by Lonni Lees
She rang the doorbell.
And waited.
“Who is it?” Came the whisper from the other side of the door.
“Detective Maggie Reardon.”
Maggie could feel the woman’s eyes on her through the peep hole in the door.
“I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“I have a few more questions.”
“I have no answers. Please go away.”
“You have one answer.”
Silence.
“What is your name?”
“My name is Misty Waters.” Tension strained her voice. “Misty. Waters.”
“There is no Misty Waters,” said Maggie. “What is your name?”
Maggie didn’t know what to make of the mournful sobs beyond the door.
“Your name.”
“M-mmm-misty.”
“Name!”
“Leave me alone!” It was the first time she had heard her raise her voice.
“Who are you?”
Maggie Reardon detected genuine terror in the artist’s voice as she replied.
“Wendy Masterson,” she screamed. “Now go away and leave me alone!”
Misty Waters. Wendy Masterson. M.W., W.M. People frequently kept their own initials when they came up with an alias. Maybe that made the lie easier to remember. But why would this apparently passive person need an alias?
“What are you hiding?” she asked.
But there was no answer.
* * * *
Maggie Reardon sat in front of the computer screen at her desk, searching.
Misty Waters, Wendy Masterson.
Like her previous search the name Misty Waters got no hits.
She had entered Wendy Masterson in the data base and found no criminal record. For some reason that didn’t surprise her. But the woman was definitely hiding something.
And Detective Maggie Reardon was determined to find out what.
She Googled Wendy Masterson into her laptop and waited.
The phone at her desk rang and she picked up. It was forensics.
“We have some information,” said the voice at the other end. “Not all of it, but some of the red clay from the Armando Salazar crime scene is a perfect match to the piece of pottery you gave us. And it matches the shards from the victim’s skull.”
So, Belinda Blume’s Gaia sculpture was the murder weapon, just as she’d suspected.
“Thank you for verifying my suspicions.”
“A cop’s gut instinct is rarely wrong, Detective. But it never hurts to have a little science to back it up.”
“Too much television,” Maggie said. “Juries today expect forensics to come into play. And it usually does. The advances in science have been nothing short of miraculous. The down side is that jurors tend to dismiss common sense when DNA and forensics don’t play into things. They always see it on their crime dramas and they expect it. We can give them a string of circumstantial evidence that could form no other conclusion but guilt, but they still want that fingerprint.”
“Speaking of which,” the voice at the other end replied, “we’re trying to pull a print from the largest shard. I’ll give you a call as soon as we have something.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry we took so long, Detective Reardon, but the lab is really backed up right now. And I have one more bit of news for you.”
“Yes?”
“That powder on the clay bits you brought in? It was cocaine.”
“Interesting. That gives me something new to work with,” Maggie said. “Thanks again and I’ll be waiting to hear from you on the prints. Thanks for a great job.”
Did cocaine fit into the murder scenario or was it just the residue from a bunch of bohemians having their fun? Even Mary Rose liked to get a little high with her tea, so a little white powder at the gallery should come as no surprise.
She hung up the phone and focused on the computer screen.
There were several hits on the name Wendy Masterson and Maggie began reading through them and jotting down notes.
“Oh, my god,” she said aloud.
She fished through her desk drawer, retrieved a stack of business cards and shuffled through them until she found the right one.
Detective Maggie Reardon picked up the phone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE DARKEST SECRETS
It was early afternoon when the three friends marched single file through the shadows of the side yard at The Mosaic Gallery. Rocco La Crosse led the way as they passed the palo verde trees and up the steps to the back apartment. He climbed the stairs carrying a large cardboard box, and Barbara Atwell and Adrian Velikson followed behind him. When they reached the top, Rocco sat his box on the landing and Barbara and Adrian sat their smaller boxes on top of his. Barbara reached into her purse and pulled out her key. She opened the door and walked inside, holding the door open for them.
“Welcome home,” Rocco said.
“It feels good,” said Barbara.
“And it feels right,” said Adrian.
They carried in Adrian’s three boxes and sat them on the floor.
Adrian collapsed on the couch as Barbara looked around the room.
“I can hardly believe I’m back,” she said.
“That’s the easiest move I’ve ever made,” said Rocco. “You’re definitely not a pack rat Adrian. I can’t believe you fit everything from your apartment into three boxes.”
“I believe in traveling light,” she said. “It simplifies life.”
“I’ll be right back,” Rocco said to Barbara. “I still need to bring up your clothes and stuff.”
“I don’t know about you two, but I’ve worked up an appetite,” said Adrian. “I think I’ll call out for a pizza.”
“I’ve got some soda in the fridge.”
Adrian reached for the phone.
