Madeleine Murder

by Sandi Scott

  “Anything out of the ordinary during the transaction?” asked Mueller.

  “Not that I can recall,” said Ashley.

  “Was there anyone else there at the time in the tent?”

  “No,” said Ashley, replaying the scene in her head. “But there was a young man who came by afterward to tell Sparrow he had a flat tire. It seemed like he might be willing to help change it when needed.”

  Sheriff Mueller, who had been leaning back in his chair with his cowboy boots crossed at the ankle, sat up with attention.

  “A young man? What did he look like?”

  “He was white, with blond hair, about five foot eleven, pretty skinny. Nothing remarkable except his short, um, dreadlocks with beads in them. He also had a guitar.”

  “And what exactly did he say?” the sheriff prodded.

  Ashley thought. It was just a passing comment she hadn’t paid much attention to, but she remembered him letting Sparrow know about the flat tire and offering to send a volunteer over to help if he found a replacement tire. She told all that to the sheriff. Mueller took a pen out of his breast pocket and clicked the end of it repeatedly, but he had no paper and made no motion to get any.

  “And that was the last you saw of Mr. Soulbrother?” asked the sheriff.

  “No,” said Ashley. “Well, yes… I just saw him from a distance later. He was in the karaoke tent later that day listening to a singer. I did try to see him again, though. I went to his tent yesterday to see if I could get a receipt for the purchase I made from him because my debit card has been acting funny, but he wasn’t there. A woman was. I believe her name was Moonbeam.”

  The Sheriff raised an eyebrow and made a harrumph sound. “Sparrow and Moonbeam—those can’t be their God-given names, can they?”

  Ashley thought about correcting him that God didn’t give people their names, but she was getting anxious about Dizzy being in the car alone; she just wanted to get this over with.

  “Anything you noticed about Ms. Moonbeam yesterday at—what time did you say it was?”

  “Morning, around eleven.”

  “Anything seem unusual or off about Ms. Moonbeam yesterday at around 11:00 a.m.?”

  “She had a black eye,” said Ashley. “She mentioned that she and Sparrow had fought the night before. She also seemed a bit out of it, like she was distracted by something.”

  Ashley’s mind started piecing together the information in spite of herself. Some people smoke and want to quit, others drink and want to quit. Ashley sleuthed. Even though she tried to quit from time to time, she enjoyed it so much she couldn’t help it.

  “Maybe she was distracted by the murder she had just committed? Based on what I saw at the fire, and figuring that the bonfire was guarded all day, the time of death had to be late the night before… right, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Mueller still had the pen in his hand, and he clicked it once again. Then he stuck the tip of it in his mouth, as if using it to try to get a piece of food out of his teeth. “I cannot confirm or deny that Ms. Moonbeam is a suspect and it’s none of your business, anyway.”

  Ashley flushed a little.

  Sheriff Mueller asked a few more questions, then leaned back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. “I don’t suppose that you happened to see a tire iron lying around somewhere during the festival, did you? Maybe around the bonfire?”

  Ashley shook her head. “I haven’t seen a tire iron at all lately.”

  The sheriff clucked his tongue and said, “Well, it was a thought.”

  “Why?” asked Ashley. “Are you saying that the murder weapon was a tire iron and that it’s missing?”

  Sheriff Mueller leaned forward until his chair thumped on the ground and said, “I’m not saying anything, Miss Adams. But if you see a tire iron out of place, then come see me PDQ.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Can I go and get Dizzy out of the car now? I left her sleeping there.”

  “Okay.” Sheriff Mueller dismissed her, and she headed back to her car to rescue Dizzy. By now her mind was spinning. If Moonbeam had killed Sparrow the night before, that meant that when she and Ashley had chatted, she would have already committed the crime and might have been devising ways to cover her tracks. If she were the killer, though, she would have been taking a huge risk in returning to the scene of the crime. Which meant that either she wasn’t the killer… or that she wasn’t that smart.

