by J. R. Ripley
I reached for the phone, having spotted it hanging on the wall beside the refrigerator. Like the refrigerator, it was old. With its olive-green complexion, long, droopy coiled cord and rotary dial, it looked as tired as this old house. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, who’s this?’ said the squeaky woman’s voice at the other end.
‘Maggie.’ I was breathing heavy, partly from exertion and partly from the closed-up feel of the house. Maybe I’d open a few windows and air the place out before I left. I’d bet Mr Teller would appreciate it. ‘Sorry,’ I fanned myself, ‘out of breath.’
‘Huh? Is Daddy there?’
‘Sorry, wrong number.’ I hung up. Ed didn’t have any kids – at least, not alive and breathing, from what I’d been told. He didn’t even have a wife. Just the fur ball. Carol Two rubbed against my shin, tail up. ‘I know, I know. Dinner time. I could use a burger myself.’ I looked around the kitchen. I’d failed to ask Clive where the cat’s supplies were kept.
The phone rang again. ‘Hello, this is Maggie.’ I could see the cat bowl and litter box set up in the utility room off to my right. Seems a mite unsanitary if you ask me. I mean, I don’t go keeping my kitchen supplies in my bathroom, but it was his house, his cat.
Click.
I turned the receiver to my face. ‘Moron.’ I hung up. I refreshed Carol Two’s water dish, poured out a generous helping of kitty kibble and approached that which I dreaded most.
The litter box.
Definitely in need of a little housekeeping. Business complete, I spent a few minutes with Carol Two then took a swing through the house. Not that I’m snoopy or anything; I was just curious as to what the place looked like.
I can report: the place didn’t look like much. Two bedrooms, one bath. All in need of some extreme TLC. Ed Teller was going to have his work cut out for him if he wanted to renovate this place and flip it for profit. I’ll stick to making beignets.
TWENTY-FOUR
My good deed done and my body spent, I locked up and headed home. But first I thought I’d swing by Mesa Verde Medical Center and see how the patient was doing. Partly to let him know that I was taking care of his cat for him and partly to assure him that he had nothing to worry about on that front.
More importantly, I wanted to see if he could offer me some insight into the staff and goings on at Wilbur Realty. After all, he’d worked there for years and was Rick Wilbur’s close friend. If anybody could shed some light on things, I was betting he could.
If I was lucky – and let’s face it, I rarely was – Daniel Vargas would be there, too.
He wasn’t. Fortunately, the receptionist didn’t give me any trouble and I soon found myself in Edwin Teller’s room. The problem was that he wasn’t there. A copy of the Table Rock Reader and a half-empty glass of water sat atop the bedside table. My eyes fell on a small headline: Police Continue Search for Killer. The article read: Police continue to interview Ms Margaret Miller regarding the discovery of local realtor, Rick Wilbur, in the storeroom of her newly opened eatery, Maggie’s Beignet Café.
A growl vibrated in my throat and I threw the paper back down without finishing. The story was written by Brad Smith.
If I was going to be responsible for killing anybody, it was going to be him. I mean, he deserved some sort of punishment for that first run-on sentence alone!
I moved out to the hall and looked up and down in each direction. Where does an ailing patient with a heart condition go? Didn’t he have a stroke of some sort? OMG, he wasn’t dead, was he?
I tracked down a man in a nursing uniform. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Mr Teller, room twenty-two? Do you know where I can find him?’
‘Sorry. I work in the emergency department. He could be in therapy. You’d have to ask at reception.’
I passed by Mr Teller’s room on my way back to reception and this time caught sight of him lying in his bed. ‘Mr Teller, there you are!’
I pulled to a stop and turned into his room. The bed Clive had occupied was still empty. ‘I was looking for you earlier but you were gone.’
‘Bathroom,’ he replied gruffly.
I nodded. I should have thought of that. Why are the simple explanations in life always so … well, simple? ‘You look great!’ I patted his knee through the covers. Truth be told, he looked like a troop of cannibals had been boiling him in a pot of some unsavory goop.
‘How are you doing? Are you feeling OK?’
He pinched his eyes together. ‘Of course I’m feeling OK.’ He leaned toward me. ‘Why shouldn’t I feel OK? Nurses tell you something?’
