Divas, Diamonds & Death

by Elizabeth Ashby

  Tino looked at me long and hard as if he were trying to see into my mind before shaking his head and sighing. "You don't get it."

  "I want to."

  He lifted his hand and cupped my face so tenderly I caught my breath. Then he got out of the car, walked around, and opened my door. "Come on. I'll walk you up."

  At the door he gave me a sweet but rather platonic peck on the cheek. "I drew another shift at Two Mile Beach tonight. I need to go home, shower, and get ready."

  I watched him go. "Say 'hi' to your mom and sisters," I called after him.

  He didn't even look back, just waved a hand in acknowledgment.

  "Or not," I said under my breath. Not good. Not good at all.

  I unlocked my door, went in, and bent down to receive the full force of the small vessel of puppy love that rocketed to the door to greet me.

  "Who's a good boy?" I asked to a frenzy of tail wagging and play-posing, obviously Vader's way of telling me it was he—he was the good boy.

  I walked back downstairs with him, spent some quality time on the grass, and then took him back upstairs and fed him. After he ate everything and licked the bowl clean, he toddled over to sit by the bedroom door and stare at me. I knew what he wanted, but he gave a huge yawn just to make sure I knew where he stood.

  "Uh-uh, Mister. We have work to do," I told my pug. "That mean old Lester Marshall thinks he's going to set up Jimmy John to take the rap for the Ramirez murder. And we just aren't going to let that happen, are we?"

  He began to pant, which I took as a sign he was as anxious as I to get busy with finding Carlos Ramirez's killer.

  From under my bed, I slid the grease board I used when cramming for exams and hung it on the wall in the kitchen nook. Suspects was what I wrote across the top in big block letters, and then I stood back, chin in hand, staring at it. Vader hopped up onto one of the kitchen chairs and sat staring at it, too.

  "So whose name should go up first?" I asked him.

  He made a little sound in his throat, and speaking fluent Pug, I totally had to agree.

  "You're absolutely right." I took two steps, wrote Sabrina on the board then stepped back to consider it again. "And while we're at it, let's not forget her nephew, Paco, or her bodyguard, Evan." Those two names went on the board under hers. "Who else?"

  If dogs could shrug, Vader did.

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "It's a pretty short suspect list."

  We both stared at the board until a knock drew me away from my task, and when I opened the door, Sabrina Ramirez stood there.

  She held Rosie under one arm. She looked like a fuzzy, four-legged Disney princess with an ice-blue tiara between her ears and a matching blue tulle skirt around her middle—the little piggy, Rosie, not Sabrina.

  Vader went nuts, jumping and whining and whirling until Sabrina set Rosie on the floor. Then he led his porcine girlfriend over to his doggie bed in the living room where, once she was settled comfortably, he ran around the room bringing her all his best toys. I watched, completely besotted by the cuteness of it all. It must have been true love because he even offered her the soup bone my neighbor Isaac Jagger had brought him a couple of days ago.

  "You two play nice now," Sabrina said, shaking a finger at Rosie and Vader. Then without waiting for an invitation, she swept on into the main room, trailing wafts of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.

  "I've come to ask for your help." She twirled around and faced me as I shut the door behind her. "I've decided to offer a $10,000 reward to catch the villain who murdered poor, dear Carlos." His name rolled off her tongue with the abbreviated R and lispy S of her fake Castilian accent. Poor, dear Carlos? That wasn't what she'd said about him yesterday. Yesterday he'd been Carlos the Cockroach. But now that he was dead, she seemed to have a different opinion of him.

  She went on. "To get the word out, I'm going to make up a flyer to post around town." Really? A flyer? That was what most people did when they lost their dog or cat or little pig. "I'm a strong believer in advertising, and since you know this town so well, and your grandfather tells me you can always use extra money for college…"

  Gee, thanks, Jimmy John.

  "…I thought I could kill two birds with one stone." She stopped suddenly. "Oh my, did I really just say that? What I meant was I could get the word out about the reward I'm offering and perhaps ingratiate myself to your grandfather at the same time."

  I closed my mouth which had been hanging open. "Ingratiate yourself?"

