“A tortellini salad, with garlic bread I’m sure, and some fattening dessert that will make me have to go to the gym to work it off. Why?”
“I’m hungry. A donut only lasts so long,” London says. “It’s lunch time. We could swing by.”
“You’re kidding, right? You couldn’t possibly want to endure my family.”
“If it means lunch, sure.”
“Wow, you are brave. Okay, let’s go. It’s your life.” I give her the address. “So what do you think about Clark?”
“I think he’s hiding some things. And getting a lawyer, although smart, also doesn’t look good. What are you doing after lunch?”
“Other than check in on The Hardy boys, nothing.”
“Let’s eat then pay a visit to the golf instructor. When I get back to the office, I’ll look up Holly Ryder and see where she is. Maybe we can talk to her next. I’m thinking the more we know about Clark before the lawyer gets involved the better off we are,” she says, steering the car toward the expressway on-ramp.
“I could get Travis started on Holly Ryder. He can find her address.”
“Sure. That would save some time.”
“I’ll call.”
Travis picks up immediately. “Eye Spy Detective Agency. How may I help you?”
“What the hell?” I say. “Eye Spy?”
“Oh, hi, Jamie. You don’t like that one? How about. . . Get A Clue Detective Agency?”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“I thought it was catchy.”
I groan.
“Just put a pin in it,” Travis says. “It’ll grow on you.”
“You must be bored. Which is good because I have a job for you.”
Travis squeals his excitement. I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Did he just squeal?” London asks.
“Yes.”
“Get me a current address on a Holly Ryder.” I spell the name and give him all the particulars. “Think you can do that?”
“Of course I can do that! I’m so excited!” he screeches.
I hang up as London pulls the Crown Vic in front of the ol’ Bravo homestead. My mother comes out of the house and is halfway across the lawn before the door swings shut behind her. I look over at London. “I’m not so sure this is such a good idea. My family can be a little. . . overwhelming.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” She turns off the engine.
My mother bends down and taps on my side of the windshield with her fingernail. Once she has my undivided attention, she points to her Timex and mouths the words, “You’re seven minutes late.”
London laughs and gets out of the car. Ma opens my door, saying, “Who’s your friend? Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing somebody home?”
“I didn’t know, Ma.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” London says.
“Nonsense,” Ma says, waving her hand in the air. “The more the merrier. There’s plenty of food. All I have to do is put down another plate.”
I get out of the car and make introductions. “Ma, this is London Wells. She’s the detective who’s working on Veronica’s case.”
Ma wraps her arm in mine and we walk toward the house. She whispers, “A detective, huh? She’s good-looking, no?”
“I can hear you,” London says from behind us.
“Don’t let it bother you,” I say. “Ma plays matchmaker with all my friends. She’s not going to stop until I’m married.”
“Then I can have another bambino to play with,” Ma says.
London’s eyes widen. Ma laughs. She hooks her free arm in London’s and walks us both back to the house. She asks, “So, Miss Big Detective, you like children?”
This is exactly why I don’t bring friends home.
Juniper and Griffin are already at the table scarfing down tortellini salad. Evidently the word “salad” allows Juniper to indulge—or at least pretend this is part of a healthy diet. They both look up when we walk in. “This is London Wells,” I say. “London, this is my sister Juniper and my favorite nephew, Griffin.”
“Nice to meet you,” London says. “I’ve heard a lot about you both.”
“Funny. I haven’t heard anything about you,” Juniper says. She looks at me. “When were you going to tell me you had another girlfriend? What happened to Gloria?”
“London isn’t my girlfriend.”
London says, “I’m a homicide detective. Jamie and I are working a case together.”
“A detective? A real live detective?” Griffin says. He stands on his chair and looks London up and down. “Wow, that’s so cool. Have you ever seen a real live murder?”
“I sure have,” London says.
“Cool!”