I shook my head. ‘No, no.’
His eyes pinched even closer – any more and they’d change places. ‘Who are you, anyway?’
I gave the guy my best ‘I’m surprised you don’t remember me’ face. ‘It’s me, Maggie Miller. I own Maggie’s Beignet Café. I lease the spot from Wilbur Realty. Rick himself showed me the property.’
I didn’t seem to be getting through to him. ‘We’ve spoken before.’ Gee, whatever he’d suffered from was having some lingering effects. I pointed to the bare mattress on the other side of the smallish room. ‘My friend Clive was your roommate.’
‘Oh.’ Recognition filtered up to his eyes. ‘You’re the loudmouth.’
I grimaced. Not exactly the descriptor I’d choose to describe myself. But he was the patient, I told myself. Play nice, Maggie. ‘I’m taking care of your cat, Carol Two, while you’re laid up.’
He ran his fingers through his beard. ‘What happened to Clive? He die or something?’
‘What?’ My back stiffened. ‘No! Nothing like that. He’s busy is all and I told him I would take over the responsibility for him.’
He looked me up and down. ‘You ever have a cat?’
‘Uh, no.’
‘Ever take care of one before?’
‘Well, again, no, but—’
‘Doctor says I can go home soon.’ Ed cut me off. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
‘That’s great news,’ I said, reaching out to pat his hand, surprised to discover how clammy it felt. Had a doctor, a licensed doctor, actually told this man he might be going home tomorrow? It seemed unlikely. If Edwin Teller went anywhere tomorrow, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was to take a long nap in a pine box.
‘You think you can keep her alive till then?’
‘Sure, of course.’ I mean, come on, did he really think I could kill his cat in less than twenty-four hours?
‘Fine.’ He crossed his arms over his ribs. ‘Job’s yours.’
What a sweetheart. I pulled up a chair. If Ed Teller could provide me with any answers, this might be my best chance to ask the questions. ‘Speaking of Rick Wilbur,’ I said, my knees touching the mattress, ‘who do you think killed him?’
‘Personally,’ I said, without waiting for an answer, ‘my money is on Tommy, Patti or Natalie.’ I bit my lip. ‘And Rob Gregory. It definitely could be Rob Gregory. Or my shop neighbor, Johnny Wolfe.’
Ed looked at me, his eyes wide and white. ‘Wow, that’s a lot of suspects. I just figured it must have been a robbery gone wrong.’
I gave Ed’s idea some thought. ‘Could be,’ I admitted. But that wouldn’t help me find the killer. In fact, that might mean that Rick Wilbur’s true killer would never be brought to justice.
That left me looking like the most likely suspect. Even if I was never arrested and formally charged, folks in town would always suspect. It’s hard to live and work in a small town when everybody thinks you’re a murderer.
I sighed bitterly. ‘I just wish I knew why Mr Wilbur was murdered in my café. I mean, why me? Why not someplace else?’
Edwin rubbed his fingers. ‘No way of telling, I suppose. Just one of those things. I know Rick had gone over to take a look at your AC.’
That would explain what he’d been doing at the café. I had mentioned to him that the air conditioner was on the fritz. ‘Speaking of which …’
‘Don’t worry.’ His pallid hand cut through t
he air. ‘As soon as I’m feeling up to it, I’ll check it out. Everyone’s been complaining. You should hear some of the unkind words Caitie Conklin has had to say since her AC has been acting up.’
He chuckled. ‘You see, all those air conditioning units are interconnected. All those little shops used to be part of a large department store. But it closed up and the space got subdivided years ago.’
Of course, the hairdresser. I still needed to have a word with her. ‘She was angry?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Ed, his head wagging. ‘And she’s got a mouth on her. Always been a difficult tenant, that one.’
‘So why didn’t Wilbur Realty simply evict her the next time her salon came up for renewal of her lease?’
‘It’s complicated,’ Ed said. ‘Seeing how Caitie used to be married to Rick.’
My head twisted so fast I heard a click. ‘Caitie Conklin is Rick Wilbur’s ex?’
