by Becky Clark
“No!” He pushed away from the sink and stood straight, fists balled. “Why would I? What for?”
“To figure out my royalty problem, like I said.”
He ran a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “Charlee, I would never do anything like that. You’ve gotta know me better than that.”
“You thought I killed my agent.”
He slumped against the sink again and looked at the floor. “That was stupid of me. I was so stunned by the news, and then you didn’t call. I didn’t know what to think.” He raised his head and looked me in the eye. “I know you didn’t do it.”
Just as I was about to rush him for a sorely missed kiss and hug, there was a wild, insistent banging at my door. I jumped. Ozzi must have seen the fear in my eyes because he pushed past me and ran to the peephole. He turned toward me as he opened the door.
“It’s just Sheelah.”
She hurried in, taking her gloves off. “Well, thanks, Ozzi. Nice to see you, too.”
“I just meant—”
“I know. I’m kidding. I’m here to whisk Charlee to a movie and away from her misery for a while.” She clapped her hands at me. “Hurry up, chop-chop. We only have forty-five minutes if we want to make the next show.”
I didn’t move.
“C’mon, it’s that one you’ve been wanting to see.” When I still didn’t move, she said in a sing-song voice, “Ryan Gosling.”
When AmyJo came out of the bathroom and saw Sheelah standing in my living room, a grimace flashed across her face and then disappeared just as quickly, like it physically hurt her to see Sheelah there. Jealousy is a weird thing. Couldn’t I have two friends? This was too much to deal with.
“Hi, AmyJo,” Sheelah said. Her grin had morphed to a grimace too.
AmyJo mumbled a greeting.
“C’mon, Charlee. Today’s the first day in a week my tooth doesn’t hurt so I want to celebrate.” Sheelah tipped her head toward Ozzi. “I guess you two made up?”
“We were about to,” I said with exasperation. “AmyJo, why don’t you and Sheelah go to the movies?”
AmyJo looked like I’d asked her to strip naked and recite the complete works of Shakespeare while performing a tarantella.
Sheelah said, “Um, well, I … ”
Ozzi walked over to me and planted a soft kiss on my mouth. Delicious. Then he gently pushed me away. “Go to the movies. Take your mind off things. Go out with your friends, get a good night’s sleep. We’ll have a real date tomorrow night. I’ll make reservations someplace nice. Okay?”
I looked from him to AmyJo and Sheelah, both looking so hopeful. “Okay,” I finally conceded with a sigh. “But you two need to take me to lunch first.”
•
Sheelah flirted shamelessly with the teenage ticket seller and scored us Early Bird pricing, even though after eating lunch and driving to the theater it was almost 3:00, long past the cutoff. Then she waltzed over to the concession area and wrangled us three free popcorns and a box of Junior Mints, my first love. I laughed at her antics and willingly accepted the candy, but when I offered some to AmyJo, she shot me an annoyed smile and turned away.
I ate all the candy and most of my popcorn but couldn’t concentrate on the film. I checked the time at 4:13 and remembered that Lavar and his con-greee-gation would be sending out their prayer bomb in two minutes. I braced myself against the Spirit of the Lord that would soon be cascading upon me, but only felt popcorn hitting the back of my head. I’ve heard God works in mysterious ways, but I doubted his medium was whole grains. I disentangled a kernel from my hair and glared backward. Another one hit me. Then another.
AmyJo went full Mama Grizzly and stormed up the aisle to confront three teenage boys sitting next to two girls. Clearly they were not as interested in Ryan Gosling as the rest of the audience. Sheelah and I watched wide-eyed as she slid into their row, facing them. The boys retreated as far as their seatbacks allowed. AmyJo bent at the waist. “If one more piece of popcorn goes anywhere near my friend’s head, or anyone else’s head, or anywhere that’s not your mouth, I will personally come back here and shove every last kernel right up your … noses. Do I make myself clear?”
In the dark theater, the whites of the boys’ eyes shone so much brighter.
“Do I?”
They nodded.
She sidestepped back to the aisle, with a parting two-fingered I’m keeping my eye on you gesture.
When she sat down, Sheelah and I gaped at her.
AmyJo shrugged. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Thanks.”
Sheelah leaned forward and nodded her head. “Wow. Impressive.”
Even though sitting on the barely upholstered seat was killing my tailbone, I turned my attention back to the screen, remembering too late about the group prayer. Nobody wanted to bless me, I figured. The movie had been a complete bust, too. While the rest of the audience sat transfixed by cinematic storytelling, I’d run through my list of remaining suspects in a continuous loop in my head, still coming up with no answers.
After the movie, Sheelah dropped us back at my apartment and AmyJo promised to be back later for our surveillance on Suzanne. I went inside, made some of the glorious coffee Ozzi brought, and opened the Fig Newtons. I texted him. Come over?
He replied immediately. Made plans with my mom. Afterward?
Probably for the best. I was sure to blurt out something I shouldn’t about what was going on with Lance. Plus, I didn’t want to explain my plans for Suzanne. I knew he wouldn’t approve.
That’s okay. You were right. I should get some sleep tonight. See you tomorrow. oxox.