“Sit, sit,” Ma says, pushing us toward the table. I sit and London takes the chair next to me. I dish us each up a bowl of tortellini. Ma passes a heaping plate of garlic bread and London takes two pieces.
“Ah, a woman with an appetite. I like her already,” Ma says.
I reach for a piece of bread, but Ma yanks the plate away before I can grab a piece.
“Ma,” I whine.
She wags her finger at me. “No bread for you. Too garlicky. You want me to make you some without garlic?”
That figures. Ma won’t let me have any garlic if she thinks I might be kissing later. “Forget the bread. Where’s Pa and Zio Tonino?”
Ma lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “In that cave of theirs. I can hardly get them out of it. Food is the only bait that works. I open the window, the aroma goes out, and they come in. You’ll see, they’ll be in soon enough.”
As if she were psychic, the two of them come in the back door. Fruit Loops rides on Zio Tonino’s shoulder. Zio Tonino sniffs the air. “Is that tortellini I smell?” The man has a nose like a bloodhound. He can ascertain the type of pasta just by the smell.
Ma replies, “Yes, it is. But with roughage to help you…”
“Basta,” I interrupt.
“Poop!” Griffin interjects with a laugh. He leans toward London and whispers, “Zio Tonino can’t poop.”
“I already knew that,” London says.
“How’d you know?” Griffin asks.
“I’m a detective, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says with an impish grin.
“Enough with the poop talk. Sit. Mangia,” Pa commands. He pulls out a chair and sits. Zio Tonino sits beside him while Ma fills two bowls.
Zio Tonino belches. Griffin laughs into his hand.
“My bad,” Zio Tonino says.
“My bad? Where’d you learn that?” I ask.
“From the bird,” he replies.
Everyone stares at Fruit Loops. He cocks his head and squints one eye as if daring anybody to challenge him.
“Well, one bad word out of his mouth and he’s back to the shed,” Ma says.
“My bad, my bad,” Fruit Loops says. He raises one leg and slaps his own butt with his foot.
“Why’d he do that?” Griffin asks.
“Self-discipline?” I venture. “Or maybe he’s seen a lot of Three Stooges movies?”
Fruit Loops raises his foot and kicks himself in the butt again.
London raises an eyebrow at me. I shrug.
“Did you teach him that?” Ma asks.
“No, he came that way,” Zio Tonino says with his mouth full. He points his fork in my direction. “She taught him.”
“I didn’t do it! He probably learned it at the pet store. There were some rough-looking birds in that shop.” Though I have a pretty good idea who did teach the bird how to kick his own butt—Travis and Michael. It’s a good thing I got Fruit Loops out of there before he learned anything more. At least Ivan and Veronica-the-Cat don’t talk. God knows what they’d say.
Pa stares at London from under his bushy brows. “Who’re you?”
“She’s a big-time detective with the police,” Ma says, “so be nice to her.”
Pa stuffs his mouth, chews a moment then
says to me, “So what’s this murder thing I read about in the paper? That girlfriend of yours killed someone.”
“She’s not my girlfriend. And she didn’t kill someone. . . we hope.”
“Either she did or she didn’t. And seeing as how she’s in the clink, I’d say she did. A crime of passion the papers say,” Zio Tonino adds. “I’ve always liked a good crime of passion.”
Fruit Loops lifts one leg and farts.
“Basta,” Ma says. She points to the door, “Get that bird out of here! No farting allowed at my table!”
Griffin laughs until he doubles over and wheezes. Juniper pounds his back, saying, “Can you breathe? Can you breathe?”
Tonino doesn’t argue. He gets up, takes his bowl with him, and heads toward the back door with the bird riding his shoulder. Fruit Loops lifts one leg, says, “My bad,” and slaps his butt again.
Griffin laughs even harder. Suddenly, a big glob of pasta shoots out his nose, arcs across the table and splats into London’s lap.
The entire table freezes. Except for Griffin who slides out of his chair and into a giggly puddle on the floor.
