Buried in Beignets

by J. R. Ripley

  He snatched a black-rimmed pair of glasses from the bedside table and slipped them over his nose. ‘You’re the woman from yesterday. I recognize your voice.’

  He seemed quite sure of himself so I supposed there was no sense in lying – though that had been my first instinct. ‘Yes.’ I stared at the empty bed. ‘Do you know where they took him?’

  ‘Doctor sent him home this morning. I wish I could be so lucky.’

  I nodded. ‘Don’t worry,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure you’ll be going home soon.’

  ‘Doctor says I need to rest,’ came the gruff reply. ‘Are we done here?’

  I bit my tongue. What a nasty old coot. Well, he wasn’t exactly a centenarian but he was certainly in his fifties. I left without saying goodbye. I only hoped the nasty man didn’t have a taste for beignets.

  Back at Maggie’s Beignet Café, I found Detective Highsmith and several men from the county busily conferring behind my counter. Once again, I was infuriated to discover a bag and several paper cups from my nearest competitor, Karma Koffee, cluttering my countertop. I was going to have to have a talk with those people across the street. I mean, let’s respect each other’s turf, for crying out loud.

  ‘Must you?’ I howled, grabbing everything up and tossing it in the trash bin near the cash register.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ snapped an angry older gentleman in a navy suit. ‘Who is this person?’ he demanded of Detective Highsmith.

  ‘I’m Maggie Miller,’ I answered. I pulled myself up to my full height, dusting my hands together. ‘I own this place. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep bringing in coffee and pastries from my competition!’ I said, squaring off with Highsmith. I could feel my cheeks heating up.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Highsmith replied, putting his hands out. ‘We’re about done here, anyway.’

  I flinched. ‘You are?’ My heart quickened. Could it really be true? Could I be getting back my store?

  ‘For now,’ he answered with some obvious reluctance. He studied his watch. ‘We’ll be out by early afternoon.’

  ‘So, I can open for business then?’ This wouldn’t be so bad after all. One day lost. Not the end of the world.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  I couldn’t hide my relief. ‘Tell you what, how about I make you men some coffee?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Highsmith hesitated.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mark,’ said the man who’d snapped at me. He stuck his hand in the trash bin and lifted a damp cup. ‘I paid four bucks for that coffee and barely got a sip. I say let her make coffee.’ He waved a hand at the equipment on the wall. ‘We’ve got all we need from this stuff, anyway.’

  Highsmith acceded and I set about brewing up a pot of fresh New Orleans-style coffee. Finally, I had some victims to practice on before the big day.

  ‘So,’ I said, making conversation as I pulled out a bag of whole coffee beans and poured them into the grinder, ‘making any progress?’ In my opinion, there’s nothing on the market that compares to freshly ground beans. That’s all I’d be using in my café.

  ‘You mean on finding out how Rick Wilbur ended up dead in a carton in your backroom?’

  ‘No,’ I replied rather snottily, ‘I was enquiring whether you’d gotten past second base with Veronica Vargas. You know, VV?’

  The man in the navy suit laughed.

  ‘Don’t encourage her, Larry.’ Highsmith shot daggers at me but I didn’t mind. I’d rather he shot daggers at me than bullets out of that handgun that I could see poking from the shoulder holster under his jacket.

  I grabbed the French press and measured out portions of coffee and chicory, using a mix of two parts coffee to one part chicory root. Chicory is grown and harvested similar to the sugar beet and is common in parts of France and Africa. I buy mine from a supplier in France.

  I prefer the French press method of making coffee because, unlike regular automatic drip coffee makers, with a French press you can more easily regulate the water temperature that you want. The water in a French press is heated up separately then added to the grounds once you’ve reached the temperature you’re looking for. You can also control how quickly or how slowly the water takes going through the grounds. Plus, because there is no filter, just a screen at the bottom, all those yummy oils in the coffee bean are extracted and end up in your cup where they belong.

  I laid half-a-dozen mugs out and invited the men to help themselves to sugar and milk from the small built-in fridge under the counter. ‘You can leave the cups on the counter when you’re finished,’ I said. ‘I’ll clean up when I get back.’ No point standing around watching these guys sip my coffee and tear up my café. I had other beignets to fry.