  "As if you couldn't tell he's the main reason I came to this tiny little burg. He was on the video they sent begging me to appear at the Second Chance Animal Rescue fund raiser. Didn't he ever mention our incredible chemistry when he was sent to Seattle by the local paper here to interview me when I was making an appearance there?"

  I shook my head, still dumbfounded she was willing to put up $10,000 just to impress Jimmy John. Wow.

  "I remember him from back in the day, you know. He was so handsome on TV, on the news. When he showed up that day in Seattle, why I just nearly swooned." She reached out and took hold of my hand like we were young girls talking about a school crush. "I guess I've been carrying a torch for him ever since."

  "Really?" I couldn't think of anything else to say. "That's…nice."

  "So, I thought you and I could work together, make up a flyer or something that tells everyone there's this handsome reward for information leading to an arrest. I'm no good at all these high-tech gizmos."

  "Oh," I said, as glib as ever.

  "Let's get to work. Is there a desk or a table?" She turned around toward the big arch that passed from the living room into the kitchen. And stopped dead. "Suspects?"

  Oops. I gulped.

  She stared at the grease board and her name at the top of my possible cold-blooded killer list.

  She turned around slowly, her arms crossed over her bosom, and narrowed her eyes. There was no trace of the European accent. "So, Miss Elizabeth Jones, tell me. What do you know that I don't?"

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Lester Marshall, that detective who came to your motor coach last night?" I said.

  From the way she stared at me, it was pretty obvious she was listening closely, even if she hadn't uncrossed her arms yet.

  I went on. "He's got some circumstantial evidence and has come up with this stupid idea that Jimmy John could be the one who murdered your ex-husband."

  She inhaled sharply. "What? That's ridiculous. I knew there was something about that cop I didn't like. What does James have to say about it?"

  I shrugged. "He's pretty unimpressed about it all. I suppose because he knows he didn't do it."

  "I know he didn't do it as well," she said, and I wondered if that was because she'd done the deed herself. I wouldn't be in any hurry to erase her name from the grease board—not until I'd looked into things a bit more anyway.

  She crossed to the kitchen table and laid her bag on it. "I say let's get to work. I can't think of anything that might motivate the citizenry of this cute little hamlet better than cold hard cash. Once the real killer is turned in, James will be out of harm's way."

  "Sure." I went to my small desk, picked up my laptop, and carried it to the table. "Are you certain you don't want to just post on Instagram or Snapchat or even Facebook? I mean, will flyers draw enough attention?"

  "Believe me, if you put a piece of paper up with the words $10,000 Reward at the top in big bold letters, it's going to draw some attention."

  "What do you want the flyer to say?"

  She turned her back on the insulting grease board and put on her thinking cap, which was probably a Beverly Hills designer label.

  After we had put the flyer together, Sabrina left my place.

  I slept restlessly Sunday night, worried about Lester Marshall's campaign against my granddad.

  My cell phone rang at seven thirty Monday morning, waking me from a troubled sleep.

  "Elizabeth? Were you seriously still sleeping?" It was Sabrina. "Roust out,
young woman. I'm handing this flyer thing over to you. You need to get them printed and posted.

  "And it needs to be done as quickly as possible, and I'm rushing off to the pier to meet a camera crew. We'll be filming a special segment of the show there. Last night as I dreamt, I channeled some of your local sea life. They're extremely upset, complaining about destructive fishing practices in the Pacific Northwest. They've asked me to champion their cause. It's a vital, worthy effort, as I'm sure you well know. I cannot shirk my duty."

  "Which sea life in particular were you 'channeling?' Salmon? Tuna? No, wait. I bet it was halibut, right?" To say I was skeptical was putting it mildly.

  "It was"—her tone was indignant—"a variety."

  "I see. Heinz 57?"

  "Are you going to handle this or not?"

  "Yes," I said, kicking back the bed covers and swinging out of bed. "I will handle it because getting Lester Marshall to quit hassling Jimmy John is also 'a vital, worthy effort.'"