I look at London and mutter, “Sorry. But I did warn you.”
London laughs and picks the pasta glob up with her napkin. “You kidding? This is the most fun I’ve ever had at lunch.”
“Have some more,” Ma says, putting another piece of bread on her plate.
Twenty-Eight
London drives up the maple-lined road to the Lakeland Country Club. The clubhouse is a colonial style building with lots of dormer windows and several porches wrapping around it. I figure those are for sitting and sipping gin and tonics with other thirsty golfers. The golf course itself is gorgeous. Even the sand traps look like a Tibetan Zen garden.
“Whoa, quite the place,” London says.
“I’ve been here before with Veronica. We came for a dinner. It was awful.”
“The food?”
“No, the people. Talk about snooty, mean, and general buttholes.”
“Great, they ought to be a big help in finding our golf instructor.”
London pulls in front of the imposing white building. “Okay, you take the lead on this one.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, if you find Cindy Harris, you get to ask the first question.”
As we stroll up to the clubhouse, I think about what my opening question will be. This is my big moment and I don’t want to blow it.
I walk into the pro shop like I know what I’m doing. The kid who works there is a pleasant, fresh-faced guy who looks like an advertisement for toothpaste.
“How may I help you?” he asks.
“We’re looking for Cindy Harris. I’m a detective and we have a few questions we need to ask her,” I say. I conveniently omit the part about being a private detective.
“Oh, sure. She’s out on the course right now giving a lesson,” he says.
“How long until she’s back?”
“Well, it could be quite a while. She took Mrs. Paul out about an hour ago. She’s a really bad golfer so it might be dark by the time they get back.”
London pipes up, “It’s really important we talk to her sooner rather than later.”
“You could take a cart out and go find them,” the kid offers.
“A cart?” I ask.
“One of our golf carts,” he says.
“That’d be great,” London says.
“Hold on and I’ll bring one around for you.” He grabs a set of keys from the hooks behind the cash register and disappears out a back door.
“Do you know how to drive one?” London says. “Golf carts weren’t part of our police training.”
“Oh sure, leave the driving to me,” I say with false bravado. I mean, really, how hard can it be?
We walk back out the clubhouse doors as the kid drives the cart up. He gets out, saying, “Your chariot awaits.”
“Thanks.” I get behind the wheel and London takes shotgun. I ask the kid, “Say, what’s Cindy Harris look like anyway?”
“You can’t miss her. Look for the neon orange knickers.”
“Neon orange knickers,” I repeat.
The kid pats the roof of the cart and says, “Watch out for stray golf balls. If you stay on the paved path you should be safe.”
“Okie dokie,” I say. I study the floorboard. There are two pedals. I’m assuming one is the gas and the other’s the brake. So far, so good.
“Have you figured out your first question?” London asks.
“I think I’ll ask her where she was the night Beth Ellen was killed. I know it’s kind of predictable and ordinary, but it seems the most logical question.”
“Good enough start.”
I punch the gas with my right foot and the cart lurches forward. I quickly mash the brake pedal. The result is mild whiplash. “Sorry about that. My golf cart skills are a little rusty.”
This time I barely touch the gas and we lurch forward again. I let off the gas. I press down on the gas. I let off the gas. We’ve only gone about ten feet and already I’m making myself seasick.
“You’ve never driven one of these before have you?” London asks.
“What makes you say that?” I push on the gas pedal and as we shoot down the drive I yell, “Yabba dabba dooo!”
London grips the dash as I bounce the cart over the grass and up onto the paved path.
On the fourth hole, I spot the orange knickers. “There they are!”
Out of nowhere a golf ball comes straight at us. It must be moving faster than the speed of sound because I hear “Fore!” a second later. Thank God, I have lightening-fast reflexes. I veer the golf cart to the left and floor it.
