Divas, Diamonds & Death

by Elizabeth Ashby

  "What were you looking into?" I asked, glancing away down the block at the approaching streetcar, trying my best to appear as if what he said didn't matter to me at all.

  "Sabrina had told me her ex-husband," he paused and added slyly, "you know the murder victim?"

  I nodded. That old fox knew I was salivating to hear what he had to say. There was no use even trying to pretend. "What about him?"

  "Carlos Ramirez went from one bad business deal to the next. That gave me the idea to see if maybe he had something going on now."

  "And did he?"

  Jimmy John smiled knowingly. I was a chip off the old journalistic block all right. Couldn't stay away from a mystery any more than he could.

  "Ramirez was involved in some kind of real estate deal that went sour, and his not-so-ethical partner was threatening him if he didn't come up with his part of a balloon payment."

  "That was why he'd come around asking me for the money," Sabrina said sadly. "That was why he stole Rosie and was hoping to hold her for ransom. Maybe I should have given it to him. They'd threatened him if he didn't come up with the money they wanted. They were going to kill him."

  I looked at Jimmy John. The glint in his eye was unmistakable.

  He tilted his head and said, "And maybe they did."

  * * *

  No matter how relentlessly I badgered him, Jimmy John wouldn't give up the name of Carlos's business partner.

  "I don't want you going to Seattle, putting yourself at risk," he'd said. "I'm busy with Isaac tomorrow, but I'll be going to Seattle on Thursday to get with Dennis and see what I can learn about Carlos's so-called real estate partner."

  Jimmy John's old friend and computer geek, Dennis, had helped us out with things like this before. Evidently Jimmy John figured Dennis would be the go-to guy for this research too.

  When I'd seen my nagging wasn't getting me anywhere, I'd given up on it, waved as Jimmy John and Sabrina walked up the street, then turned and went straight inside the Cove Chronicles offices.

  I found Duncan Pickles in the break room lingering over coffee, one foot propped on the seat of a chair, while regaling two young and one not-so-young women of his intrepid research for an article he'd recently written about the new clangor installed on the Danger Cove trolley. I'd always thought of Duncan as a Bay Watch type with his California golden lifeguard looks—not my type, but I could see why he drew attention from women.

  I stopped in the doorway and listened to how he'd gone to the trolley garage on several different occasions every time a new bell was being tried, just to test it personally.

  Geez. No wonder Duncan had a man crush on Jimmy John. The guy was starving for the type of hardcore reporting Triple J had been known for back in the day.

  Duncan looked up and saw me, ran a hand alongside his hair, and straightened up. "Well, well, Miss Jones, you just missed your famous grandfather."

  Taking his cue, I batted my eyelashes. Yes. Really. "Actually, Duncan, you're the man I'm looking for."

  It took about five minutes of sugary flattery about his keen nose for hot stories before I ventured, "And Jimmy John just mentioned to me that you'd been helping him out on a…" I let it hang.

  "Oh," he said, nodding. "That thing for his friend? That was nothing."

  "Well, it was something to Jimmy John. He really appreciated your help."

  He preened under the compliment. "It was a simple matter to look up. If you have any friends in Seattle who might be wanting to buy a house and are shopping for a real estate agent, well, then I'm the man to see."

  "Oh, yeah," I said, playing along with the ruse Jimmy John had obviously fed him. "Funny you should mention that…" I began.

  I walked out of the Cove Chronicles offices ten minutes later with the name Duncan had helped Jimmy John research, allegedly the name of Carlos Ramirez's business partner in Seattle, the same business partner who'd been pressing him for money.

  I stopped and picked up a bottle of Pinot Blanc and a six-pack of Red Tail Ale and rode back to my apartment building. Tino had said he was off until Wednesday night, so he was the one I'd be inviting along on the trek I was planning.

  Road trip. Road trip. Road trip.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I went upstairs to Isaac's a little after six, taking my offerings of the wine and ale. Redolent with the comforting aromas of his famous soup and sourdough bread, the place smelled wonderful. It didn't always. Isaac had lived alone for as long as I could remember. He couldn't afford a housekeeper and seldom opened the place up for fresh air. Lilly Waters, I, and several other women who lived at Hazlitt Heights helped him out with everyday chores now and again. In return he cooked soup and baked bread—lots of soup and lots of bread.

