Divas, Diamonds & Death

by Elizabeth Ashby

  "Oh, nothing," I said. "Just that it looks like Josh might have had something to do with what happened."

  She put her hand to her heart and gasped. "Josh? No. He's just a little boy, hardly even old enough to shave."

  "Maybe," Tino said. "But you don't have to shave to drug someone, kidnap an animal, and possibly even murder the man who caught you in the act."

  We left Mama Politano staring after us.

  "Probably shouldn't have mentioned that last part," I said to Tino as we walked out.

  He looked at me, one dark, lush eyebrow cocked in question.

  "Mama Politano is gossip central in this town. It won't take long before everyone in town believes Josh Wyler is a cold-blooded killer, and we haven't had a chance to talk to him yet."

  "Let's take care of that then," he said as he took hold of my hand and pulled me along up the block to where the Danger Cove Trolley had stopped to let off passengers.

  We hopped on the trolley. The car was full—mostly tourists from the look of everyone—and we had to stand up through the last couple of stops. We got off where it turned around at the pier. Mama Politano hadn't given us much of a clue about Josh Wyler except that he worked somewhere around there on the weekend.

  "Where should we start, and how will we know him?" Tino asked.

  "About the where, we'll just have to walk around and scope things out. Maybe we'll spot him. As to the how, I won't forget Josh any time soon."

  His freckled face, with its big teeth and unruly eyebrows that looked like patches of orange crab grass, wasn't going to be easy to forget. "I'll know him when I see him," I said and started off down the pier with Tino following me.

  We stopped in at the Lobster Pot, which was busy as heck with tourists. We locals had learned to stay away from the more popular tourist spots during the summer months. As good as the food was at the Lobster Pot and other places around it, and as much fun as a stroll on the pier could be on a nice summer night, the elbow-to-elbow summer crowds could be a hassle, especially on weekends.

  The hostess said Wyler didn't work there, but she knew him and sent us further along the pier past the T-shirt shop and the seashell and candle shop to Shirley's ice cream parlor.

  At the sound of the bell over the door and the assault of sweet and wholesome aromas, beautiful memories of a beautiful time washed over me. "I've always loved Shirley's," I sighed. "There's something a little magical about the place. Mom and Dad used to bring me here when I was little."

  When my parents moved to the Himalayas eleven years ago, I'd thought it was a pretty random decision and, never completely understanding it, chose to stay here with my granddad, finish high school, and go to college. But before their move we were like a normal family—sort of. I mean we were all vegetarians, and there always seemed to be some down-on-his-luck stranger staying at our house and working his meals off, and then there were those times they'd go off to this Latin American jungle or that one to minister to orphans or parrots or monkeys or whatever. But otherwise, yeah, pretty normal.

  Shirley's looked the same as it always had. The small round tables had chipped Formica tops, and the chair seats and backs were covered in red-and-white striped vinyl. Big tubs of ice cream were visible under the glass front of the freezer counter, and everyone who worked there wore a red-and-white bib apron and paper hat. That was the way Josh Wyler was dressed that day.

  He looked up when we walked in, and I could tell by the puzzled look on his face that he thought he knew me from somewhere but couldn't remember exactly.

  "Welcome to Shirley's. Flavor of the day is Bubblegum Frosting. One scoop or two?"

  Tino and I crossed to the counter. "Hi, Josh," I said. "Remember me?"

  He shrugged and shook his head a little.

  "Last night?" I went on. "You brought me dinner."

  He smiled then, and all his big teeth lined up like pickets on a fence as he pointed at me. "Oh, yeah, sure. In the fancy RV."

  Tino nudged me. "Told you it was an RV."

  "That was me all right," I said. "I was wondering about that."

  "Yeah?" Josh picked up a rag and wiped a small spot of what looked like Shirley's Strawberry Dream Cream off the counter.

  "How'd that work anyway? You said Sabrina sent you?"

  He shook his head. "No. Least I don't think so. I said I was supposed to tell you"—he rolled his eyes up like he was concentrating—"it's from Sabrina. She thinks she might be out late, and she wants you to have something hot. Yeah, that was it. I never said Sabrina sent me. It was a guy who gave me the money to go pick it up, bring it back to him, and then take it to you."