  Like finding out who else might have had a reason to want Rick Wilbur dead. So far, my only suspects were Johnny Wolfe and Clive. I’d hate to learn that Clive was guilty of anything other than having Johnny for a husband.

  As for Johnny, I shook my head as I jogged up the street and crossed at the corner. As much as I’d like to find him guilty of something, I wasn’t sure he had what it took to be a cold-blooded killer.

  Now, if the police told me later that Mr Wilbur had been done in by a steel ice skate blade, I’d be changing my tune.

  But for now, the tune remained the same.

  So, who else around Table Rock had a motive for Rick Wilbur’s death? So far, I didn’t have a clue. I’d barely known the man. But Mom was right: if you want something done, you’ve got to do it yourself. I needed to learn as much as I could about Rick Wilbur, who he was, what he did, who he hung out with, who his friends were … and, most of all, who his enemies were. Because, despite what Detective Highsmith said, nobody was that likable to everybody. Rick Wilbur had rubbed somebody up the wrong way.

  After all, somebody had taken a very strong disliking to the realtor. I just had to figure out who that someone was.

  That meant another trip to Wilbur Realty on Main.

  ELEVEN

  It was quarter past nine and several workers sat at the half-dozen desks scattered throughout the large office space. Everything was neat and nicely done, not ostentatious like some real estate offices I’d seen. The decor had a decidedly Arizona flair with western art on the walls and what might have been a genuine Frederic Remington sculpture on a long table near the window depicting a bronco rider on a bucking horse.

  If that bronze sculpture was an original, it could be worth some big bucks. Nearly two feet tall, it was an impressive piece and, with the morning sun hitting it the way it was, rider and horse practically sprang to life before my eyes.

  It had been weeks since I’d been here. Nothing had changed, except that the lights were off in Rick Wilbur’s office in the far right-hand corner. His was the only office with walls though he had a big plate glass window, through which I supposed he kept an eye on his employees.

  My eyes settled on the nearest occupied desk. I remembered Moonflower from an earlier visit. She was a recent young associate of the firm. She’d handled the actual typing up of my lease with Wilbur Realty.

  I smiled and sauntered over, laying my hands on the mahogany desktop. ‘Hi, I’m Maggie Miller. Remember me?’ I flashed white teeth and extended my hand. I noticed I’d left two sweaty palm prints on the mahogany surface. I hoped the woman seated behind the desk in a chair that looked built out of giant rubber bands hadn’t.

  She had. She opened a drawer to her left, slowly removed a roll of paper towels, ripped one from the roll and wiped off the desktop.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘No problem,’ Moonflower replied, tossing the soiled paper towel quickly into a trash can beside the desk. ‘Have a seat.’ Her voice was as soft as gentle rain falling and her smile made me feel even worse than any rebuke would have. She pushed her long black ponytail over her right shoulder.

  Moonflower Eagleheart was Hopi. I had always found her to be friendly and open. She’d told me previously that she’d grown up on the nearby Hopi Indian Reservation.
Her dress, with its Hopi influences, spoke to how proudly she held and displayed her Native American heritage. Today’s pleated purple skirt and beaded top were no exception. A turquoise necklace dangled from her bare neck.

  I swiped my hands against my shorts and dropped into the proffered chair. It was made of rubber bands, like hers. Though I’d sat in these chairs here before, I still wasn’t quite used to them. Sitting there, I felt like I was back in third grade. I didn’t know whether to sit or play bounce house.

  ‘How can I help you today, Miss Miller?’ She folded her hands across the desk.

  I noticed now that her eyes were rimmed in red. Tears for Mr Wilbur? ‘Actually,’ I replied, ‘I came to pay my respects.’

  A half-smile passed Moonflower’s face and she leaned back in her chair. ‘I still can’t believe it.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘And I heard that you found the body.’

  ‘Yes, but I want you to know I had nothing to do with Mr Wilbur’s murder,’ I added quickly.

