Buried in Beignets

by J. R. Ripley

  I took a second sip and pulled the plastic back from my tray of supermarket enchiladas. Of course, the doorbell rang.

  I sighed as I rose from the comfy old sofa – it had come with the apartment because the last tenant had left it behind and my landlord had not wanted to bother to remove the clunky green beast – and approached the front door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called. I didn’t have a peephole and wasn’t about to answer the door to just anybody. I mean, it could have been a door-to-door poncho salesman, or somebody wanting to proselytize me and tell me the wonders of Alpha Centauri’s new religious order or something. It was too bloody hot for a poncho and I wasn’t in the mood for any take-out alien theosophy.

  ‘It’s me, Maggie.’

  I froze colder than the prickly pear margarita in my glass. It was Mom. I paused a little too long because she rang the bell again. ‘Open the door.’

  I pasted on a smile and yanked open the door, letting in a rush of hot dry air. ‘Mom, what a pleasant surprise!’

  It’s not that I don’t love my mom. It’s just that Mom’s a little, well, crazy. When she and I were both younger – as in when I was a teenager – I simply thought she was weird. But then, I was a teenager, so the feeling was probably mutual.

  It wasn’t until after Dad died after almost thirty years of marriage that Mom seemed to, well, flip out, shall we say? Six months after Dad’s passing, Mom had sold the house in Phoenix, packed her things – what she hadn’t given to friends and family or sold off at yard sales – and moved to Table Rock.

  She got all mystical and starry-eyed and dove headfirst into yoga, practicing moves like downward drooping dog doodles, or at least that’s what it sounded like to me.

  And watching her do it? Well, that was just plain mortifying! No child should have to see her mother in those positions! I mean, really, what were the folks who thought up yoga thinking?

  Couldn’t they have come up with something more ladylike for the over-fifty crowd? Mom was pushing sixty.

  Anyway, Mom’s moving up here is what got the old seed of moving planted in Donna’s and Andy’s heads, I suppose. And now I’d ended up here myself. Donna and Andy had their kids, their farm and their food store. Mom had gotten so skilled with her yoga that she now taught a class part-time at a green-certified spa retreat. Me? I was just trying to make sweet beignet treats in between finding dead landlords in my storeroom.

  Mom squeezed me until it hurt. This could only mean one thing – Donna had filled her in on my day. ‘How are you holding up, Maggie?’ She pulled me back to the sofa and pushed me down beside her. One disapproving eye took in my cooling store-bought enchiladas.

  I set my margarita glass beside them atop an old copy of People magazine. Better it should leave a ring on Brad and Angelina than my wood coffee table.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to change into something more comfortable? We could meditate out on the patio.’ She patted my leg.

  ‘This is as comfortable as it gets, Mom,’ I replied, tugging self-consciously at my stained black T-shirt. ‘And if we go out on the patio in this heat, the only contemplating I’m going to be doing is to wonder how long before I can escape back to the air conditioning.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Such as it is.’ The noisy old machine made lots of racket but blew tepid and weak at best. Margarita beckoned. I pulled my drink to my lips.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mom, ignoring my words. Nothing unusual about that. Mom always knows what’s best for me – even when she doesn’t. ‘You’ve got a murder to solve.’

  To say I looked at her rather dubiously would be an understatement. To say I spat margarita all over the lumpy sofa would be more honest. ‘A murder to solve?’ I blubbered skeptically, wiping uselessly at the microfiber pillow cushions.

  ‘Of course. You aren’t going to simply sit here and do nothing while the universe smothers you with negative energy, are you?’

  I twisted my jaw to the side. That was sort of what I’d been planning, at least for the evening. What else was a girl supposed to do on a Thursday night?

  I pushed the enchilada tray Mom’s way. ‘Care for an enchilada?’

  She looked down her nose at my dinner. ‘No, thank you. And you know how unhealthy all those frozen prepared foods are for you.’

  I slid the tray back my way and bit into an enchilada. Rich and not too spicy. Just the way I liked it. ‘Well, I like them.’

  ‘Suit yourself, dear.’

  Sure, I thought, she says that. But she never means it.

  ‘And as far as solving a murder goes, I’ll leave that to the Monks of the world.’

