face, I could see the detective was obviously struggling with the sight before him. ‘That’s me.’ Highsmith shot a look down the hall, as if wondering how on earth this guy had made it this deep into the police station. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m here to assist Ms Miller.’ The two men shook and sized each other up, the way men and apes always seemed to do. I noticed that though Highsmith was easily over six foot, he came up short in comparison to the man who’d just entered the room, all six foot five of him.

  Highsmith’s surprise couldn’t have been more apparent. Maybe he thought the guy was here to sell me some incense or mind-altering drugs. That would be pretty gutsy of him, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Hi, Andy.’ I sighed. ‘How did you find out?’ So soon, too.

  Andy allowed himself a smile. ‘Get used to it, Mag. You aren’t in Phoenix anymore. Table Rock’s a small town.’ He eased up behind my chair and rubbed my shoulders affectionately. ‘Jean over at the Enlightenment Art Gallery noticed all the commotion. She phoned Donna.’

  ‘And Donna phoned you.’

  He nodded.

  Donna is my kid sister. Andy Singer is her husband, my brother-in-law. A sweet kid. He could also be a pretty sharp attorney – when he wanted to be, which he mostly did not these days. He and Donna ran the Mother Earth/Father Sun Grocers a couple of blocks over from my fledgling beignet business. They’re all New Agey. I’m more middle agey.

  Andy had given up one of those high-powered attorney jobs you only read about to become an organic farmer and shopkeeper.

  Though I’d never gotten the whole organic thing, I was beginning to build a case for nepotism.

  ‘You’re a lawyer?’ From the incredulity in Highsmith’s voice, you’d think Andy had just confessed to being Kris Kringle.

  ‘Yep. Funny, huh?’ Andy was beaming. He loved throwing people off guard. He said it made them easier to manipulate. It was like judo but without having to get your knees dirty. ‘Are we done here? Is Ms Miller free to go?’

  Detective Highsmith nodded but he didn’t look happy about it. He stood over the desk, his pencil tapping against the notebook. ‘We will be able to reach you at this address, won’t we, Ms Miller?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I promised. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Right now, you’re coming home with me,’ said Andy. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Donna’s at the house. She left one of the girls in charge. Truck’s outside.’

  I nodded. Donna normally spent a pretty full day in the food store. I didn’t know what we’d have to talk about though. I didn’t feel much like talking about Rick Wilbur.

  Still, I was glad to be away from Highsmith and his M&Ms. And his questions. I was also glad I wasn’t going to have to walk back to my store. That was a long walk and there was a hot sun up there in the blue sky just waiting to burn me to a crisp – a dehydrated crisp.

  As we passed the desk sergeant on our way out the door, I whispered, ‘Have you even got a license?’

  ‘I’ve been driving since I was fifteen.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He held the station door open, his eyes looking deep into mine. ‘I gave up practicing law. I didn’t give up my license.’

  He hustled me away from the building and out to the parking lot where his cherry condition mid-1955 Chevy pickup sat in one of the slots farthest from the entrance. Andy boasted that the Yukon yellow paint job was factory original. I had to take his word for that. I doubted the original 1955 factory was around to corroborate his claim.

  ‘You do know I can’t afford to pay you anything.’ The full weight of the sun hit me across the back and I thought I’d melt down. ‘I don’t have any money.’

  He waved a hand through the air, then rested it back on the edge of my shoulder. ‘Heck, Maggie, everybody knows that,’ he replied, playfully pushing me toward the Chevy. ‘Besides, you’re family. Won’t cost you a nickel. You may have to put up with hearing my and Donna’s two cents’ worth, though,’ he said from the other side of the truck bed.

  I smiled. ‘I think even I can afford that much.’ But I could have been wrong about that.

  This pickup was Andy’s baby and he loved it almost like his own flesh and blood. Not as much as he loved his wife and boys, but still …

  He’d purchased it from a man down in Tucson and started restoring the truck at home out in the extra bay of their three-car garage. Donna and Andy had resided in one of Scottsdale’s tonier neighborhoods. About the time that the restoration was nearing completion, so were Andy and Donna. He quit his job. Donna resigned from her elementary school position as well and off they went.

  They left behind a lot of worldly possessions. Some very high-end worldly possessions. Donna sold off a Lexus that I’d have given a couple quarts of blood for at the time. But he’d held onto the Chevy. I couldn’t blame him.

  I stroked the side panel before opening the solidly built door and sliding onto the bench seat. The interior was small but comfortable. There was one obdurate spring, however, that seemed to have an affinity for my coccyx every time I sat down inside. I wiggled around a bit in an effort to reach a compromise with the stubborn thing.

  The truck was very
bare bones by today’s standards. That was the way Andy liked it. He was pretty bare bones himself.

  Though it might not have seemed a very ecofriendly vehicle for someone operating an organic farm and food store, Andy had pulled out the original V8 engine and refitted it with a motor running on biodiesel.

  This baby didn’t have a lot of oomph, but she sure did smell good. He twisted the key in the ignition. I could smell the French fries already. Maybe he’d agree to stop at Bell Rock Burgers on the way home if I promised not to squeal on him. Since arriving in Table Rock, I’d discovered they had the best fries. They didn’t skimp on the portion sizes either. I liked that in my fry purveyor of choice.

  ‘You OK?’ He turned to look at me, one foot on the clutch, the other on the brake pedal. ‘You know you can count on me and Donna. Your mom, too.’ He locked his index and middle fingers around one another. ‘Family, right?’

  I shifted in my seat. Suddenly I was feeling a bit more comfortable on this old stiff-springed bench. Yep, nepotism – that’s the way to go. I nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m OK.’ This was my chance. ‘I am a little hungry, though.’

  He smiled and eased the truck out of the small parking lot and onto the main road. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure Donna will have lunch waiting for us when we get home.’

  So much for Bell Rock Burgers. It looked like it was going to be okra burgers and steamed broccoli stalks or something equally as menacing for me.

  ‘OK,’ I said, keeping my true thoughts to myself. ‘After that, I need to get back to the shop. I’m opening tomorrow, you know.’ Plus, I’d left the police rummaging around the place this morning. Who knew what sort of mess they might have left for me to clean up?

  Andy kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the road.

  Did he know something I didn’t?

  There was no way I was putting off opening tomorrow. I was down to my last dollar. I needed to open the doors and see some greenbacks float back in my direction for a change. Besides, I’d spent hundreds of dollars on flyers and an advertisement in the local newspaper, the Table Rock Reader. I couldn’t afford not to open. Customers were counting on me.