  That's the way things were in Danger Cove. We took care of our own—Isaac, Dottie Holmes, others who needed a leg up every now and then. It was one of the things that had Sabrina Ramirez thinking about buying a place here. Man, I hoped she'd get over that notion pretty quick. It sounded like Jimmy and Fran were trying to patch things up, which the permanent presence of Sabrina Ramirez and her crazy infatuation with Jimmy John might handicap.

  Isaac was also kind enough to take Vader if I had to be out for the day. Speaking of which, that little pug would whimper and spin and beg to be picked up like I'd been gone a month when I walked in Isaac's door after leaving him there even for a short time. And I always missed him too.

  I opened a bottle of the Red Tail and settled onto Isaac's couch that was forever covered with an afghan his wife had once crocheted. If I thought it was lonely without Vader for a day, I couldn't imagine what it was like for Isaac since his wife had passed.

  Tino showed up about twenty minutes later—his contribution to dinner was a pastry from Mamá Morales filled with pineapple and coated in rainbow sprinkles.

  The meal was excellent. The company and talk were engaging. It was a nice evening. Tino and I left a little after nine when we noticed Isaac was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

  Tino walked down to my apartment with me and gave me a warm hug and a quick kiss at the door.

  I caught hold of his hand as he turned away. "Still mad at me, eh?"

  "Not at all," he said. "Why would you think—"

  "Just seems like maybe you are."

  "I'm not mad, Lizzie. Never was mad. I just…" He didn't seem to know quite what to say, and I sure didn't, so I changed the subject.

  "Could you drive me to Seattle tomorrow?" I followed up by explaining about what Jimmy John had learned about Carlos Ramirez's business dealings and how I wanted to get there to see if we might learn something about the murder.

  Tino listened carefully but hesitated to give me a straight answer. "What's your plan? You going to walk up to this guy and ask him if they had Carlos murdered?"

  Well, that was irritating, but I bit back the sharp retort sitting on my tongue. "No. That's not my plan. I was thinking we'd talk to Dennis Thompson."

  Tino nodded slowly. "Okay, then, what time do you want me to pick you up in the morning?"

  We settled on eight thirty. Then he said good night, leaned over, and gave me a brotherly peck on the forehead before turning and walking away.

  Yeah, right. Maybe he wasn't mad exactly, but there was something definitely wrong with the man who usually set my toes on fire with his kisses.

  * * *

  I got up early at five thirty and took Vader out for a walk before feeding him breakfast and giving him some extended time on the grass. Since Isaac was going out with my granddad on the Sweet Lizzie, my plan was to drop Vader off with Fran, swearing her to silence about our drive to Seattle.

  As it turned out, she was more than happy to stay quiet about my nosing around the murder.

  She took Vader in her arms and said, "Far as I'm concerned there, the sooner the killer's found and put behind bars, the better. Then that woman will pack up her fancy RV and get the heck outta Dodge."

  "How was dinner with Jimmy John last night?" I
asked.

  She sighed, and her expression went dreamy. "Nice. Very nice. Very, very nice."

  I relaxed. "Oh, good. So you two have patched things up?"

  She nodded. "He was so sincere, and I do believe what he told me about not being interested in the TV lady. But I don't get many evenings like that out of Jimmy John, so I think I'll let him dangle on the hook just a little while longer."

  I laughed. "Sure," I said. "But you know Jimmy John. He's not good at dangling."

  "Maybe just one more night out," she said.

  I kissed Vader on the top of the head and went back to Tino's car.

  Tino and I chatted about mundane things. Neither of us wanted to bring up the issue of what was going to happen when I got my degree. So his job, the upcoming nuptials of his sister, Gloria, and Mamá's misery at Gloria's impending move to Texas with her new husband were the topics. But in the pauses of conversation, the obnoxious trumpeting of the elephant lolling in the back seat filled the silence.