  In any case, Ashley still needed a receipt from her. What harm could a little visit to a murder suspect’s tent do?

  * * *

  When Ashley got back to her van, Dizzy was lying in the same position, but awake. Ashley grabbed what she needed from the van and hooked Dizzy to her leash before heading back toward the Seagrass Sweats and Southern Bird tent. Patty had taken it upon herself to set up all their food, even though they probably wouldn’t sell any of it. Maybe they could give some of it away to the volunteers. Coyote and Ryan were both there already, chatting with Patty. Coyote was sporting a terrible sunburn. Patty was going through her massive day bag. “Of course I have sunscreen,” she was saying.

  Ashley said, “Good morning, gentlemen. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastries? A hiding place for the rest of the festival?”

  Ryan laughed and took her hand in his. She smiled at him. Then Dizzy head-butted his leg, insisting that he pet her.

  He squatted down on the grass and rubbed her head and shoulders. Dizzy leaned up against him, pushing him so hard that he almost tipped over.

  “Oh, no,” he said, straightening up. “I can’t get into a doggie-wrestling match this morning. I have to stay clean at least until three.”

  “So, did you guys get questioned by the sheriff yet?” Ashley asked. “Not exactly how I wanted to start the last day of the festival.”

  “Not yet, but the investigation is underway,” Ryan said. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’m sure you’ve had more luck, though.” He winked at Ashley.

  Coyote, who had taken the small tube of sunscreen that Patty had handed him and was sniffing it suspiciously, gave Ryan a questioning look. Ryan shrugged.

  “Ryan said you were one of the ones who got ripped off this weekend. How bad were you hit? A lot? This whole situation makes my blood boil. Why can’t they ever catch these kinds of crooks?” Coyote added. Before Ashley could answer, he asked, “Are you trying to investigate on your own?”

  “Mmm, maybe tomorrow,” Ashley said. It was kind of a nosy question—time to change the subject. “Ugh, I’m going to have to find something to do with all these pastries.”

  “It does look like you’re going to have a few leftovers,” Ryan said.

  “It’s the murder,” she said. “It’s scared people off.”

  “It has,” Ryan agreed. “Gordon’s frothing at the mouth at the dropping attendance levels, mumbling about profit margins and community reinvestment.”

  “He shouldn’t ask the out-of-state vendors back next year,” Coyote said. “That’s what I think, at least. Who needs them? I’m sure there are plenty of locals who can fit the bill.”

  The way he said the word locals reminded Ashley of the Localists, a group of local folks who were businessmen and activists intent on keeping outside influences out of the Seagrass area. Recently, they had tried to stop construction on a new resort hotel that was going up in the area and had carried out a campaign of petty vandalism against the owner of the property. It had not done any good; the hotel was going up anyway. Fortunately, the new builders were using the natural beauty of the area as part of the hotel’s appeal. They were even building a habitat dome as part of the resort.

  “You’re not one of those guys calling themselves ‘localists,’ are you?” she asked. “You’re too new to town to have joined their ranks already!”

  Coyote’s eyes shifted toward the Smokeground BBQ truck. Smoke Daddy Lee was a known member of the group. “What? No. But I just want to stop con men from preying on the innocent any way I can. And people with roots i
n a community are less likely to con their neighbors than a traveling vagabond like—what was his name? Sparrow?”

  Coyote was getting really worked up. Or maybe it was just the sunburn making him look angry.

  “That’s true,” Ashley said carefully. “But he certainly didn’t get far with his con.” It seemed odd that Coyote was so angry about a dead man he didn’t know. Then Ashley remembered he had just been victimized too, by another con and his anger made more sense. Still, time to change the subject again. “Other than the murder and the lower attendance, how are things going today?”

  “Only a handful of visitors, to be honest,” Ryan said. “And a few volunteers who have been out in the sun all weekend and can’t remember to reapply sunscreen every few hours… Coyote.”

  Coyote gave the scented sunscreen another sniff. “But it smells like French perfume.”

