Beignets and Broomsticks

by J. R. Ripley

  I paused, picturing the scene in my mind. Nancy slumped at her desk. ‘That’s when I saw her.’

  ‘Do the police have any idea who the killer is?’

  I pressed my hands against the table and leaned back in my chair. ‘Besides VV, you mean?’

  ‘Maggie, you don’t think—’

  There was a sharp rap on the glass. We both turned our heads.

  It was Veronica ‘VV’ Vargas, suspect numero uno. And, unlike her usual svelte self, she looked a wreck.

  She banged again, her rings hitting the glass with a jarring metallic clang. ‘Let me in, Miller!’

  My mother and I shared a look. ‘You had better let her in before she breaks the glass.’

  ‘OK.’ I pushed back my chair. ‘But if she murders us, I’m blaming you for it.’

  Mom’s hand on my arm held me back. ‘How was Nancy murdered?’

  ‘Strangled,’ I said, wincing each time VV’s ring struck the window. ‘With a scarf that I think belonged to you-know-who.’ I raised my left palm to cover the jab I was making in VV’s direction with my right index finger.

  Mom’s brow rose. ‘I see.’

  ‘Still want me to let her in?’ I was half-joking. I went to the door and thumbed the lock. ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘We aren’t quite open yet.’ A subtle sniff on my part revealed no hint of the perfume I had smelled the night before.

  VV stepped inside. She looked at my mother, who waved hello. VV looked more frumpy than fashionable in baggy gray sweats and white sneakers. A large hat hid half her head; the oversized pair of dark sunglasses hid the rest. A silver-toned leather bag with studded trim hung from her shoulder.

  Mom rose and returned behind the counter. ‘I’ll get started on the beignet dough.’

  ‘Thanks, Mom.’ I turned the Closed sign to Open. No point turning away customers now that I’d let VV in.

  VV sat at the table in the corner, facing away from the street. It was the table Nancy had favored but I wasn’t up to asking her to move. I joined her reluctantly.

  ‘Care for some coffee?’ Mom called from behind the counter.

  I raised my brow in question. Veronica nodded. ‘Yes, please, Mom.’

  Mom hustled over with two coffees and a handful of creamer packs, sugar and sugar substitutes, including some packs of something called Stevia that my sister, Donna, insisted I carry. I’d tried it once.

  Trust me, there is no substitute for sugar.

  VV dumped two creams and two sugars in her coffee and sipped tentatively.

  ‘So,’ I said, leaning both elbows on the table, ‘what can I do for you, Veronica?’ Seeing that Veronica Vargas had thus far remained mum and I had better things to be doing that morning, such as running my business, it seemed I was going to have to be the one to get this conversation going despite the fact that she had come knocking on my front door.

  ‘You and I need to talk.’ She pulled off her sunglasses and set them on the table between us.

  ‘If you’ve come to confess, you’ve come to the wrong place. It’s the police you ought to be talking to.’ It was probably a low blow but I’d been unable to resist.

  ‘Maggie!’ Mom scolded.

  VV sneered. ‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about.’ She flitted an empty creamer across the table with her nail.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That smart mouth of yours.’

  I bit my cheek to hold back a smart reply.

  VV locked eyes with me. ‘There was a murder last night, Miller.’

  ‘Yes. I was there, remember?’

  ‘It isn’t what you think.’

  ‘I think – no, I’m sure I saw you running from the victim’s apartment.’

  If looks could kill, VV’s look just then would have sent me to my grave. ‘You saw me running to get help.’

  ‘Why didn’t you use your phone?’ I brought my cup to my lips, keeping my eyes on my companion.

  ‘Because I was in costume. I didn’t have my cellphone. I didn’t even have my purse.’

  I drummed my fingers on the table. I had to admit, that made sense. I didn’t have to admit it to VV, though.

  ‘Mark told me you went to the apartment to deliver Ms Alverson some of your beignets?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you see anybody else? Did you hear anything unusual?’

  ‘Just you,’ I said with a smile.

  VV glared some more. ‘When was the last time you saw Ms Alverson?’