  As much as I was insanely curious to see how the filming went, I showered and dressed and set off to go around town to put up the flyers. Maybe someone would actually come forward with information, and Lester Marshall would give up on this crazy notion about Jimmy John.

  The object of Lester Marshall's current obsession met me at the Cove Chronicles where he was standing outside drinking from a Cinnamon Sugar Bakery cup—probably black coffee, no not probably, definitely black, a holdover from his days as a field correspondent when any coffee he was lucky enough to get was black and only occasionally even hot. These days he raved about the "primo Joe" they brewed at the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery, and he stopped by several times a week to feed his caffeine addiction.

  "Hey, Jimmy John." I walked up to him and gave him a peck on the cheek as he handed me a second paper cup from his other hand. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome, sweetie. It's all dolled up just the way you like it. Cream. Sugar."

  "Yeah, yeah." He teased me relentlessly about what he called more milkshake than coffee. "Did you set it up to use the laser printer here at the paper?" I asked.

  "Said I would, didn't I? Doesn't your old granddad always do what he says?"

  "Old granddad?" I laughed. "Since when?"

  He shrugged. "Since I must be senile to not know that spending any time alone with Sabrina Ramirez would light Fran up like the Fourth of July. You know firecrackers, ramparts bursting in air. Lots of noise?"

  I was surprised. "Noise? Oh. Fran's really jealous? She doesn't have anything to be jealous of, does she? That's what you told me."

  He shrugged. "And it's true. I told her, but you try convincing her of it. I don't seem to be having much luck."

  He took a gulp of his coffee and looked at his feet. I took a gulp of mine. It was perfect. The man knew me too well. But he was obviously stumped when it came to Fran.

  "What did you say to her?" I asked.

  He looked up at me and nodded. "Every darn thing I know to say. Told her I only went to dinner with the woman as a courtesy because she came all the way down here to help out at Second Chance. Told her there was no one else I wanted in my life but her. Told her to quit being like this, that she knows good and well how I feel about her, and that she was acting crazy."

  "Oh," I said. "Crazy? I bet that went over well. You're lucky she didn't hit you with something."

  "Yeah. I guess." He sounded really depressed, something I'd only seen in him a couple of times before when one of his buddies from the old days passed away.

  "Jimmy John, you can tell her a million times how you feel about her, but she won't believe a word of it until you show her."

  "Show her? How?"

  "A dozen red roses, a dress-up dinner out somewhere really nice, a bottle of expensive wine, and some guy to sing love songs in the background while you stare into her eyes."

  He looked puzzled. "That sort of thing really works?"

  "Oh, yes. Like gangbusters. Oh, and it would be a really good idea if you never mention Sabrina Ramirez and the dinner with her again. Ever."

  He looked at me a long minute, his grey eyes serious, before his whole face creased into a smile and he threw an arm over my shoulder. "You must get all that brain power from your mother. I mean, I love your dad and all, but my son never was all that shrewd about things like this."

  "This is just common sense. I happen to know a little about women," I said. "Because I am one." I sighed. "What I don't know about is men."

  He grinned. "Maybe I can help you out there." He paused before adding, "Because I am one." He moved a couple of steps away, took another gulp of his coffee, and pounded his chest with his fist. "Come on—let me have it. I'm ready for anything. What is it you need to know about men?"

  I couldn't help smiling. What a guy. I loved that man so much. He had been my whole family for the last eleven years. He didn't have to take me in back then, but he did, and we went together like cheeseburgers and fries—not that I'd know much about that, being a vegetarian and all, but I've heard they go together pretty well.

  "Tino's driving me a little crazy," I said, knowing all the while it was an entirely unfair statement. Then I told him all about the uncomfortable conversations Tino and I had engaged in recently.

  "He just needs to be reassured, Lizzie. He thinks you're going to finish school and run off to the big city without him," Jimmy John said. "Just tell him you aren't going to do that, and watch his face light up."

  I didn't know what to say to that. "How can I reassure him when I have no idea what I'll be doing when I finish school? Heck, I don't even know when I'll finish. At the rate I'm going, I could be the first octogenarian to wear a cap and gown. And I can't lie to him, tell him I'll stay here forever, just like I can't lie to you about that."