  "A guy?" Tino said, pressing forward. "What guy?"

  Josh took a step back at Tino's intensity. "I dunno. Some guy, never saw him before."

  "What'd he look like? Tall? Short? Thin? Fat? Light-skinned—"

  Josh interrupted Tino with, "He was normal height, normal weight. He talked kinda funny, and he was wearing these weird clothes, like you might see in a movie."

  "A movie?" I asked.

  "Yeah. It was a suit with a funny coat with a long tail, kinda like some guys get married in. Only this one was tan not black."

  Tino and I looked at each other and said at the same time, "Carlos. It was Carlos."

  Josh shrugged again. "He didn't say his name. Just gave me money to pay for the order at Gino's and bring it back to him. So I did. Then he took it inside the drugstore with him and asked me to wait. I watched him buy a bottle of pills. When he came back, he handed me an extra thirty to run it up to Second Chance Rescue and look for the fancy RV, except he called it a motor coach."

  "And you didn't know him before?" I asked.

  Josh shook his head.

  "Then how'd he find you?" Tino asked.

  "I was just getting off the trolley after my shift here and heading for home." He paused and frowned. "What's up? Why are you asking so many questions? Is something going on?"

  I nodded. "Yes, Josh. You could say something's going on. The man who paid you to pick up the food and deliver it to me drugged it and knocked me out. Then he stole a very valuable animal and carried it off."

  Tino leaned his elbows on the counter, folded his hands, and dropped his chin onto his hands. His police instincts had kicked in, and he watched Josh's reaction as he said, "Mm-hmm, and then that guy up and got himself murdered."

  I swore I saw the freckles on poor Josh's face turn bright red. "M-m-murdered?" The bell over the door jingled, and Josh looked up. "W-w-welcome to Sh-shirley's. Flavor of the day is…aw, heck, I don't care what it is." He turned back to Tino. "Murdered? Holy crap!"

  CHAPTER NINE

  Detective Bud Ohlsen walked out of Shirley's ice cream parlor licking a triple-dip cone of what looked like Shirley's Perky Pistachio.

  Tino and I had been waiting around outside on the pier watching tourists stop by the Pirate's Booty kiosk out in front of the ice cream parlor to buy all things pirate—everything from refrigerator magnets with our famous Pirate's Hook on them to tacky costumes complete with eye patch and rubber cutlass for their clamoring children. My favorites of all the stuff they sold there were the bobbleheads of Sir Francis Drake and Bart Coffyn, Drake's crew member who stole from the famous privateer and was ultimately hanged for his trouble. The dolls uttered sea-going sayings in mechanical voices. I had several of them lined up on the windowsill above my kitchen sink. It always cheered me up when I could get an "Avast, ye mateys" or "Shiver me timbers" with my morning coffee.

  Tino and I got up from where we'd parked ourselves on a bench and went to Bud.

  I said. "What'd you find out?"

  He shook one of his long fingers at me. "You know I can't talk to you about police cases, Lizzie. And besides, I thought you were going to stick to the pet sitting business and leave the homicides to me."

  I shrugged.

  "She was violated, Detective," Tino said. "Drugged. Of course she'd be interested."

  Tino always had my back.

>   "I know that," Ohlsen said. "And I want to thank you for giving us a call about young Josh Wyler."

  "I really do have a personal interest in this case," I said. "Can't you tell me anything?"

  He sighed, and I could have sworn the slight stoop in his posture I'd been noticing for a while now bent him even more at my question. "Lizzie. Lizzie. You got Triple J's genes for sure, didn't you?" Seemed rhetorical, so I didn't answer, and he went on. "What Josh told us does tie Carlos Ramirez to the pig kidnapping but didn't really give us anything to work with as far as solving the homicide."

  "Oh." That was disappointing. "He doesn't know anything else? Not why Ramirez might have wanted the pig or—"

  "To a crime-solving professional it's obvious why the ex-husband would take the silly pig." It came from behind us, and we turned around to see Lester Marshall. "Sorry I'm late, Bud," he said to Ohlsen. "I was heavy into some serious investigating work. Came up with some pretty damning evidence"—he glanced at me, and there was something in that sly look I didn't like—"against someone around here, but of course that's strictly confidential. So I'll go over it with you when there aren't so many civilians standing around kibitzing."