  It was a beautiful summer day, and the drive through ancient forests was intermittently shady and cool, so I rolled down my window, sat back, and tried to enjoy the ride. It was more comfortable just to listen to the latest Justin Timberlake album and enjoy the scenery.

  We exited the freeway into the stop-and-go traffic and high rise canyons of downtown Seattle and found our way to Stewart Street down by Pike's Place Market and drove around another fifteen minutes looking for a parking place in the crush of both the summer tourist and lunch crowds.

  Jimmy John's longtime friend, Dennis Thompson, lived in a modest studio close to The Thirsty Leprechaun in Post Alley where he tended bar. Dennis had lost a leg to a land mine in Vietnam where he'd worked with Jimmy John as a network cameraman. The guy was a genius with computers and had agreed to help us research the name that Duncan Pickles had given me the day before.

  He opened the door to his place before I'd even finished knocking, and I remembered how he'd amazed me with his energy and stamina when I'd first met him.

  He launched himself at me and enveloped me in a bear hug. "Miss Elizabeth Jones," he said, holding me away from him and smiling. "Just glad as I can be to see you again."

  He leaned around me and looked out into the hallway before pulling back. "Where's the old man?"

  I cleared my throat and crossed my fingers. "He had to help a friend today," I said. It wasn't a lie. Spending the day out on the water with Isaac was bound to be helpful to a lonely man who didn't get out much.

  "Yeah, that's old Jim all right," Dennis said. He nodded at Tino and stuck out his hand. "Dennis Thompson," he said.

  "Oh, yeah," I pulled myself together. "Sorry. Tino, this is Dennis Thompson. Dennis, Tino Morales."

  The two men shook then Dennis said, "Well, don't just stand around out here trying to class the place up, Liz. Come on inside and tell me what you need."

  I pulled a sticky note off my wallet and handed it to him. "I was hoping you could help us out like you did last time when you hacked Brody McDougal's accounts."

  He read the name on the note out loud. "Garrison Butterworth?" He rubbed his belly. "Mmm, boy. Makes me hungry for pancakes. You guys up to hitting IHOP when we're finished here?"

  I laughed. "I know, right?"

  Dennis turned away, singing the name Butterworth over and over and headed for the small desk and his computer at the far side of the Spartan, tidy room.

  Tino and I stepped inside. I closed the door behind me as Tino whispered, "Is this guy for real?"

  I reassured him with a nod.

  That was when Dennis proceeded to prove just how real he really was.

  I'd seen Dennis work before when Jimmy John and I had needed some intel in the past, but that didn't make me any less amazed at his talents as I watched him work this time. His fingers flew over the keyboard so fast I fully expected the computer to start smoking.

  By the time he was finished, we'd learned things about Garrison Butterworth: 1. His offices were located south of Seattle in an industrial area near Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. 2. He and various business partners, of whom Carlos Ramirez was one, owned several huge sections of land throughout the Northwest. 3. One of his properties was overdue on property taxes, and a sale was pending—namely the property owned with Ramirez. 4. He'd also been in deals with none other than Danger Cove's dubious real estate scuzball, Jack Condor—and that was the way Tino and I decided we would approach Butterworth.

  It was lunchtime when we finished, and as a token of our appreciation, Tino and I treated Dennis to IHOP's Double Blueberry pancakes, coffee, and a side order of sausage. Dennis scarfed the meal straight down, thanking us and saying how it really hit the spot, even if it wasn't Mrs. Butterworth's syrup.

  He'd spent the whole time regaling us with tales of his adventures with Jimmy John back in the jungles of Vietnam in the sixties. He was so nostalgic about the old days, there were a few times his eyes grew suspiciously moist. We took him back to his apartment. I hoped he wouldn't contact Jimmy John, at least not before I'd had the chance to talk to Jimmy John myself.

  My granddad would be disappointed I hadn't waited to seek out the info on Butterworth, but he wouldn't be too mad because I'd gone with Tino who was more than capable of keeping me safe and sound.