‘That’s right.’ He chuckled some more. I was glad to see it. They say laughter is the best medicine. ‘I guess that’s why she’s gotten away with sassing him all these years. Rick always was afraid of that woman.’
‘Afraid?’
Ed shrugged. ‘You know what I mean.’
I didn’t. Not exactly. But I was dying to find out.
‘I also heard some rumors about Wilbur Realty,’ I said.
‘What sort of rumors?’
A nurse came in to check Mr Teller’s vital signs. ‘A little high, Mr Teller. Let’s not overdo things.’ She cast a meaningful look my way and I squirmed. I waited until she was finished to answer Ed’s question.
‘I hear the agency may be in financial trouble.’
Ed waved a hand in front of his chest. ‘Please, Rick was always crying famine. I mean, I loved the guy, but he was as cheap as they come.’
I sat straighter. ‘So you don’t think Wilbur Realty is having money trouble?’
He chuckled. ‘Not unless Patti’s having trouble trying to figure out how to spend all Rick’s money.’
I gave this some thought. Ed’s opinion didn’t jive at all with what I’d been hearing, but who would know better than him? I tapped the edge of the chair with my fingernail. And it did jive with appearances. Wilbur Realty owned and managed plenty of properties. If that was financial trouble, please let me have some!
‘I went by your house. It’s looking good.’
Ed snorted. ‘Please, it’s a dump.’
I contained a sigh of relief. Thank goodness he knew that. I was afraid he’d developed mental problems to go with his physical ones.
‘But once I get done with it, I’ll be able to get top dollar.’
I nodded and rose. ‘Don’t worry about Carol Two,’ I said. ‘You can count on me.’ No way that cat was going to die on my watch.
As I left, Ed said, ‘Let me give you some advice, Miller.’
‘Yes?’
‘If you do talk to Caitie, watch your back.’
A frisson ran up my spine. Did he mean that figuratively, literally or both?
Should Rick Wilbur have been watching his back?
TWENTY-FIVE
Exhausted, I pulled open the refrigerator door, reveled in the blast of chill air that came my way and nosed around. For lunch, I’d sent Aubrey for a couple of burritos and a bag of homemade taco chips from Senor Sapo’s, the Mexican restaurant a few doors down. She’d come back with a pair of half-pound rattlesnake burritos, chips and spicy guacamole. I thought the name, rattler burrito, was kind of cute but wanted to puke when Aubrey explained to me that there was real rattlesnake meat in my half-eaten burrito.
‘It’s good for you,’ Aubrey said. ‘Haven’t you heard of the medicinal and nutritional benefits of snake meat?’
I considered throwing the rest of it at her, but in the end was too hungry to put up a fuss. Besides, if I hit her with a half-pound of rattlesnake meat, I’d probably send her to the hospital. And I needed her working.
Of course, if rattlesnake was as good for you as Aubrey reported, she could use it as a poultice after I knocked her upside the head with it and save herself an expensive trip to the ER. That was a big plus, seeing as I didn’t offer employee insurance.
I kept my thoughts to myself. I did keep an eye out for loose fangs or rattlers while I finished it off, however.
Though I’d missed dinner, I wasn’t all that hungry – I don’t think that rattler was sitting well in my stomach – so I snagged a pint of Safeway-brand vanilla ice cream and spooned a couple of globs of strawberry jam overtop. Hey, it hit two of the major food groups – fruit and dairy.
I still got queasy thinking about the rattlesnake sitting in my gut, pulling itself together, getting ready to strike at my stomach lining and gnaw its way free.
Before I could make myself any crazier, I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from the junk drawer, then pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat. Time for a list. There were so many ideas, suspects, clues and motives swimming around in my brain that if I didn’t write them down I might never recall them, let alone sort them out.
I savored the creamy coolness of the ice cream as it slid over my tongue and down my throat. Now this was dinner. After a couple of spoonfuls – I’m not sure why the carton looked three-quarters empty, I’d only had a bite or two – I got down to business.