  "Oh, Lester," Bud said tiredly. "Just tell me what you found."

  "Or what you think you found," Tino said softly, causing Detective Marshall to snort and glare at him.

  Marshall whipped off his sunglasses—the aviator kind Tom Cruise wore in Top Gun. Yeah right, Lester. His beady little eyes narrowed, his normally sullen expression screwed up in a smirk. "Boot prints."

  "Boot prints?" Bud Ohlsen asked.

  "Mm-hmm." Marshall reached into his jacket pocket, took out a package of SweeTARTS, and popped a couple into his mouth. "Exactly."

  Ohlsen made a gimme gesture. "And?"

  "And we determined the pig had been kept in the lighthouse—blankets, kennel, pig kibble, what not—and we found muddy boot prints all over the place there." Again that sly look at me. Boy, was Marshall milking it. I'd nearly lost interest, ready to chalk it up to another one of Lester Marshall's frequent bouts of swell-headed self-aggrandizing, when he dropped it on us like a five-hundred-kiloton nuke. "The forensics guy, what's-his-name, figured out they were made by a pair of men's size 10 and a half Doc Martens high-top lace-ups. You know, like the ones your buddy Jones wears. Yes sir. Just exactly like the ones old Jimmy John wears now and has worn ever since God knew Moses."

  "Wait a minute—" Ohlsen started.

  And I finished. "You're not saying you think Jimmy John had anything to do with this, are you?"

  "Well, why not, Missy? What makes you think just because your old granddad's more famous than most of us around these parts that he's above committing a little homicide?"

  "What?" I took an angry step toward him, but Tino caught hold of one arm and Bud Ohlsen the other, effectively holding me back.

  Lester laughed. "Oh, come on. Nearly everyone in town saw Jones and that Sabrina woman out on a little foreplay session at the Lobster Pot. And we hear Jones and the victim went to fist city last night over the TV star. And his story of driving around thinking isn't much of an alibi. Why is it so hard to believe he'd chase down his new girlfriend's ex-husband just to get her precious little porker back and impress her? Maybe even eliminate any romantic competition so to speak."

  "So if the boot prints put him at the scene—if— " Bud, still holding onto my arm, looked at me with worry in his eyes. "—how does it make him a suspect in the murder? I mean, those shoes are popular."

  "Did you forget about the way Jones attacked the poor man?" Lester added. "Look, just because Jones made a name for himself back in the day and folks around here think he's something special, that doesn't mean he can get away with murder. Even if he might think so."

  I jerked free and took a step, thrusting my chin up at him, surprised when the move made him fall back a step. "You're nuts, Marshall. What do you do? Just throw names up in the air to see which one comes down first? My granddad no more had anything to do with this than you did."

  He thrust his hands out to ward off any further advances I might make. "Okay. Fine. He probably didn't intend to kill the guy. Could've just been a heat of the moment thing, but that doesn't make him any less a killer."

  I clenched my fists and just stood there quaking, unable to say anything else.

  "Ok." Tino's voice was shaking. I wasn't surprised. I couldn't speak at all at that point. "So let's just say maybe he did go out there looking for the pig. Why wouldn't he have picked it up and brought it back with him? Why would he leave it wandering around out on the beach?"

  Lester rubbed his chin. "I haven't figured that part out yet." He pointed a finger at me, and I had to fight the urge to bite it. "But I will. Don't doubt it for a second. That's why I'm headed out to Jones's place right now, to interrogate him." He turned on his heel and stalked away from us.

  I just stood there, breathing hard, my face hot. "How dare he—"

  Ohlsen started off after the other detective but stopped and turned back. "Don't worry, Lizzie, and stay out of it. You hear me? I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding. We're talking about Triple J here. I mean…" He seemed at a loss for something else to say, so he shrugged and called after Marshall. "Lester, hang on. I'll go over there with you."