  ‘You mean alive?’ VV’s pained expression told me not to expect a reply. ‘Around ten yesterday morning. She came in, ate and left.’ Two pairs of customers strode in the door and I started to get up.

  ‘Don’t worry, Maggie,’ Mom called. ‘I’ve got this. Good morning, folks.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’ I asked VV.

  It was a solid minute before VV answered. As she did, we watched a blue uniformed officer step out from Karma Koffee and enter the squad car at the curb. It was Chip Kurkov. The poor guy must have been up all night.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but …’ VV paused and studied her blue polished fingernails. The color matched the costume she’d been wearing the night before.

  ‘But?’

  ‘I thought Mark might be there.’

  I stiffened. ‘Highsmith?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Her fingers wrapped around the cup on the table.

  I pinched my brow together. ‘I thought he was with you?’

  ‘He was.’ VV blew out a breath. ‘We were at Hopping Mad up the street. Mark got called away. He said there was a report of some vandalism at the middle school. With the department being shorthanded last night and the middle school being just around the corner, he said he would check it out.’

  A.B. Honicker Middle School, named after our town founder, was just around the corner. Parents often came into the café after dropping off their kids and I frequently got parents and kids stopping in after school for a treat.

  I leaned back in my chair, aware now of the others in the room who had taken up seats around us in the tiny café. I lowered my voice. ‘That doesn’t explain what you were doing at Ms Alverson’s apartment.’

  VV answered without looking at me. ‘I thought maybe he had gone to see her instead.’

  ‘Nancy?’ I squeaked.

  VV nodded once, her fingers tightening.

  ‘Why would Mark be going to see Nancy? What does she have to do with the middle school?’

  ‘Nothing, Miller,’ VV hissed. ‘That’s my point. I thought maybe Mark was lying and was going to see Nancy instead.’

  The implication of VV’s words had been slow to sink in but when it did it hit me hard. ‘You don’t think that Mark was … what? Having an affair with Nancy?’ It sounded too preposterous to even consider, let alone say out loud.

  VV shrugged a shoulder. ‘I wanted to check on him. See for myself. I was jealous.’

  ‘You? Jealous?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  Frankly, I was in shock. And I didn’t know what shocked me more: the idea that Veronica Vargas had murdered Nancy Alverson or the idea that Veronica Vargas might be jealous of Nancy. Of anyone, for that matter!

  VV lowered her eyes and nodded once. I didn’t know what to say. She worried her fingers. ‘I’d heard he had been to her apartment before.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘It’s a small town. People talk.’

  ‘Did you ask Mark about it?’

  ‘Yes. He said Ms Alverson had wanted to consult with him on some legal issues.’

  ‘Legal issues?’ This was getting interesting. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, town regulations, ordinances. That sort of thing. I really couldn’t say more.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s all it was, then.’ Pretty sure, at least.

  ‘I know.’ VV pushed a finger behind her ear. ‘I’d had a lot to drink last night. I think I simply got a little crazy.’

  ‘Been there, done that,’ I
muttered. ‘And then you went to Nancy’s apartment and found her there?’

  ‘Yes. Nobody answered the buzzer and the door was unlocked. I went up.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘The door to the apartment was unlocked too. I knocked. She didn’t answer. There was nobody in the living room.’ Her voice drifted off.

  ‘And you wondered if she and Mark were doing the horizontal hula in her bedroom?’

  VV winced. ‘Something like that.’

  I didn’t ask what she’d found. We both knew the answer to that.

  Unless …

  Unless VV had discovered Nancy Alverson alone and wrung her neck.

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ VV spat, as if reading my mind.

  More and more customers were flooding in. My Halloween promotion seemed to have done its job. ‘I have to get to work, VV. What do you want from me? Why are you here exactly?’ The only time she ever came into the café was on the arm of Detective Highsmith. Was this some sort of rapprochement?

  ‘I just thought you should know what really happened.’ She pushed back her chair and stood. ‘Before you go blabbing all over town. I, my family, has a reputation in this town. I do not want anything or anybody ruining that reputation.’

  I frowned. So much for our detente. ‘One more thing,’ I said as she threw some money on the table for the coffee I hadn’t asked her to pay for. ‘Last night, why did you tell me not to go upstairs to Nancy’s apartment?’