  We said adieu to Dennis then hit the interstate and headed down to Sea-Tac, spending the trip time solidifying a plan to get Garrison Butterworth to talk to us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Butterworth's place of business wasn't what one would expect from a real estate mogul type who owned huge chunks of land in northwest US and Canada.

  The industrial area near busy Sea-Tac International Airport where it was located was mostly one-story multi-use type buildings with office or warehouse space in the front and workspace with big bay doors in the back where vehicles could be driven in and out. Butterworth's space was the corner office in one such building. Most of the businesses in that neighborhood seemed to be suppliers, mechanical repairs and installations, and other blue-collar type places.

  The outside was the industrial equivalent of a strip mall—plain exterior walls of brick construction with what looked like a metal roof and inside space enough for five or six small businesses. It appeared to have been built out to suit the lessees' needs. The plate glass door in front of Butterworth's space bore stenciled letters that read Consortium Properties.

  Tino laid his hand on the door pull but paused before opening it. "Consortium? Think that's like a euphemism for the mob?"

  I gulped. "Gee, I hope not."

  We went inside where a petite young Asian woman sat behind a counter, working on a computer. She glanced up when we walked in, a look of surprise on her face. Maybe they didn't get many visitors at Consortium Properties. "Can I help you?"

  I stared at her. "Uh."

  After what Dennis had told us of Butterworth's past dealings with Jack Condor, we'd worked out a plan to pretend to be on an errand from Condor's office, delivering a prospective deal from Condor to Butterworth. In reality all we had was a listing for some random acreage we'd found on the internet. Dennis had printed out the listing sheets and put them in a manila envelope for us.

  I was nervous about the whole thing. If this man was a killer, we might be taking more of a risk than we'd bargained for. Something I'd come to think about after the fact.

  "We—we—" I suddenly couldn't remember my lines. Stage fright maybe?

  Thank God Tino took over. "Hello." He took a couple of steps that put him right in front of the counter.

  I tried not to be jealous even as the pretty girl seemed to melt into Tino's dark eyes right in front of me. "Hello," she said back. It wasn't just a reply—it was a breathless invitation.

  Somewhere in my brain I knew he was just turning on the charm to get the best results, but somewhere in my heart, I wanted him to turn it off.

  "We're here to see Mr. Butterworth." He'd obviously noticed how she perked up when he spoke to her because he leaned hi
s elbow on the top of the counter, lowered his lids to half-mast, and smiled at her.

  It was funny how quickly I found my voice and used it to break up the eye contact between Butterworth's receptionist and Tino. "We have a delivery from Jack Condor." I waved the envelope in the air.

  She reluctantly looked away from Tino and focused on me.

  "Can you ask if Mr. Butterworth will see us?" I said hopefully.

  "Do you have an appointment?"

  I shook my head.

  "We had another errand today in Seattle," Tino said. "So we thought, what the heck? Might as well handle this one since we were passing by—take the chance your boss was in and would have time to talk to us?" He raised his voice at the end of the sentence, effectively making it a question.

  After a lingering—and I thought lusty—look at him, she stood and went to a closed door behind her and to the side. There was nothing written on the door. She knocked.

  "What?" The voice was deep, gruff—more like a bear growling than a human responding.

  She meekly opened the door a few inches, not even wide enough for him to have seen her whole face. She put her mouth next to the opening. Her voice was soft, timid. "Mr. Butterworth, there are two people here who say they have a business proposition for you from someone named Jack Condor."

  If the first response had sounded like a growl, this one was more like a roar. "Jack freakin' Condor? What the hell?" He bellowed, and I could have sworn the building shook. All three of us—the receptionist, Tino, and I—took a step back. "Might as well send 'em in."

  The young woman whimpered and pushed the door open, standing aside so we could go in.

  Garrison Butterworth's deep, gruff voice was a total mismatch to his physicality. If I were making a comparison to someone well-known, it would have been Jonah Hill, only older. Short and well-rounded behind his desk, he wore a flowery sport shirt. A Bluetooth headset was hooked over one ear. He didn't look around when we walked in, his attention focused on a laptop screen in front of him. He held out a hand, palm up, and snapped his fingers. "Let's have it."