  Mom’s forehead creased. ‘The monks?’

  ‘Like on TV.’ I dropped my enchilada, licked my fingertips, then stuck my hands out and waved them around the room as if my palms were picking up unseen magnetic vibrations. ‘Like that detective on TV. Monk?’

  Mom harrumphed. She was a world-class harrumpher, too. ‘TV never solved anything, Maggie. You should know better.’

  ‘They sure seem to solve a lot of crimes on TV.’ I chomped down the remainder of the first enchilada and washed it down with the dregs of my margarita. Mom was making me nervous and nerves always made me eat.

  I stared forlornly at the glass, wishing I’d made more. If I’d known Mom was dropping by, I would have. Heck, I’d have had a pitcher chilling in the freezer.

  My mother rubbed the long quartz crystal that hung from a gold chain around her neck. ‘As I said, what you need is a good meditation session.’

  ‘How about a good medication instead?’ I suggested.

  She wagged her head. ‘Always with the jokes.’ She eyed me sternly. ‘Tell me, Maggie, just what are you planning to do if your beignet café is forced to remain closed? Or,’ she added, leaning in for the kill, ‘if the police should decide to charge you with murdering Rick Wilbur? What will you do? How will you earn a living? How will you pay your rent? Your bills?’

  My stomach jolted. Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling so hungry. In fact, I was feeling rather clammy. I ran a hand over my forehead. Mom had brought me to my figurative knees and she hadn’t even mentioned the big one – how would I pay her back the money she’d lent me?

  ‘No, what you need, young lady’ – I liked it when she called me that because I was way past young – ‘is to meditate. Let the universe open to you and reveal Rick Wilbur’s killer.’

  Don’t get me wrong. I worship the New Age as much as anybody. And if I could pick a new age, it would be twenty-five – no, make that twenty-seven, still pre-dead husband meeting … My fingers drummed the coffee table nervously. Maybe it was the margarita talking, but I could see that Mom had a point. ‘OK,’ I answered, pushing my hands off my knees. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Mom beamed serenely and stroked her crystal. ‘Do you have the crystal necklace I bought you?’ She stared accusingly at my bare neck. I scurried to my bedroom, pulled the necklace from the dresser drawer and hooked it around my neck in the bathroom.

  What I saw in the mirror was scary. I really needed a shower and a change of clothes.

  ‘Ready, Maggie?’ called my mother.

  I joined her on the small patio off the kitchen. It wasn’t much and there was no view, what with it being a stuccoed concrete block wall that stood six feet tall. At least it was private. Nobody had to see me sitting cross-legged on the concrete communing with Quetzalcoatl or Aunt Jemima or whoever it was that Mom was intending on contacting tonight.

  She patted the hard ground. ‘Have a seat, Maggie.’ Her fuchsia summer caftan was pulled up to her richly tanned knees and she had removed her roman sandals.

  My knees protested as I settled onto the rough patio floor. My butt protested even more. The patio was warm. I really should get some plants to keep out here, add a splash of color. Maybe a cactus in the corner.

  ‘Let’s close our eyes,’ Mom said, taking my hands in hers. ‘First, we must clear our thoughts of all negativity. Let all the bad energy escape, like stale air from a leaky balloon.�
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  I was feeling rather leaky. I nodded and complied, or at least attempted to. But thinking about my mother and my sister – it’s like I’m the only sane person in the entire family.

  I could only hope she didn’t try to bring my father into this. I felt like, ever since Dad died, Mom has been trying to communicate with Dad’s spirit. Up there in the sky somewhere, floating around in the cosmos. I wasn’t sure what freaked me out more – the fact that she’s always trying or the thought that she might succeed.

  I wasn’t at all certain how I’d react if the ghost of Dad suddenly appeared before my eyes, here in the apartment or over at the café, but I was reasonably certain my reactions would involve things like dropping, breaking, shouting, panic, tears, fainting … and calls to the National Enquirer!

  I tugged at my hunk of quartz. Quartz crystals are as ubiquitous around this part of Arizona as red dirt. Believers use the rocks in their quests to expand their minds and to touch the spirit world. According to my mom, crystals also enhance the beneficial life force. Donna even sells crystal water (water that a quartz crystal has been soaking in) at Mother Earth/Father Sun Grocers because of its purported health benefits.