  VV looked at me like I was an idiot. ‘Because it was a crime scene, Ms Miller. I didn’t want you messing it up.’

  OK, I was an idiot and that made sense. Once again, no point telling her that.

  She rolled her hard eyes as she settled her purse over her shoulder. ‘I ran back to Hopping Mad to call it in. Imagine my surprise when Mark told me he’d found you standing over the body.’

  There was a mad glint in her eye. ‘A case could even be made that maybe you killed her. It is mere steps from your little café to Ms Alverson’s apartment.’

  VV looked out the big picture window and up at the building across the street. She slid her dark sunglasses over her eyes. ‘You’ve got an excellent view from here.’ She pointed. ‘That window there. That would be Ms Alverson’s apartment, wouldn’t it?’

  I bristled and blushed. Every customer in the place was looking at me.

  VV sashayed to the door. ‘What is it they say, Ms Miller? The killer always returns to the scene of the crime?’

  The door opened and VV stepped through, ignoring the two dapper men coming in.

  VV turning her back on me was like a spell being broken.

  ‘Good morning, Mag—’ Clive began.

  ‘One sec—’ I pushed past Clive and ran into the street. VV was sliding behind the wheel of her metallic-blue Mercedes. I grabbed the window of the open door and held on.

  ‘What is it, Ms Miller?’

  ‘Your scarf,’ I panted.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What was your scarf doing wrapped around Nancy Alverson’s neck?’

  VV tossed her purse on the passenger seat. ‘What makes you think it was my scarf?’

  ‘Oh, please. Everybody from here to Tucson can smell you when the wind is right. And there aren’t too many women around Table Rock who could even afford to buy a bottle of Joy Parfum, let alone use it as liberally as you do.’

  VV appeared at a loss. She whipped off her hat and fluffed her hair with her fingers. ‘I must have left it there earlier in the day.’ She pulled at the door handle.

  I held on, preventing it closing. ‘Wait a minute. Earlier in the day? What were you doing at Nancy Alverson’s apartment earlier in the day? I thought you only went there last night because you thought Mark was there?’

  She tugged at the door once more but I was ready for her and held the window with both hands.

  ‘Did you think he was there earlier in the day too?’

  ‘What I was doing at the apartment is really none of your business, Ms Miller. The same way that Nancy Alverson’s murder is none of your business.’ She pushed a button and the luxury car sprang to life with a roar as her foot hit the accelerator. ‘I suggest you stick to frying donuts in your little café and leave the police work to the experts.’

  VV shoved the gearshift lever into drive and I was forced to release my grip on the window. She yanked the door closed and sped down Laredo.

  If she was on her way to Mexico, she was heading in the wrong direction. Nonetheless, I hoped she had packed her passport. I would have hated to see her get turned away at the border.

  Life in Table Rock wouldn’t be the same without VV, but it wouldn’t be any the worse.

  SIX

  ‘What did she want?’ demanded Clive Rothschild as I re-entered the café. Clive and his partner, Johnny Wolfe, had some history with VV.

  ‘Don’t tell me you two are still holding a grudge against Veronica?’

  ‘Not long ago, that woman locked us up and wanted to throw away the key!’ Clive replied. ‘She accused us of murder!’

  ‘You did sort of confess.’ Clive, Johnny and I had been involved in a recent murder investigation and, as prosecuting attorney, VV had seemed rather keen on seeing that Clive and/or Johnny fried for the crime.

  Clive stuck his nose in the air and crossed his arms. ‘I took it back.’

  It wasn’t much of a legal defense but it was sincere. ‘She wanted to talk to me about Nancy Alverson’s murder.’

  Clive’s brow shot up. ‘That woman who was killed across the street?’ Clive has red hair and green eyes like me. He also has a few freckles, which I did not. He was a dapper dresser. At the moment, he wore designer jeans, a bronze sports coat over a black shirt and a black-and-white polka-dot bowtie. He stood a hair over six foot but only weighed about one-fifty.