Rocco whistled as he skipped down the stairs and out to his van. It struck him as funny that Adrian could carry her life in three boxes and Barbara needed that much just for a few days at his house. It reminded him of the old George Carlin routine about “stuff.” Adrian had the right idea. Rocco’s mind wandered. His favorite spendthrift relative had so much stuff he had to rent two storage units just to have room for it all. The guy would probably go through his entire inheritance never having a clue where it all went. He was a good example of why, no matter how hard the well-intentioned might be, there could never be financial equality. Give two people the exact same amount of money and within twenty-four hours one would be poorer and the other would have invested and started to build up the original amount. Rocco was generous with his charitable contributions but he chose them thoughtfully. He believed strongly in giving people a hand up rather than a handout. He had a big house although he could afford a bigger one. He had all the room he needed, and about the only stuff he let collect there was the dust on the top of his books.
His books were his guilty pleasure.
He slammed the van door shut and headed back up the stairs, Barbara’s belongings in hand.
* * * *
Calypso was sifting through overflowing piles of torn, colorful paper at the dining room table. Each piece would eventually work its way into a collage or onto a decorated box. She tossed the warm colors into one pile, the cools in another, the bits of broken jewelry into a bucket that sat on the floor.
Middle eastern music played softly from the stereo.
The doorbell rang, startling her.
And interrupting her focus, what there was of it.
“Detective Reardon here.”
It had skipped Calypso’s mind that they’d made an appointment.
“Enter,” she said, “the door’s open.” Calypso ran over to the couch and tossed a pile of laundry onto the floor to give the detective a place to sit. She tossed a stack of magazines and unopened mail onto the coffee table and sat down.
Maggie looked around the room. Once again, there was that faint aroma of stale marijuana
smoke, this time mixed with the smell of French fries. A crumpled bag from a local fast food joint sat among the clutter on the coffee table. There were piles of trash everywhere, but there was organization in the chaos, things separated into some weird theme, mostly by color. There were piles of paper and buckets of broken jewelry. Plastic flowers lay in a heap in a corner. Maggie’s eyes settled on a wall filled with artwork. Collages like she’d seen at the gallery. Happy, optimistic splashes of color perfectly put together. The woman created treasure from trash. But oh, the trash. She wondered how the artist named Calypso was able to make heads or tails of it all.
She returned her attention to Calypso who sat there with disheveled orange hair, looking like an unmade bed in a sea of junk jewelry.
“I heard about Armando Salazar,” she said. “Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m speaking with everyone who was at the gallery that night.”
“What do you want to know?”
“How close were you?”
“What do you mean by close?”
“Would you have considered him a friend?”
“He wasn’t anything but the guy who served the drinks.”
Calypso leaned forward and started shuffling through a stack of papers. She rose, grabbed a few pieces and flitted over to the dining room table where she separated them into more piles.
“I’m sorry, did you ask me something?” she said, reentering the room.
Maggie flipped through her notepad and looked up.
“You had no interest in him?”
“Okay, I’m busted,” she said with a shrug. “I found him attractive.”
Once again, Calypso became distracted and started swaying to the music.
“Would you say the attraction was mutual?” Maggie remembered Mary Rose’s comment about her friend being upset at her flirtations being rejected by Armando.
Calypso stopped moving, her expression unreadable. She reached over and picked up a length of gauzy fabric that was draped over a chair. “I also dance at The Oasis,” she said, twirling the fabric. “I’m their star. This would make a great costume, don’t you think?”
“About Armando,” Maggie began.
“He was married to a woman twice his age and he couldn’t see me?” Calypso swayed to the music and managed to gracefully sidestep the clutter strewn across the floor. Her disheveled appearance made her comical. Maggie wondered if she cleaned up any better when she had to perform. “Look at me,” she said as she danced across the room then stood before the detective. “I’m irresistible when I dance.”
“So, your opinion of Armando Salazar?”
“He was arrogant and he was uppity.” she said, “and he was obviously blind.”
* * * *
Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons whispered softly from the stereo speakers, matching the relaxed mood of the room.
“It’s good seeing the two of you here together again,” said Rocco, lifting his slice of pizza and taking a bite. “Things have come full circle.”
“Sometimes I think you know us better than we know ourselves,” said Barbara.
“Speak for yourself,” said Adrian with a satisfied smile. “I’ve always known that we were meant to be like this.”
“And you were always right,” said Barbara, reaching her arm across the other woman’s shoulders. “If I’d listened to you none of this would ever have happened.”
“It’s time to focus on the positive and embrace the good,” Rocco said.
Barbara hesitated, then said, “I just wish they’d find out who it was.”
“Detective Reardon’s doing her job,” he said. “If anybody can figure out who killed Armando, it’s Maggie.”
“Maggie?” teased Adrian, “so you two are on a first name basis now?”
“More or less,” he said, embarrassed.
“Why Rocco La Crosse,” said Adrian. “I think you have a crush on her.”
“Could be.”
“You look like the proverbial cat who ate the canary,” Barbara said.