  Her smile set me at ease. ‘Of course not.’ She waved a hand through the air. ‘You are a kind-spirited woman. You could never do such a thing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, genuinely touched. ‘But, tell me,’ I said, glancing around the office – the two other men and one woman at their desks seemed to be paying us no attention – ‘can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your boss?’

  Moonflower leaned even further back and stared at the ceiling a moment. She pushed forward again and shook her head. ‘Not really. I mean—’ Her benign expression suddenly hardened and her eyes turned to steel.

  I heard the door open behind me.

  ‘Hey, Moonflower.’

  I turned. A tall young man in jeans, a short-sleeved Western-style button-down shirt and bolo tie moved quickly toward us.

  He towered over the desk. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’ He shook his head a little too much. ‘Poor Uncle Rick.’

  ‘What do you want, Tommy?’

  ‘I came to help. With Unc gone—’

  ‘With your uncle gone,’ Moonflower said sternly, ‘we may all be looking for work soon. Like your uncle told you before, there is no job for you here, Tommy.’

  His face clouded over. ‘Listen, Moonflower. You’re not the boss of me or this office.’ He waved his arms through the air like windmill blades. ‘We’ll just see what Aunt Patti has to say about this.’

  ‘Please go,’ Moonflower said. All the others were openly watching the altercation.

  Tommy looked down at her and then glanced down at me. The mole under his left eye twitched like a tick. ‘I’m going,’ he said. He pointed a finger at Moonflower. ‘But I’ll be back. You wait and see.’

  With that, the young man stormed out the door, his cowboy boots thumping loudly as he went.

  I raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘What was that all about?’

  Moonflower pulled a sour face. ‘Mr Wilbur’s nephew, Tommy, has been pestering him for a job.’

  ‘And there were no openings?’

  Moonflower’s hands toyed with the yellow and green sun-faced coffee mug on her desk. ‘I suppose Mr Wilbur could have made room for him.’ She paused. ‘If he had wanted to.’

  ‘Which he didn’t?’

  ‘Tommy is a difficult boy.’

  ‘So I noticed.’ I punctuated my comment with a laugh. ‘Who’s Aunt Patti?’

  ‘Mr Wilbur’s widow.’

  I hadn’t realized the guy had been married. Was she a grieving widow or a celebrating one? I was going to have to look into that. ‘Was what you told Tommy true? Could Rick Wilbur’s death mean the end of Wilbur Realty?’ If so, was there somebody around Table Rock that would benefit from that? A competing realtor, for instance?

  ‘Everything is such a shambles,’ sighed Moonflower. ‘First, Ed ends up in the hospital. Now Mr Wilbur’s sudden murder.’

  ‘But surely his wife will keep the business up and running.’

  Moonflower shook her head in the negative. ‘Mrs Wilbur never had any interest in the business. She preferred her gardening and her birding. Mr Wilbur was the heart and soul of this place. Real estate was his life.’

  And his death, I thought.

  She set her mug down on the edge of the desk. ‘Who knows? Perhaps she’ll sell the business – find a buyer who will be keen to continue it as is.’ She managed a smile. ‘Maybe I’ll be able to keep my job.’

  ‘Is that really a possibility? I mean, that you could lose your job?’

  She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Business has been difficult lately.’ Moonflower glanced left and right at her coworkers. ‘The rumor around the office is that there’s cash-flow trouble.’

  I knew what that was like but was surprised to hear that a successful-appearing business like Wilbur Realty might be having financial problems. ‘I’m sure everything will work out.’ I patted her hand encouragingly. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t sure of anything. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You said Ed was in the hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Ed? Edwin Teller?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered again. ‘Ed handles all those things such as repairs, maintenance and the like. He’s a sort of jack-of-all-trades.’ She tapped her upper lip. ‘And with Ed out of commission … Do you know him?’

  ‘I thought he looked familiar,’ I mumbled. ‘I ran into him at the hospital. He was sharing a room with my friend, Clive? That Ed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I almost didn’t recognize him.’ I’d seen him around once or twice but never been introduced. He’d let his beard grow out since the last time I’d seen him. It did not suit him. Besides, the dark beard clashed with his hospital pallor.

