“She moved to the Embassy Suites. I wouldn’t exactly call that moving out. I’d call that indecision. Clark’s got money. I don’t. Beth Ellen had high-class tastes. I wasn’t happy about her talking to anyone about us. I want to keep my job. If I were involved in a scandal, I’d be gone in a second. The management here doesn’t like for instructors to fuck their clients. I was more concerned with that than anything.”
She has a point, but I decide right then and there that I don’t like her. Beth Ellen might have been a pain in the tokus during high school, but she deserved better than her. I ask the million dollar question. “You have an alibi for Friday night?”
“I went for a beer with some buddies down at the Kit Kat Klub. Stayed until about midnight and headed home,” Cindy says.
“Your buddies have names?”
“Yeah,” Cindy says. She pulls a stubby pencil from her back pocket and writes on the back of a score card. “Here are their names and numbers.” She hands me the card.
“All right. We’ll check it out. Thanks for your time, Ms. Harris,” London says.
“For the record I feel bad about Beth Ellen. Do you know when the funeral is?” Cindy asks.
“As soon as the autopsy results come in. You can check the paper for the date and time,” London says, knowing good and well that Miss Meditation already said she doesn’t read the paper.
We watch Cindy Harris walk back to Mrs. Paul. Mrs. Paul swings her club high over her head and knocks the ball right into a copse of trees.
“Why does that woman even golf?” London says. “She’s terrible at it.”
“Maybe she’s sleeping with the instructor, too,” I say.
London makes an icky face and I chuckle. We walk back toward the clubhouse. I hope my Fitbit is logging all this walking.
“My gut tells me that Cindy Harris didn’t do it,” London says.
“My gut is telling me that I ate too much tortellini salad.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial.
“Who’re you calling?”
“The owner of the Kit Kat Klub. She’s a client of mine. She’ll be able to find out if Cindy Harris’s alibi checks out.”
“Fore!”
London and I duck and cover. Thankfully, the ball whizzes over our heads.
Twenty-Nine
“Oh, my God where have you been?” Travis asks before I even have the door shut behind me. “And why do you have sand all over you?”
“It’s a long story.” After the country club, I ran by the Kit Kat Klub and talked to the bartender. Turns out that Cindy Harris is a regular, so her story checks out. That’s one suspect down.
I walk into my living room just as Michael completes a pirouette. He freezes then hops up and down on the balls of his feet. “We are so awesome,” he says. He looks at Travis who has a dustbuster in his hands and is running it up and down my pant legs.
“Stop that!” I say. I bat at Travis and the dustbuster.
Travis turns it off. “This doesn’t have enough suction.”
“That’s what he said,” Michael says with a naughty giggle.
They both laugh, way too hard, and high-five each other. I think they’re on drugs. That’s the only explanation for their constant movement and silly antics.
“Are you two high?” I ask.
“High on life!” Michael says, executing another flawless pirouette.
He’s making me dizzy. I plop down on the couch. I’m beyond exhausted. So is Ivan. He hops in my lap, closes his eyes and snores. Veronica-the-Cat walks by, her tail twitching, but doesn’t even look at me. She hops up on the table, sticks one leg stiffly in the air, and begins to lick.
Then I notice the murder board. The Hardy Boys have been busy. Their scribbles fill up all the white space.
I level my gaze at Travis. “What’s going on? Why are you two so wired?”
“We’re excited. We have awesome news.”
“Okay.” I settle back into the cushions. “Hit me.”
Travis looks crestfallen. “You’re not acting very excited.”
“I’m really tired and I have sand in my cracks.”
“I’ll get you a Red Bull. We’ve been living off the stuff,” Travis says. He runs to the kitchen and whizzes right back. “Here, drink this.”
I pop the top on the can and drain it. It tastes like ditch water. I’ll never get to sleep now, but I have a feeling that wasn’t happening anytime soon with all the ‘awesome news’ and pirouettes I’m about to be subjected to.