  I wasn’t sure I believed, but I sure wanted to.

  ‘Now,’ my mother said softly, ‘we must follow Rick Wilbur’s energy.’ She squeezed my hands tighter. ‘Can you feel it?’

  I could feel the circulation in my fingers being cut off. I raised an eyelid, sneaking a look at Mom. She wasn’t cheating at all; her green eyes were firmly shut. Mom’s a green-eyed redhead, like me, though she tends to keep hers trimmed shorter than I do. Dad had been a sandy-haired blonde in his youth. When I was a teenager, I’d have killed for hair like his. ‘This is weird,’ I grumbled.

  ‘So is murder,’ my mother answered softly. ‘Now, let’s listen to what the universe tells us.’

  I pricked up my ears, hearing nothing more than the sounds of crickets cricketing, barking frogs barking and my own heart beating.

  I sighed loudly. I didn’t want Mom to miss it.

  Mom shushed me. She jerked my hands. My eyes popped open. Mom’s popped open next.

  I waited, my foot tapping in expectation. ‘Well, anything?’ I looked around the small, cramped patio. At least there was no sign of Dad’s ghost. I sure hoped he wouldn’t be waiting for me in my bedroom and pop out of the closet sometime late in the night.

  ‘Rick Wilbur’s energy is …’ Mom paused, then added, ‘… unsettled. You must help uncover his killer and bring them to justice. Only then will Mr Wilbur’s union with the universe be complete.’

  I rose, dusted off my butt and stuck out my hand to help Mom up. Not that she needed it; what with the daily yoga practice, she was in way better shape than me and twice as agile.

  ‘I have faith in you, Maggie,’ Mom said, wrapping her arms around me at the front door.

  I wished I could say the same for myself. I downed the last cold enchilada and drank a cool glass of water from the tap. I was exhausted mentally, physically and psychically.

  I went to bed. But not before opening the closet and checking it first. ‘Dad?’ I whispered. ‘Are you in here?’ I clutched the inch-long hunk of crystal around my neck and tugged at the slim gold chain. No point bothering to take it off tonight.

  Besides, from what Mom said, these chunks of rock are guaranteed to keep evil spirits at bay. I had a feeling there was one or more hovering nearby, just waiting for the chance to jump me.

  It’s a Stretch

  According to Mom, the Downward-Facing Dog (adho mukha svanasana) is a handstand, forward bend and inversion pose. She performs this pose as part of her sun salutation series but says you can also do it alone. Here are the steps she follows:

  Standing with your feet about hip distance apart (on a yoga mat if you’ve got one) with your arms at your sides, spread your toes, making sure your balance is evenly distributed between both feet.

  Now, keeping your back straight, lean slowly forward from the waist and plant your palms flat on the floor, fingers pointing ahead and spread apart. If necessary, bend your knees (I always do). Once steady, step each foot back until you are in the top part of a push-up. Your hands should be beneath your shoulders and your palms flat on the mat.

  Slowly lift your hips toward the ceiling, sort of like turning your body into an inverted V. Slowly again, press your chest toward your knees, keeping your eyes on your toes, then press your heels toward the floor.

  Take slow deep breaths and move deeper into the pose each time you exhale. If you are flexible enough, Mom says you might be able to touch the floor with your heels like she can. Mom can be quite the show-off.

  TEN

  It had been a long, fitful night. I’d tossed, turned and awakened to find my legs twisted up in the sheets. The coffee machine beckoned like a life support system. With a poorly working air conditioner in the bedroom, I’d had no choice but to keep the bedroom door open and pray a little cool air came my way.

  I took my coffee out on the patio. The cool cement under my toes was a pleasant surprise. It seemed the heat wave had finally ended. I pulled in a breath of cool, dry air. My toes wiggled with delight.

  Now this was the weather Donna and Mom had promised me. I flipped on the TV. Sure enough, the weather girl was predicting a high of eighty-two degrees and a low of sixty-four. Perfect. Good going, weather girl!