“Let me clean up this mess,” he said, changing the subject and gathering their empty plates. “Thanks for lunch Adrian,” he said from the kitchen. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
“Hey, it’s the least I could do to thank you.”
“No thanks required,” he said. “If you don’t need me for anything else I’m going to hit the road. There’s a project at home that’s calling my name.”
He picked up the empty pizza box and headed for the door.
“I’ll drop this in the bin downstairs,” he said.
As he closed the door behind him he heard Barbara say, “Adrian, there’s something we need to talk about.”
* * * *
When Maggie walked into the mini-mart Carlos was busy with customers. She readjusted her sunglasses and headed for the back to get a burrito. She’d eat on the run as she headed to the other side of town to question the next person on her list. She held the hot burrito in her hand and walked down one of the aisles for chips, filled a cup with cola, snapped on the lid and inserted a straw. The front door dinged as customers left one by one until she was the only person left.
“This morning you did no fool me,” Carlos called out her.
“What?” she asked as she walked up and placed her food on the counter.
“You think sunglasses hide the bruises on your cheek? Or your swollen lip?”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I could see you didn’t want to talk.”
Maggie removed her shades, exposing her black eye.
“I’d tell you I ran into a door but I doubt you’d believe me.”
“Oh Miss Maggie, it looks like one of the crooks got the best of you.”
“You should see the other guy,” she said.
“That’s not funny. I tell you many times your job is too dangerous.”
“It didn’t happen on the job. And my job’s no more dangerous than you working here all alone. ”
He shrugged.
“You want to tell papacita what happened?”
She filled him in on the events of the previous night.
“Maggie, Maggie. If I had your gun I’d gladly shoot him myself. What kind of loco person could this be?”
“A man who doesn’t like no for an answer.”
“He is no man, he is a coward.”
“Carlos, that was yesterday. I’ve put it behind me.”
“And tell me, Miss Maggie. Every time you look in the mirror and see what this bad man did to you, can you put it behind you then?”
“The bruises will fade, Carlos.” And I don’t believe in lugging around emotional scars, she thought to herself. Life’s got enough checked baggage without adding a carry-on.
* * * *
Paloma Blanca, the jewelry artist, sat across from Maggie as she reeled off the standard questions. The woman was young, she was beautiful, and she knew it. Her name was the polar opposite of her appearance. In Spanish, Paloma Blanca means white dove. Paloma had jet black hair and eyes as dark as a Madrid midnight against perfect alabaster skin. She was stunning. She was as striking in her dark Latin beauty as Barbara Atwell was in her blonde sophistication. Mr. Armando Salazar had temptation all around him and apparently had his pick, although he showed no favoritism and had opted for them all.
Except for Calypso.
Even the loose-zippered Armando had some standards.
The two women played question and answer, Paloma’s responses short and abrupt with no hesitations.
“Armando Salazar was planning on seeing you that night,” Maggie said.
“We hook up from time to time, yes. He never showed up so I went out.”
“Hook up?”
“For sex.”
“So you didn’t wait for him?”
“I don’t wait for anyone, Detective Reardon. And I wasn’t about to wait for him. I went out nightclubbing. I had no idea what had happened, but believe me I’d have gone dancing
anyway. I believe in devouring life, not waiting on a bus bench for it to find me.”
“So you two weren’t serious?”
“I wasn’t. And Armando wasn’t serious about anything. It was recreational sex, nothing more.”
“And there was nothing about this relationship that bothered you?”
“It was strictly for fun. I’m young and I’m single and I have every intention of partying until my bones get too brittle to dance the salsa.”
“So his being married wasn’t a problem?”
“Armando might have been married, but I’m not.”
“I see.”
“If anybody had an issue regarding his marital status it should have been his wife.”
“Did she know?”
“Oh, she knew. She might not have known who, where or when but she knew who she married.”
“And you don’t think it concerned her?”
“I think Barbara Atwell took pride in the fact that he always came back. He was younger, you know, by several years. I don’t mean that in a catty way, but he was her trophy. And he was always back in her bed before the rooster crowed, so I doubt she complained.”
The compromises people made. Even if these people enjoyed their carefree Bohemian lifestyle Maggie couldn’t wrap her head around it. If she’d had a husband who carried on she’d drop him in a heartbeat. In her book being alone was preferable to being with the wrong person. She saw Barbara Atwell as proof that you don’t have to be stupid to be a fool.
“Thank you for your time, Miss Blanca. I appreciate your cooperation.”
“Find the person who did this,” she said. “For Barbara’s sake. Despite what you might think Detective Reardon, I consider Barbara my friend.”
* * * *
“I asked that you not bother me.” Misty Waters’s voice was barely audible as she whispered through the door. “Please, please go away.”
“I’m not here as a cop, Misty. I’m here to help.”
“I don’t need your help. I don’t want it.”
“Please listen. I know what happened to you and I understand. I know what you’re hiding from.”
Silence.