  He gave me a look of surprise, and I went on. "You know you've been wondering whether I'll leave town when I get my degree. You haven't been shy asking about it either."

  He nodded then shrugged. "If you aren't comfortable telling him you're not going to leave him, then you can't blame the guy for being nervous. Lizzie, you can't expect him to give his heart to you and stay in a relationship that might go absolutely nowhere."

  And there it was. Even my granddad was on Tino's side. "Wasting my time" was what Tino had said. I had a lot to think about.

  Jimmy John took pity on me. "Come on." He threw his arm around my shoulders. "Let's go see if I throw enough weight around here that they'll let us use their fancy copier to get those flyers run off for Miz Critter Communicator."

  Later, armed with a roll of duct tape—that Jimmy John had assured me was an even more universal tool than Doctor Who's sonic screwdriver—and the box of flyers he'd helped me run off the laser printer at Cove Chronicles, I putt-putted over to Main Street on Jasper, my 1990 fire-engine-red Vespa. It was a blessing that I wasn't in a hurry or running on any specific time frame that day—or any other day I had to rely on poor old Jasper for that matter—because he could seldom be coaxed to cruise above thirty miles per hour, thirty-five if I really pushed him. Demanding any more than that out of the poor old thing generally resulted in a visit to the mechanic's shop and quite a bit of downtime.

  I found an empty parking spot just a block off Main Street near The Clip and Sip salon. It was the first place I went, mounting the steps to the front entrance of the graceful old Victorian and through the double-wide doors. My best friend, Caroline, was in Cassidi Conti's chair. It looked like she might be getting a total restyling. The floor around the chair was piled with chunks of hair that matched Caroline's formerly long, blonde tresses, and a chic, more serious-looking short bob was taking shape.

  "Lizzie," Caroline and Cassidi said nearly in unison.

  "Hey." I closed the door behind me and looked around.

  Caroline's aunt, Fran Upton, sat in a chair in the reception area, reading a copy of Dogster Magazine. I'd already read that issue—it had a great article on how to teach your dog to walk on a treadmill—and suspected it might be my old donated cop
y that she'd brought with her.

  "Hey, Fran," I said when she looked up at me. "You had your hair done too."

  She touched the back of her neck self-consciously. "Too much?"

  "Oh, no. I think it looks great," I said. Remembering what Jimmy John had just told me, I wondered if this new smoother, more sophisticated look to her curly red hair might not have been motivated by the attention Sabrina had been paying Jimmy John and vice versa.

  Caroline added, "Well, I think she looks like a million bucks."

  "Or maybe like a TV star?" Fran asked, taking a sip of what looked like coffee, but just might have had a dollop of something 80 proof added to it. After all, this was The Clip and Sip.

  "Maybe," I said. "Although if you ask me, that high-maintenance style doesn't appeal to most men in general, and someone we all know and love specifically." At least I didn't think so. I crossed deeper into the salon and stopped at Cassidi's chair, holding out the flyer for her to see. "Would you mind if we put up one of these here at the salon?"

  She stopped cutting and squinted down at the flyer. "Who's Carlos Ramirez?"

  "The man who was found dead out on Two Mile Beach Saturday night," I said.

  "Why is there a reward being offered?" she asked.

  "It's a long story." I risked a quick look at Fran. "And complicated. But I have a personal interest in seeing that whoever killed him is tracked down."

  Cassidi scratched the tip of her nose. "Well—"

  "I'd consider it a personal favor."

  "Sure," she said. "Put it on up. Who knows? Maybe one of my ladies will get the reward and come in for a total makeover."

  After stopping at the beauty salon, Dangerous Reads bookshop, and Some Enchanted Florist, I hoofed it over to Main Street where I put up flyers at Danger Cove Savings & Loan, Cinnamon Sugar Bakery, Deja View, and Flannagan's. I was heading over to the Danger Cove Historical Museum when I saw Aaron Pohoke and his lovely wife, Sarah, coming out of the hardware store.

  "Mr. Pohoke," I waved.

  They walked toward me. I met them halfway.