In theory, this would’ve worked had it not been for the sand trap on our immediate left. The golf cart careens off the paved path, bounces over the edge of the green and nosedives into the sand trap where it bounces, then straightens and continues at warp speed.
London and I both bail out of the vehicle seconds before it careens into the pond. I sit up just in time to see the cart speed into a herd of ducks.
There’s a lot of quacking, splashing, and flying feathers. The cart disappears into the pond and finally, nothing is left but bubbles on the surface of the water.
“Yabba dabba do,” London mutters.
I stare at the bubbles on top of the water. Unless this golf cart is a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang model, chances are it’s not going to float or fly out of the pond.
I look over at London. She looks back me. Her pupils are dilated, she has sand all over her face, and a patch of grass sits lopsided on top of her head like a tiny green wig. I think she’s shell-shocked.
“Don’t I always show you a good time?” I joke.
She makes a sputtering sound with her lips and it takes me a moment to realize she’s trying to get the sand out of her mouth.
“Are you okay?” a voice asks.
I look up and see two women peering down at us from the edge of the green. “I think so,” I answer. Judging by the orange knickers, I’m looking at none other than Cindy Harris. There’s an older lady standing beside her. That must be Mrs. Paul.
“I am so sorry. It was completely my fault. I’ll pay all damages,” Mrs. Paul blathers. “My swing has been listing to the right all day.”
“No worries, we’re fine,” London says, trying to get to her feet, but slipping back down into the sand.
“I’m not so sure about the golf cart,” I say. “I doubt if it’s salvageable.”
“You’re not the first ones to sink a cart,” Cindy Harris says.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I say. “I was kinda hoping to set a record.” I take a step and fall to my knees in the soft sand.
“Don’t try walking. It’s best just to crawl up,” Cindy Harris says.
London and I look at each other. “No one, I repeat, no one, is to know about this,” she whispers out the side of her mouth.
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
> It takes us the better part of five minutes to crawl our way out of the sand trap. I’m not feeling very dignified when I finally make it onto the grass and can stand up again. London introduces us as I try to brush off some of the sand.
“Ms. Harris, we have a few questions to ask you,” London says.
Mrs. Paul’s eyes get big. Cindy Harris looks at her and says, “Will you excuse us for a moment, Mrs. Paul? You can use this time to work on your putt.”
Mrs. Paul nods and smiles tightly. She ambles over to a space maybe twenty yards away. It’s far enough to be discreet, but not quite far enough to not overhear if things get heated.
Cindy Harris’s eyes turn back to us. Her friendly expression has been replaced by something darker, more sinister. I take a moment to look her over. She has short blond hair, and forearms like Popeye.
“What’s this about?” she asks.
Here goes question numero uno. “Where were you the night Beth Ellen Warren was murdered?”
“What?” Cindy asks. “Beth Ellen was murdered?”
She could be feigning ignorance just to throw us off her scent, but if so, she’s a damn good actress. “I’m afraid so,” I say.
“When?”
“You don’t read the newspaper?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t watch TV news either. It’s too depressing. I’m into meditation and manifestation. The news upsets my positive vibe.”
“So, you’re a New Age golf instructor?”
“No, I just have stress management issues,” she says.
“How about anger management issues?” I throw in. Now that’s a good question. I feel proud of myself for asking it.
“Well, I’ll admit I have a bit of a temper, but I’ve got a long fuse. Something really has to bust my buttons to make me lose it,” she replies. She absentmindedly picks up a club and white knuckles it.
I exchange a look with London. Cindy must have caught it. She puts the club back down.
“Did you lose your temper when Beth Ellen dumped you?” London asks.
“No. Beth Ellen didn’t dump me. I have sex with a lot of women. She knew the score. We had some afternoon liaisons but it wasn’t a relationship. We both knew that,” Cindy says.
“Her ex-husband alluded to the fact that you weren’t happy she was talking to him again, even after she moved out,” London says.
Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2) Page 17