“Better?” Travis asks.
I belch in response. It tastes even worse the second time around.
“Hurry up, I can’t stand the suspense,” Michael says. He executes three quick pliés.
I crush the empty can and toss it to Travis, saying, “Okay, what’s the news?”
“We found Holly Ryder! We found her, we found her,” Travis chants.
“No kidding?” That is good news. Nothing to pirouette about, but still good.
“We set up a lunch for you tomorrow at Chez Rue. It’s her favorite restaurant. She’s really excited to talk to you,” Travis says.
“You talked to her?”
“Yes, she’s really nice,” Michael says.
“You both talked to her?”
“On speaker phone. I need to know what exactly is going on if I’m going to help,” Michael says, placing his delicate hands on his narrow hips.
“Did you tell her why I want to talk to her?”
“Of course. She already knew Clark’s wife had been murdered. When I told her you were investigating the crime, she got excited because she’s never talked to a real live private detective before,” Travis says.
“Okay, well, I really need to check this out with London first. She’s in charge of the investigation.”
“Text her,” Travis says.
“It’s been a really long day and I’m sure she’s tired, too. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.” Now I wish I hadn’t downed that Red Bull because all I want to do is take a shower, de-sand my crevices, and go to bed. Travis and Michael’s enthusiasm is exhausting.
“She’s a homicide detective. They never sleep,” Travis says.
“And you’re basing this on what?”
“TV shows. Detectives are always super obsessed, especially when a case presents lots of challenges. Think about it. Have you ever seen a detective sleep?” Travis counts off on his fingers saying, “Columbo, Angela Lansbury, that show with the big bird. . .”
“Sesame Street?” I ask.
“Not that big bird. The white cockatoo,” Travis says.
“Baretta,” Michael says.
Travis continues, “21 Jump Street.”
Michael jumps in, “Charlie’s Angels.”
“Hart to Hart.”
“Hill Street Blues.”
“Ironside.”
“Perry Mason.”
“Don’t forget Law and Order.”
“Mannix.”
“Oooh, good one!”
“I know, right?”
“And my all-time favorite. . ..” Travis does a drum roll thingie with his fingers on the table. “Dragnet!”
“Just the facts, Ma’am,” Michael says doing a pretty good Joe Friday impersonation.
I hold up my hands. “Okay, okay, okay,” I say. “You guys win.”
Travis holds out his hand, palm up. “Give me your phone. I’ll text her.”
“No, I’ll do it.” I type quickly. London’s reply comes within three seconds.
“See I told you she wasn’t asleep,” Travis says, looking very pleased with himself.
“Whatever.” I think the Red Bull might be making me cranky. I should try to be nicer. The guys really are helping me out.
“What did she say?” Michael asks. “Do we get to interview Holly Ryder?”
“She said okay.”
“Great!” Travis exclaims. “What should we wear?”
“You’re not going.”
“But we hav
e to go,” Travis whines. “We’re your assistants. It’ll make you look super important to have assistants. We can take notes and observe her body language and maybe ask a question if one arises, you know, organically.”
“No questions,” I say. “And I mean it.”
“Does that mean we get to go?” Travis asks breathlessly.
“Yes, but on the condition you keep quiet and don’t make any sort of scene no matter what happens. And you don’t wear anything flashy or weird.”
“Got it,” Travis says. He and Michael clasp hands and dance around the room.
“Oh, and I enlarged that picture of Terri Barton just in case we want to check her out later,” Michael says as they waltz by me.
I’d forgotten all about Terri Barton. The next time they waltz by me, I say, “You think you two can stop dancing long enough to help me find out more about her?”
They skid to a stop. “You think she had anything to do with this?” Travis asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. But I’ve had a Red Bull and I need to do something until I pass out.”