  “It does smell like French perfume,” Patty said, half-offended. “Very good French perfume.”

  “Don’t worry so much about what you smell like. Worry more about passing out from sunstroke,” Ryan said. “If you do, I will personally toss a bucket of water on you and put you back to work.”

  Coyote sighed and squeezed a dollop of sunscreen into his palm, then smeared it over his face and neck. “All right, but I want a big piece of chocolate cake for this.”

  Ashley grinned. “Done.”

  7

  Ashley knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with her investigation into the problem with her debit card until Monday when she could talk to her bank. But that didn’t mean she was done for the day. She had used her debit card twice on Friday—once to buy Dizzy’s new collar, and once to order lunch at Betty’s Bayou Cuisine.

  Leaving Dizzy with Patty so that her dog would not be a distraction chasing after new smells, Ashley headed over to Betty’s red food truck.

  Betty grinned when Ashley came into view. “Back for more of that pistolette. I knew you would.”

  Ashley said, “They are really good.” Her mouth was watering.

  Betty handed over the sandwich.

  “Would you like to trade for some desserts? A barter, perhaps?” Ashely suggested, hopeful. She was inspired by the trade she had seen between Moonbeam and Betty.

  “Sorry, hon. No can do,” said Betty. “Can’t pay my bills with fancy desserts.” Ashley was taken aback a bit but opened her wallet to pay. Distracted, she started to hand over her debit card but then thought twice and took it back, knowing it would be declined. She handed over some cash. Betty noticed the switch. “Aw, honey. You got bit, too, didn’t you?”

  “Bit?” Ashley asked, uncertain about what Betty meant.

  “Ripped off. There’s someone who has been putting through fraudulent debit charges at the festival this weekend. I got ripped off, too.”

  “You did? Was it your business account?”

  Betty locked eyes with Ashley. “Nah, my personal account. I lost a couple of hundred bucks. But that’s not the worst part of it. I am now, thanks to the you-know-what, under investigation by the local police, because several people who had money taken from their accounts also bought food from me this weekend. A bunch of us vendors are under investigation. Did they talk to you, too?”

  Ashley thought about what she’d heard Betty saying the other night, when she saw her talking on her cell phone in the parking lot. “It’s him. I know it’s him. He’s going to try to weasel out of it.”

  “They haven’t called me about it.” Ashley said. “And my personal account is now locked, so I won’t lose any more money at least. Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “I have suspicions, but not enough to call the cops on anyone,” Betty said, shaking her head. That was odd, Ashley thought. She had sounded completely positive the other night. “Keep your fingers crossed for me. I’ve lost about three hundred dollars in chargebacks from the last couple of festivals. I’m really going to have to sell hard the next few events I do if I want to make that up. I hate being down on profits. When I first started running this truck, it was by the skin of my teeth. I woulda done anything to keep my business afloat. Whenever I don’t make a good profit margin on my food sales, it kicks me right where it hurts.”

  Ashley could sympathize. Although sales had been going well lately, she could remember a few bad months where she hadn’t been sure she was going to make it.

  “I know what you mean.” Ashley shook her head to shake away the bad memories. “I used to have nightmares about trying to buy supplies and having all my cards get declined. It’s right up there with my nightmares about the health inspectors.”

  “Tell me about it,” Betty agreed. She put her hands flat on the food truck’s window. “What am I doing, jawing at you when you got a hot sandwich to eat? Go on, chow down. I’ll be here till two thirty or so if you want to hang out and talk.”

  Ashley said, “Thanks.” She meant it. It might be nice to swap stories with someone other than Patty for once—and she could ask Betty about what running a food truck was like.

  Ashley stepped out of the way of a couple in matching khaki pants and polo shirts, two of only a handful of patrons Ashley had seen that day, and carried her hot pistolette to a nearby table to eat. One bite later, she realized that she’d forgotten to pick up a napkin. She wiped her chin as well as she could, licked her fingers, and stood up to walk back to Betty’s truck.

  Almost immediately, she sat back down again.