I texted him again. Quick question. Is it crazy hard to change timestamps on the posts on a message board?
Almost impossible. Why?
Triple checking Q’s alibi. Thanks. Say hi to your mom for me.
Will do. oxox
I munched the soft, sticky cookies while reading my Yellow Tablet of Suspicion, even though I already knew exactly what it said. For one thing, complete blanks for both Einstein and Heinrich. I reached for my phone and dialed Heinrich. I must have tried calling him fifteen times over the last week. Maybe this time was the charm. I called his landline instead of his cell so he couldn’t dodge my call unless he had Caller ID. While I waited for him to answer, I pictured him sitting in an easy chair chomping on a cigar.
Glancing over at the postcard of the two stylized couples I’d picked up at the art museum on Thursday, I realized that Heinrich was the reason why the two paintings on it felt so familiar. The man in each couple had a cigar parked between his lips.
“Ja.”
“Heinrich, it’s Charlee.”
“What’s the matter?” His voice sounded worried.
“Nothing’s the matter. I just wanted to ask you something, since you keep dodging my calls.”
“Ja.”
Ja, he’s been dodging my calls, or Ja, go ahead and ask? I chose the latter. “Why did you miss critique group the day Melinda Walter was killed?”
The silence stretched from here to Lichtenstein. “Heinrich? You still there?”
When he replied, I wished it had stretched farther. I could hear the anger in his voice, even though he fought to control it.
“You have no right to ask me this question. Shame on you.” He also spoke a German paragraph, which might have only been one word. I guessed at the English translation from the way he spat it out, and I was glad it wasn’t in English.
His stonewalling frustrated and angered me. “If you think you can punish my brother through me, you’ve got another thing coming,” I snapped. “Lance made a rookie mistake, but you’ve got to let it go. I don’t know everything that happened, but none of your kids were hurt. And I don’t need this right now on top of everything else.”
The longer the silenc
e, the more I expected a stream of furious German expletives from him. Instead I heard laughter. “That dummkopf was your brother?”
“Still is.”
“Gott save Denver. Thought he’d be fired by now.”
“He’s a good cop,” I said angrily. “Why do you want to hurt him?”
“I don’t.” Heinrich sounded baffled. “I don’t want to deal with him, but—”
Now I was baffled, too. “You’re not trying to get revenge all these years later through me?” As I said it, I realized how truly ridiculous I sounded.
“You watch too much TV.”
I wanted to tell him it was AmyJo’s theory, so technically she might be the one who watched too much TV. But maybe now he’d be ready to give me an alibi. I’d made him laugh, after all. I didn’t care any longer why he hadn’t come to the critique group meeting, so I asked the more important question: “Do you have an alibi for when Melinda was murdered? Sunday night until Monday morning?”
“None of your business!”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
Heinrich hung up before I could ask why he was being so secretive about his whereabouts. And why would it make him so angry at me? Surely he understood why I had to ask. Unless he had no alibi. But wouldn’t he make one up if he was the killer and I came sniffing around?
No meaningful insights came to me, so I refocused on my list and tapped my pen on the pad of paper. Because I’d made up with Ozzi—even though we hadn’t consummated our reconciliation—I decided to make nice with his sister, too, and perhaps get some answers. That old get more flies with honey thing, although why anyone wanted more flies had always puzzled me.
When Bubbles answered, I said, “I need to apologize to you for our last conversation. I didn’t mean to accuse you of killing Melinda.”
She must have heard from Ozzi that we’d reconciled, so she accepted my apology graciously.
We made a little small talk, and then I said, “Hey, I’ve been thinking. I’m not doing a whole lot of writing of my own these days, so I wanted to pay you back for reading and critiquing my manuscripts. I’d be happy to read something you’ve written and offer some feedback if you’d like.”
“That’s generous, Charlee, but I don’t have anything. I don’t actually write. I thought you knew that.”
“You don’t? Then why were you so insistent—er, excited when Oz introduced us?”
She laughed. “It’s embarrassing, but I felt a bit like a fangirl. I’d never met a real author before.”
“So you’re not a wannabe writer?”
“Nope. I wanted to be one of your first readers because it seems so glamorous and exciting.”
My turn to laugh. “Glamorous? Really?”
“Well, yeah. Until the cops came to question me.”
Twenty-Three
While waiting for AmyJo to come over, I finished the entire pot of coffee and twiddled my thumbs. She finally showed up a little before eleven, dressed all in black: sweatpants, sweatshirt, shoes, muffler around her neck. She also sported a black ski mask pushed up so it was just a hat, and she’d smudged her face with charcoal or something.
“Geez, Ames, we’re not heading for the trenches on the Western Front,” I whispered.
“So sue me,” she whispered back. “I wanted to be prepared for my first stakeout. Why are we whispering?”
“Suzanne can hear every word we say over here.”
“Everything? What about when you and Ozzi—”
“Yes. Everything.”
We gave dual full-body shudders.
She eyeballed my outfit of jeans, boots, and Simpsons T-shirt. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
I looked down. “Seems so.”
“Not very”—she waved at her own clothes—“black.” She dug in her purse. “At least rub this stuff on your face.”