Thirty
I’m one of those people who functions best on nine hours of sleep. The problem is that I never get nine hours. This morning is no different. I wake up with Ivan licking my face. His breath is bad, but he probably thinks the same thing about me. Thanks to Mr. Red Bull I didn’t go to bed until two a.m. I look over at the alarm clock. It is now seven-thirty. Five hours of sleep isn’t going to cut it. I’ll be operating on only 40 percent of my brain capacity.
I bury my head under my pillow. I feel Ivan turn in circles at the foot of my bed and snuggle in for another nap. I hear his soft snoring in a matter of seconds. I’m just drifting off again when Travis and Michael burst through my door and jump on my bed.
“Ivan!” Travis scolds, “We sent you in here to wake her up, not take a nap with her.”
“He’z tiredth. I’mb tiredt. Go’th abay,” I sputter with my mouth full of pillow.
“I can’t understand you with that silly pillow on your head,” Travis says. He whips it off.
A ferocious white light burns my eyes. I throw my arms over my face, wincing. “Close the shades!”
“Stop acting like a vampire,” Travis says.
“Why do I have to get up so early? The lunch date isn’t until noon.”
“Because we have lots of stuff to do before that,” Michael says.
“Like what kinds of stuff?”
“I’ll get her coffee,” Michael says. He heads for the door. But he doesn’t simply walk out of my bedroom, oh no. . . he shuffles off to Buffalo.
Travis settles in at the foot of my bed. He says, “First, we have to discuss Terri Barton, then we have to stake out Holly Ryder in case she makes a run for it.”
“Why would she run? She’s not a suspect.”
“Everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise,” Travis says. “You should know that.”
“Okay, tell me why you think she might be a suspect,” I say, sitting up.
“Wait until I get there,” Michael calls out from the kitchen.
“Roger,” Travis calls back. He stands and does a model turn. “What do you think of my outfit?”
I take a good look at him. He’s wearing a pair of black slacks, a dazzlingly white shirt and a skinny black tie.
“We’re wearing suit jackets too,” Travis says.
“You look like the Men in Black guys.”
Travis does a fist pump. “That’s exactly what we were going for.”
Michael comes in with my coffee. He’s dressed the same way.
“Well, you all do look really official, but don’t you think you might scare Holly Ryder?” I sip the coffee. “Omigod, this coffee is good. Is it a new brand?”
Michael smiles smugly and says, “I put in a pinch of cinnamon. It really brings out the flavor, don’t you think? It also cuts down on the acidity.”
“Forget the coffee for a minute,” Travis says. “Why do you think we’d scare Holly Ryder?”
I shrug and sip.
“That’s why we’re not wearing sunglasses,” Michael says. “We thought it might make us look unapproachable.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” I sip some more. Now that he mentions it, I can taste the cinnamon. “But why do you think she’s a suspect?”
“I’m not saying she’s high on the PP list, but hear me out,” Travis says.
“Pee pee?”
“PP,” Travis says again. “Potential perp.”
“Ooooh,” I say. “That kind of PP. Please continue.”
“Okay. What if Holly Ryder reported Clark because he dumped her for Beth Ellen? The police always believe the woman, especially back then. He’d deny it as would any guilty person and she’d have her revenge. So she harbors this huge grudge against Beth Ellen for stealing Clark away. Then she finds out that Beth Ellen has left Clark, and to insure they don’t get back together, she kills Beth Ellen,” Travis says.
“Wow, that’s a bunch of ‘ifs’.
“But not entirely implausible,” Travis insists.
He has a point. It might be a long shot, but they need to check it out just in case. Plus, it might keep The Hardy Boys busy and out of my hair. “You’re right. It is a possibility. You did good work.”
“It was Michael’s idea,” Travis says. He beams at Michael.
Michael blushes. “No, I just started the ball rolling and then we brainstormed,” he says modestly.
Travis pats my leg. “Now, get up and we’ll discuss our next potential suspect. Oh, and wear something black.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to wear the magenta shirt?” I ask. My sarcasm passes right over Travis’s head.