  The minute the detectives were out of earshot, I called Jimmy John. He answered right away. "Lizzie Jones, as I live and breathe. What can your old granddad do for you today?"

  I began with, "Oh my God, Jimmy John, we got trouble."

  "Trouble?" he asked, then, "Right here in River City?"

  "No joke. This is serious." And I began telling him what had just gone down with Marshall and Bud Ohlsen, the words falling out of me faster and faster as I went until I finished in a rush with, "…and they're on their way to your place right now, and I wouldn't be surprised if that Lester Marshall scumbag doesn't arrest you right then and there on the spot."

  On the other end of the connection, Jimmy John was quiet for a moment. "Boot prints? That's what they got?"

  "Well, it may be weak, but they also have motive. You socked Carlos. And Marshall's saying there were witnesses to your dinner date with Sabrina last night. That you two were pretty cozy, Granddad. You weren't, were you? Cozy?"

  "Granddad?" he said. "You must be worried if you're calling me that." He lowered his voice. "Honey, I don't know what people think they saw, but cozy isn't the word I'd use to describe the meal I had with Sabrina Ramirez last night."

  In the background, I heard a sharp intake of breath—not from Jimmy John.

  "What?" It was Fran.

  "Where are you?" I asked him.

  "I'm at Fran's," he answered. "We were just getting it straight how I feel about her and how I don't feel about The Critter Communicator Show lady when you called and used that word. Now I need to hang up and talk to her some more about it, so she doesn't continue to misconstrue my evening with Sabrina Ramirez."

  "You bet you do," Fran said in the background. "And you better talk fast."

  CHAPTER TEN

  The police interrogation of the famous Jimmy John Jones, intrepid reporter and skillful communicator, had turned out to be much ado about nothing—or that's what Jimmy said anyway.

  He'd called me late Sunday afternoon when they'd left his place and said all they had for certain were the prints of the Doc Martens soles and witnesses who'd seen him around town with Sabrina—that he'd explained the one-punch fight by telling them Carlos Ramirez had rushed them and Triple J had thought he was being attacked. Also Lester Marshall had kept harping on the fact that Jimmy John really didn't have an alibi for the time between having left Sabrina at the motor coach and the discovery of the body—but at that time of night there were probably more people than not who didn't have a verifiable alibi. Not much to go on, after all. In the end, all Lester Marshall could hit him with was, "We'll be watching, Jones. So don't leave town."

  Jimmy's nonchalant attitude about it did little, very little,
to calm my worries. Jimmy was seventy-seven years old and healthy as a horse, but going to prison on a trumped-up charge would change all that. I had no doubt. He just wouldn't thrive in prison, not that anyone actually did, but Jimmy John would whither and die there.

  Bud Ohlsen's warning to stay out of the investigation was chafing my brain. How could I? How could I stay away from it when one of the people I loved most in this world might be an arrest target for the Danger Cove PD, specifically for Lester Marshall, who for some reason or the other seemed to dislike Jimmy John? But when I thought about it, Detective Lester Marshall seemed to dislike just about everybody. I absently wondered why that was.

  Tino stopped his car in front of the Hazlitt Heights sidewalk and shifted into park. I leaned across the seat to give him a kiss but held back when I got a look at his posture.

  His hands were together at the top of the steering wheel, and his forehead rested on them. The slump of his shoulders really bothered me. I'd seen my Latin hero tired, sad, worried, scared, and just about every other which way, but never so totally dejected as he appeared to be at that moment.

  "Tino," I said softly. "What is it?"

  He lifted his head and looked at me, his eyes troubled. "I don't know what I'd do if you left."

  I laid my hand on top of his. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I may be starting my third year of vet school in the fall, but at the rate I can afford to pay for my classes, I'm realistically only about a year and half into the program. Because I pay as I go and have to work to save up in between semesters, it'll take me a few more years to finish. This isn't something we need to worry about right now. Please, don't make more of this than it is."

  "But that letter—"

  "Is just one of several I've already received inviting me to do clinical rotation in their programs." I paused for dramatic effect and emphasis. "That's once I've completed the equivalent of three full years of classes. Not before. It's normal for students to get letters like that."