  ‘You know her?’ Clive and Johnny ran The Hitching Post next door. Though this was the Old West, they didn’t sell stirrups, saddle soap and lassos. They sold tiaras, sashes, garters – all things of a bridal rather than bridle nature. This was the New Age Old West, after all.

  Plus, they carried the West’s most beautiful designer wedding gowns, many of which were created and sewn by Johnny Wolfe himself. The former Olympic-class figure skater – a bronze-medal winner – was an accomplished fashion designer.

  If I ever got married again, which no way, never, no, not me and I mean never, uh-uh, ain’t gonna happen in this lifetime, I’d be pleased to have Johnny design me a wedding dress, providing he did the job at cost. The Hitching Post’s prices were way out of my league.

  ‘Asha told us about it this morning,’ Johnny said from the counter where he stood giving Mom his order. ‘I’ll take the pumpkin spice to go.’ He turned to me and Clive nearer the door. ‘You want anything Clive?’

  ‘The same, please,’ Clive said.

  ‘Double that,’ I heard Johnny tell my mother. Johnny and Clive have been married for over three years. Johnny is a half-foot or so shorter with white flesh, skinny hips and shoulders. There’s a feminine quality to voice. He is overly fussy about his wavy, glossy black hair. His eyes are charcoal blue. He’s a bit of a coxcomb but I was fond of him, not that I’d ever tell him that to his face.

  ‘Who is Asha?’

  ‘Asha Anand,’ explained Clive. ‘She’s one of our seamstresses. She works freelance out of her home.’

  ‘Was she a friend of Nancy Alverson’s?’

  ‘She never said so.’ Clive was handling one of my cardboard tombstones. The Hitching Post had refrained from decorating their display window for Halloween, preferring to advertise wedding gowns to wedding ghouls.

  Johnny placed a dollar in the tip jar and joined us with his bag of beignets. ‘Asha takes a yoga class with Rob Gregory. She was there yesterday evening.’

  ‘How did she learn about the murder?’ I asked.

  ‘She was in Karma Koffee this morning. Rob and Trish mentioned it.’

  Clive was nodding. ‘She told me and Johnny all about it when she dropped off her work th
is morning.’

  I looked over at Karma Koffee. Seeing Nancy’s unwashed white Land Rover out front was a sad reminder of her death. That and the fact that she wouldn’t be in for her usual blueberry beignets and coffee anymore.

  I tilted my head. ‘Huh.’

  ‘What?’ asked Clive.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I scratched my head.

  ‘I think Maggie’s having another of her brain seizures,’ quipped Johnny. ‘Let’s get out of here, Clive. She could be contagious.’

  I stuck my tongue out at him as he grabbed Clive’s elbow and headed for The Hitching Post. I moved closer to the window, my breath clouding the glass. Was it my imagination or had Nancy Alverson’s Land Rover not been parked there on the street last night?

  ‘I’ll be right back, Mom!’

  ‘Yes, dear.’ Mom was scooping beignets from the fryer and placing them under the warmer. Business was more brisk than usual, so maybe our Halloween giveaway really was showing dividends already.

  I pulled my collar tight around my neck and marched across the street to Nancy Alverson’s Land Rover. I placed my hand on the hood. It was cold.

  Snoopiness won out over pride and I found myself opening the door to Karma Koffee, where my senses were instantly bombarded. My eyes were dazzled by the upscale eatery’s designer interior and to-die-for original tin ceiling, my nostrils overwhelmed by the smell of Heaven’s Building Blocks and all the other lovely muffins and pastries that they baked each day.

  My stomach, traitor that it was, grumbled loudly.

  Every seat in the place was taken.

  A bookshelf displayed several books, all written by Rob and his wife, Trish. Topics included fortune telling, baking, coffee brewing and a slender tome that promised to help the reader to find their spiritual identity. Judging by the relative thinness of the latter, it was easier to find your spiritual identity than it was to brew a good cup of java.

  Rob Gregory folded his arms across his chest, as if preparing for battle, as I approached the sales counter. Two uniformed employees worked efficiently behind him. Another was refilling the napkins in the dispensers along the counter at the far wall. ‘Are you here to pay your rent, Ms Miller?’