I needed to start at the beginning. Get my suspects in order. I chewed on the end of my pen and thought. First, there was Clive Rothschild, of course. He’d been with me when I’d discovered Mr Wilbur’s body. Could he be the culprit? Had he set me up? Maybe he knew about the body because he’d left it there himself and knew the police would never suspect him of murder if he’d been there when the body was discovered. Ooh, crafty. I jotted his name down on the top of the sheet. He could have been faking that fainting spell, too.
That led me to his partner and spouse, Johnny Wolfe. What did I really know about him? I tapped the tip of the pen against the notepad. Former Olympic skater, bridal shop owner, pain in the patooty … And he’d been seen arguing with the victim.
I drew a connecting line between him and Clive. The two of them could be in cahoots. Yes, I’d said the word ‘cahoots.’ In your face, Detective Highsmith. I pushed the pen harder against the paper, thickening the line.
Who was next?
Tommy Henson, Natalie’s son. The one who desperately sought a job with Wilbur Realty but Rick wasn’t having him. Now he had a job and Rick Wilbur was pushing up proverbial daisies. He was a definite suspect.
What about his mother, Natalie? I still wanted to talk to her, not only about the threatening letter she’d sent me about my check, but about Wilbur Realty’s finances. She was currently out of town, but had she been out of town at the time of the murder? That still wasn’t clear to me and I was going to have to ask around. Maybe Moonflower could tell me.
That led me to the Widow Wilbur. Spouses make the perfect suspects. I hadn’t heard any talk about discord in the marriage but that doesn’t mean there hadn’t been any. What marriage doesn’t have bumps in the road?
My marriage had had a bump in the road called Brian. Had Patti’s bump in the road been called Rick?
I added her name to my growing list. A definite maybe.
I leaned back in my chair. The problem here was that I didn’t know who anybody’s alibis were so far. I had learned that Mr Wilbur had definitely been killed sometime during the late evening hours of the day before I’d discovered him. What I needed to find out was where all these people were on Wednesday night.
I hunched over and thought some more. I added Rob and Trish Gregory’s names to my list. They were categorically no fans of Mr Wilbur. Aubrey had seen Rob arguing with him recently. With the prices they were charging at Karma Koffee they were certainly thieves, so why not murderers to boot?
Of course, when I was in Karma Koffee, Rob had mentioned something about hearing that Mr Wilbur’s body had been found in my walk-in cooler. Maybe he had been intentionally misleading. Rob Gregory had those devious e
yes. He could have said that just to throw me off, knowing all along that the body had been in the chair carton. Oh, that man was crafty, too.
I polished off the ice cream, rose and tossed the empty carton in the trash. I yawned and stretched. Who else could have had a motive?
I flopped back in my chair. The chairs! I still had to figure out who had the café chairs! I chewed at the bottom of my lip. There was something I was missing … what was it about the chairs?
I could feel it ticking inside me, like a snaky tongue liking my stomach lining. Ugh.
I straightened. My chairs. Of course. I’d seen those missing chairs of mine. I’d sat in those missing chairs of mine.
Laura’s Lightly Used. The day I’d taken the Schwinn in to get the chain fixed, Laura and I had sat in those chairs. They’d been right up by the register.
I swallowed hard. Was Laura Duval, meek, kind, Laura Duval, a cold-blooded murderer? My hand shook as I added her name to my list. She was strong and capable. Was she capable of murder?
I’d be paying Laura’s Lightly Used another visit tomorrow.
I yawned once more. Must’ve been something in the ice cream. Fatigue coursed through me. I read my list over. Who else was I missing?
There was the ex-wife, Caitie Conklin. Ed Teller had warned me about her. I knew almost nothing about the woman. She was a complete unknown. But exes sometimes aren’t a big step removed from perpetrators.
I put a question mark next to her name. The Salon de Belleza was open Sundays. I could pop in on her, too. Ask her about her relationship with Rick and where she was at the time of the murder.
A last yawn just about swallowed me whole. I stumbled to the bedroom and pulled off my shorts and shirt, leaving them in a pile on the floor. The maid could pick them up in the morning. Note to self: hire maid.
I threw on a clean T-shirt and tumbled into bed.
The room was stifling and the bed was as warm as tepid tea. I groaned and tossed back the covers. I crossed the floor, turned on the room air conditioner and flopped back down head first into the pillow.