  And there was nothing on the news about Rick Wilbur. No banner running across the bottom of the screen letting the world know that he’d been found in a carton in the back of Maggie’s Beignet Café. As much as I wanted and needed publicity, banners like that I could do without. So far, I was batting two for two.

  I threw on a pair of lightweight LL Bean khaki shorts and a saffron-colored empire-waisted cami and rolled out the Schwinn.

  I locked the front door and hopped on the saddle. As I pushed off, I noticed that something didn’t feel quite right. I looked down. Sure enough, I had a flat tire. The rear one.

  That was going to be a pain, because that’s where all the gear and sprocket doohickeys are located. My batting average had just gone down.

  I threw the bike back in the apartment and traded my flip-flops for a pair of sturdy sneakers. Fortunately, Maggie’s Beignet Café was a mere couple of blocks away. I’d take the bike to Laura’s Lightly Used later or maybe try the bike shop on Main.

  I draped my purse over my left shoulder and headed toward town. I hadn’t gotten far when a white Prius slowed down alongside me.

  ‘Need a lift or simply enjoying the weather?’

  I turned. ‘Oh, hi, Laura.’ She stopped and I stepped off the curb and stuck my head in the open window. ‘I’m enjoying the weather, all right. I’d rather be riding than walking though, but my rear tire’s flat.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Laura replied. ‘I can fix it for you, if you like.’

  I nodded. ‘I was thinking of bringing it by your store later. I have some errands to run first, though.’

  ‘Heading to the café?’ She motioned for me to open the car door. ‘Come on, hop in. I’ll drive you over.’

  ‘Well, since you’re offering,’ I said, ‘would you mind dropping me off at Mesa Verde instead?’

  ‘The hospital? What for? Is everything all right?’

  As I climbed in the Prius, I explained how my fellow shopkeeper, Clive Rothschild, was still there for observation. ‘I feel like it’s all my fault.’ I felt it my duty to go check on him. After that, I’d walk to the shop and see if Highsmith and his out-of-town goons were done with searching the place.

  Laura agreed and within minutes I was standing outside Mesa Verde Medical Center. Before driving off, Laura said, ‘If you like, I can pick up the bike, take it to the store and repair the tire for you.’ She pointed a thumb toward the back. ‘I’ve got a bike rack.’

  ‘Wow, that would be great!’ I had to admit, people around here might be a little flaky, but they sure were sweet, kind of like frosted flakes, when you thought about
it. I explained how the bike was inside the apartment. ‘There’s a spare key under the dog dish on the patio, though.’

  Her brow went up and I thought I saw a flash of concern. ‘I didn’t know you had a dog. What breed is it? I hope he doesn’t bite.’

  ‘I don’t actually have a dog,’ I answered. ‘The dog dish was there when I moved in.’ I never got around to throwing it out. ‘It’s a little icky, but it won’t bite you.’

  Laura laughed and putted away.

  There was a new face at reception, which I found refreshing. I hadn’t liked the looks that Halley woman had been shooting me with the day before. I wouldn’t have minded seeing that nice Dr Vargas again, though. He was easy on the eyes. And the ears. This young man was locked in conversation with an equally young couple. The woman held a fuzzy-headed baby who she bounced up and down in her arms, while the man with her seemed to be doing all the talking – for the moment, anyway.

  This time, with the receptionist busy, I had no trouble getting permission to visit Clive. I didn’t even have to ask. The man at reception looked my way; I waved and kept on walking. I tensed as I rounded the corner, waiting for him to bark at me. But since he didn’t, I just kept on going.

  Sometimes a little self-confidence is all it takes to get things to go your way.

  Clive’s door was open and I marched right in. But Clive was gone.

  A doughy faced man with a thick, dark beard sat glaring out at me. It was the infamous man from behind the curtain. The curtains were now pulled to the sides, exposing the man in the mystery bed.

  Clive’s bed, on the other hand, had been stripped of its bedclothes.

  I stood in the doorway. Heavens, he hadn’t died, had he? ‘Where’s Clive?’ I blurted.

  ‘Gone.’ The man had a basso voice and you could barely see his lips for all the hair surrounding them like a mangy Mongol horde of follicles. There was a matching tangle atop his skull. His broad nose was mottled red and his eyes were a muddy brown.