  A tear came to the corner of Moonflower’s eye. ‘Poor Ed. He suffered a stroke, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I admitted, ‘at least not for sure. He was sharing a room with an acquaintance of mine. To tell you the truth, he seemed quite, how shall I put this, gruff?’

  Moonflower laughed loudly. ‘Ed’s a sweetheart. I’m sure it’s just the circumstances that have got him down. He was one of Rick’s oldest and dearest friends. This whole thing has hit him pretty hard.’

  ‘And he’s had a stroke.’

  Moonflower nodded. ‘I’ve heard it said that irritability can be a consequence of heart attacks and strokes – any extreme, life-threatening illness, I suppose …’

  I shifted in my chair. ‘I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on the man.’ If and when I saw the guy again, I promised myself I’d play nice. ‘Is there a Mrs Teller?’

  ‘No, he’s a widower.’

  ‘Children?’ I asked, hopefully.

  ‘One son.’

  My spirits lifted. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Died at childbirth.’

  My spirits fell. Oh, great. So now I’d been thinking ill of a man who’d lost his wife, his only child and his best friend, and suffered a stroke, just to put icing on that cake of misery. I looked up at the ceiling. Thankfully, I didn’t see any lightning bolts heading my way.

  ‘So,’ Moonflower said, ‘you’ll be opening Maggie’s Beignet Café soon? I saw the ad in the Table Rock Reader.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I replied, rising from my chair. ‘If all goes well.’ Of course, all rarely did. The stars were not exactly aligning right for me these days, more like aligning me right behind the proverbial eight ball. ‘Do you think it would be all right if I pay Mrs Wilbur my respects?’

  ‘Of course.’ Moonflower reached for a pen and wrote out Patti Wilbur’s address on the back of a Wilbur Realty business card. ‘I’m sure Mrs Wilbur will appreciate the gesture.’

  I thanked her for it and left. I had a few questions for the widow.

  TWELVE

  The Wilbur house was located in the Historic Old Town and was one of those picture perfect, white picket fence places you only dream about. No House Crashers needed here. Today,
most people lived in the small suburbs of Table Rock, in modern adobe-style ranch houses. The Wilburs obviously preferred the old ways. Maybe Rick just liked to be able to walk to work every morning.

  I stopped at the gate, smelling the freshly mown lawn. Taking it all in, I could see that Moonflower’s depiction of Patti Wilbur had been spot on. The yard was immaculate, from the lawn, to the flower beds, to the plants spilling out of tall pots on each side of the richly oiled wood of the front door.

  Most folks around these parts stick to desert motif landscape. You know, some red rocks, some gravel and dirt, maybe a few strategically placed cacti.

  But not the Wilburs. They had actual patches of green grass. Keeping up with the watering must cost a pretty penny.

  There were a half-dozen or more bird feeders and two bird baths, one on each side of the path leading to the front porch. Two cardinals, one male, one female, pecked away at a clear acrylic tube filled with sunflower seeds, while a sparrow fluttered its wings in the deep end of one of the birdbaths. Maize yellow curtains fluttered from an upstairs window. A late-model Chrysler sedan sat in the drive.

  Like I said, picture perfect – except that the man of the house was now residing in the morgue.

  I stepped up onto the veranda and knocked. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and I suddenly felt very lonely. Listening to the soft sound of steps approaching, I frowned, looking down at my clothes. I wasn’t exactly dressed to pay my respects to a grieving widow.

  The front door opened quietly and a slim woman in a black frock looked out at me expectantly. Her brows knit together. ‘Can I help you?’ She had straw-blonde hair cut shoulder length and was deeply tanned, probably from all that time spent working in her yard. I estimated her age to be approximately that of her late husband’s, somewhere in the early sixties.

  A wirehaired fox terrier yipped from between her legs. The little guy, or gal, was mostly white with a patch of light brown atop the head and back. The short, twisted brown hairs reminded me of the stuff that grows on a coconut shell. I used to have a carved coconut shell with a monkey’s face that Dad bought for me on a trip over to Myrtle Beach one summer. I wondered whatever happened to it …