“Nope. But I will wear my black coat, if that’ll make you happy.”
“Hey, it’s your surveillance. Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking. If she breaks into the bookstore tonight, how do you know she’s not just doing it for show? You know, to prove her alibi to you.”
I stared at AmyJo like Peter O’Drool might stare at an algebra book.
“Didn’t cross your mind?”
I shook my head.
“No matter. We’ll be able to tell by her body language and demeanor and stuff.”
I doubted that was true, but I’d already polished off a pot of coffee so I wasn’t sleeping anyway. We might as well blunder our way through this.
AmyJo turned off the lights and we waited at either end of the couch in my dark apartment.
It wasn’t long before AmyJo was softly snoring and I’d felt my way to the bathroom to pee twice. The second time I decided to flush. I wasn’t even sure Suzanne was home.
But as I settled back into my corner of the couch, I heard her front door open and close. I felt my way to the window and watched her walk across the parking lot. I craned my neck the opposite direction and saw her car parked in its regular spot, next to mine in the carport.
“AmyJo, this is it. Eagle has flown.”
“Mfff?”
“I think Suzanne is headed for the coffee shop. Let’s go.”
We tiptoed to my car—as much as one can tiptoe through a foot of snow—and peeked over the hood until Suzanne reached the pedestrian gate. As soon as she went through it, we got in the car. I kept my distance, rolling up and down the lanes in the parking lot. As soon as Suzanne had crossed the street, clearly heading to Espresso Yourself, I cut my lights, circled around to the other end of the alley, and watched her fiddle with the handle until the door opened.
“She’s done this before,” I whispered.
When Suzanne disappeared into the shop, AmyJo and I exited the Kia, being careful not to slam the doors. We scurried to the back of the coffee shop, but there were no windows.
AmyJo twisted the doorknob even though I shook my head so hard I hurt my neck.
“Locked,” she whispered.
We made our way to the front, where I was suddenly overly aware of how we, meaning AmyJo, looked. A bit too conspicuous to be out for a midnight stroll in the frigid night air. I scurried to the front window with AmyJo right behind me. I pulled her arm until we were both squatting there, eyeballs even with the bottom of the window. I squinted into the dark but saw nothing unusual. The tables and chairs on the right side of the coffee shop were neatly stacked upside down, four to a table. Straight ahead there was no activity behind the counter, no lights on in the kitchen. In the book area on the left, everything was quiet as well. Overstuffed chairs sagged like bored employees lounging in a break room. Magazines and books piled on most of the end tables scattered around. A couple boxes with books peeking over the top waited for shelf space near the stacks.
AmyJo and I locked questioning eyes.
When I turned back to the window, though, two brown eyes and a hairy face peered out at me, head cocked. I hit the deck and pulled AmyJo to the sidewalk with me.
“The dog,” I mouthed.
She responded by silently reenacting Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
I placed my hand on the top of her head to keep her down while I raised myself up millimeter by millimeter. When my eyes reached the bottom of the window again, the dog’s nose was pressed to the windowpane and her tail was wagging. She stared at me, beginning to get excited about this game, and then suddenly disappeared.
AmyJo struggled against the weight of my hand and I let go. She slowly raised herself to the level of the window and we both watched as Suzanne expertly managed the microwave in the dim light. The red light beeped and went out. She pulled something out and placed it on the floor, where the dog gobbled it up and then raised her head, expectations high. Suzanne gave her something else, which also disappeared, but this time, e
ven though the pooch clearly wanted more, Suzanne instead patted her back and gave her some loving scritches before heading back behind the counter. She pulled a small loaf from cellophane, placed it on a baking sheet, and popped it in the toaster oven.
“Blueberry butter braid,” I whispered.
“Your sense of smell is remarkable,” AmyJo whispered back.
“No … never mind.”
We watched until Suzanne had pulled the pastry from the oven, sliced and placed it on a plate, and then headed to one of the small tables near the comfy chairs. She manhandled a big wingback chair so its back was to the window, then carried the table with the pastry on it so it was angled in front and to the right of the chair. She knew the correct angles to hide herself from view if anyone wandered down the sidewalk and peered inside, yet also remain in a pool of light cast by the street light so she would be able to read.
Ducking behind the bookshelves, she returned with three books. Two she dropped to the floor. She picked up the pastries and they disappeared, along with her, into the recesses of the wingback chair.
Yes, she’d done this before.
We watched for a while longer, but the only movement was the dog sprawling on the rug near Suzanne, clearly content with the snack and her company.
AmyJo ducked down and leaned her back against the wall. “How long do we have to do this? I’m freezing.”
“Me too.” I jerked my head toward the alley.
As soon as we climbed in the car and the relative warmth hit me, I had to pee again. “Dammit.” I glanced around the dark alley. No good venues. “Let’s talk this through and distract me from my bladder.”
“Turn on the heater.”
“She’ll hear.”
“Maybe, but she’ll just think it’s a car. And I doubt she’d hear it from all the way back here.”
I turned the key. “But only until it gets warm.”
“Fine.”
“Now, talk.”
“About what?”
“Suzanne. This.” I fluttered both hands. “My investigation.”