  A young man had walked over to Betty’s truck, holding the same type of plastic Thank you! bag along with a bulkier cardboard box just like the one that she had seen Moonbeam give to Betty the other day. He approached Betty and handed them both to her. Betty withdrew into her food truck for a moment. The young man was the same guy who had told Sparrow that his tire was flat and offered to help change it. Betty handed him a Styrofoam container that he peeked into exactly like Moonbeam had, before walking away quickly.

  Something suspicious was going on.

  For a woman who was just complaining about not being able to pay the bills with anything but cash, Betty certainly didn’t hesitate to exchange food for whatever was in that cardboard box.

  The young man turned toward her.

  Ashley let her eyes drift to a rainbow windsock fluttering in the breeze over one of the tents and chewed thoughtfully. The skin on her forehead prickled. She forced herself to keep idly watching the windsock and took another bite.

  When the twitchy feeling passed, Ashley looked down. Betty was leaning out of the window of her food truck, carefully not looking in Ashley’s direction. The young man had disappeared.

  “Yoo-hoo, Ashley honey,” Betty said. “Hey, I got a proposition for you.”

  Ashley raised her eyebrows and called back, “What is it?”

  Betty waved her over, and Ashley walked over to the truck. Betty climbed out and stretched, yawning.

  She said, “Something just came up. I had someone call me up about a gig in Galveston a couple of weeks ago. He called back just now to say that his dessert caterer has dropped out. It’s going to be for a hundred guests at a fiftieth wedding anniversary for this sweet old couple. I may have mentioned that you make the best chocolate cake in the universe or something to one of the grandkids, and now they want to know if you’re interested in joining me for the event.”

  Ashley was interested. With any luck, she could make up the amount she’d lost from her bank card mishap. “When is it?”

  “The third of August,” Betty said. “I know that’s not a lot of notice, but it should be some easy money. We set up at ten thirty, start handing out food at eleven thirty, well, at least I do. Then they want cake and a couple of other things right after the meal while the grateful grandkids are telling everyone in the room how cool Grandma and Grandpa are. We don’t even have to clean up the hall afterward. We just need to show up and bring the deliciousness. What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds like a great idea,” Ashley said. “Let me make sure I’m not already booked firs
t before I give you a definite yes, though. I’m so fried that I can barely remember where my head is.”

  Betty grinned. “That’s fair. Gimme your card, I’ll call you sometime tomorrow.”

  Ashley took out her wallet. She pulled a business card out of one of the pockets and handed it over. Betty traded her one of her own, a red card with a stylized black crawdad on it.

  “The exchange of the business cards,” Ashley said. “That makes us associates.”

  Betty laughed. “Or maybe just friends.”

  “Friends it is,” Ashley said. Although she felt a little fake saying it. She did not really know Betty well enough to call her a friend, and with the two unexplained exchanges she had observed, well… Ashley stopped herself. Her imagination was a little too creative sometimes. Betty was a nice woman who had just offered Ashley the opportunity to pad the food truck fund with some quick cash. Ashley was sure there was a reasonable explanation for the exchanges.

  “Okay, my friend, I have to get back to the truck, switch off with Patty for a while, make sure my dog gets some water, start packing up, and…” Ashley paused for a breath.

  “The thousand and one things we gotta do to get out of here at three o’clock sharp,” Betty said. “No worries. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, when you got your head back on.”

  “Thanks,” Ashley said.

  It wasn’t until Ashley was almost back to the tent that she realized that she was going to have to tell Patty that she was thinking about doing desserts at an event with a different caterer.

  Yikes. They hadn’t talked about this kind of thing before. She hoped Patty wasn’t going to be disappointed. But when she returned to the truck and explained what was going on, Patty only laughed.

  “When you do better, I do better,” she said. “If word about your cake gets spread around Galveston, you’ll get invitations all over the place—and you’ll take me with you.”

  Ashley assured her that this would be the case and happily went back to work. A slow day, all right, but finally people had started trickling in.