“No, too colorful. It makes you look frivolous.” He leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I drag my tired butt out of bed and dress in black slacks and a black T-shirt. I wash my face, brush my teeth and pull my hair back into a pony tail. That’s my beauty regimen for the day. I won’t look in the mirror again unless somebody tells me I have something caught in my teeth.
I walk into the living room/war room. Travis takes one look at me and frowns. “You need a white shirt and a black tie.”
“But you told me all black,” I say on my way to the kitchen for more coffee.
Travis follows me. “I changed my mind. I think we need conformity.”
I reached for the espresso machine when Travis shouts, “Do not touch the machine!” I freeze with my hand in midair. “Michael, supervise. Immediately,” he says.
“Just because I poured the milk in the wrong hole one time doesn’t not make me a criminal.”
“It does too,” Travis says. “That is a six hundred dollar Breville Barista Express. It’s not a toy.”
Michael steps in. “You go change your shirt and I’ll bring your coffee in.” Michael, for all his pirouettes and butt flexes, is a really nice guy. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he moved in. It would give Travis someone else to boss around.
“Thanks, but I don’t really have to wear a tie, do I?”
“No, I’ll talk him out of it,” he whispers under his breath so only I can hear.
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
I find a wrinkled white T-shirt on the floor of my closet. It doesn’t pass the sniff test, so I toss it in the clothes hamper. I survey the contents of my closet. I don’t own a single white shirt. Oh well, I tried.
I follow the coffee aroma back to the kitchen.
Michael hands me a cup. He doesn’t say a word about my not changing my shirt.
“Hurry up you two. I’m ready for my PowerPoint presentation,” Travis says from the war room.
“PowerPoint?” I ask Michael.
“He worked on it all night. Be nice.”
I follow him into the war room and have a seat at the end of the conference table. A computer monitor is at the other end, powered up and ready to go.
Travis says, “PowerPoint is going to facilitate faster learn
ing and keep things organized.”
Michael sits beside me, his hands folded on top of the table and his back straight. He looks like the perfect student. He reminds me of those kids in school that everyone loves to hate—the teacher’s pet.
Travis pulls a pointer out of God only know where and uses it like a magic wand, swishing it toward the monitor.
“Where’d you get the pointer?” I ask.
“I took it off an old radio I found,” Travis says. “Now pay attention.”
Travis pushes a button on a remote control he holds in his hand and the PowerPoint flashes to life. Terri Barton’s face comes up first. Her face is so enormous on the 30-inch monitor that Ivan barks and Veronica-the-Cat hisses and leaps off the table. I don’t blame their reaction one little bit. I can see Terri Barton’s nostril hairs and pores. I’d hiss, too, if I only knew how.
“This is an unusual story,” Travis starts. “This is the present day Terri Barton.” He whacks her photo with the pointer. “She’s not a looker, but she’s not the worst lesbian I’ve ever seen.” He clicks a button on the remote in his left hand. The next photo comes up just as large. This photo is of a much younger Terri Barton. It’s even more awful.
“Is that her yearbook photo? It looks vaguely familiar.”
“Bingo,” Travis says.
“She’s come a long way. I wouldn’t say duckling to swan, but it is an improvement,” Michael says.
“Bingo,” Travis says again.
I wonder how many times he is going to say ‘bingo.’ “So what does this have to do with anything? I remember she was no great beauty in high school but most of us weren’t in those days—between braces and acne and rampant hormones, what’s a teenage girl to do?”
“Here’s an example of what happened to a lot of girls,” Travis says, clicking the remote and pulling up a slide that shows my high school yearbook photo.
I put my hands over my eyes and recoil. “Make it go away.”
“Okay, now look at you,” Travis says. He clicks and a photo of me at Griffin’s second birthday party comes into view.
“Now, that’s what I call duck to swan,” Michael says.
Methinks he exaggerates. All I can see is that I went from geeky girl to geeky adult. The only real difference is now I have boobs.
Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2) Page 18
