by J R Pearson
"A hotel isn't necessary," he said. "We have plenty of space here. There's a guest bedroom for you. And as for Tony? I'm pretty sure the custodial dude wouldn’t mind letting him bunk in the supply closet." He smirked.
"Reese," she hissed.
"Knock it off," Russell snapped. He left the room, and returned with a pillow and blanket, setting it on the couch. "It’s big enough for you to fit," he told Tony.
"Thank you," Tony said.
"No problem." Russell nodded, turning to his sister. "Do you need me to pick you up a few things? Clothes?"
"Right. I'll come with you—"
"It's okay. I'll just go," he shrugged. Josie glanced at Tony, then stood to pull Russell into the kitchen area, lowering her voice.
"I appreciate your offer, but I think it would best if I was the one that gets, you know...underwear." To keep from laughing, Russell pressed his lips tightly together, squeezing her shoulder.
"Josie, I have no problem buying your unmentionables."
"Rus."
"Okay, okay," he laughed, snorting. "Really, it's not a big deal. They're just clothes. All I want is for you to stay here and relax. It sucks, the second you get here, you end up being caught in another murder investigation. Which"—he paused to open a counter drawer, producing a notepad and pen—“we will later discuss your role in. A safe role. Now, write down what you need me to get. No more arguments. "
"I resent your bossy tone." Josie gave him the stink eye. "Need I remind you, I'm two years older than you?"
"So? And I'm buying you tighty-whities, when your boyfriend should be—”
“Rus!”
“I’m kidding. Shut up and write."
She jotted down a small list and handed it back to him. The list held the essentials, a couple of shirts, and jeans. She’d included sizes of those—unmentionables included—and toiletries. Her feet were okay with the ballet flats she wore, and she didn’t need any makeup. Her apartment was more than an hour away in Greenville, so Reese would be heading to a nearby convenience store.
"Thank you," she said, then joined Tony back in the living room.
"I'm going to pick up some stuff, too." He rubbed a hand over tired eyes. “I shouldn't be long."
"I'll walk you to the door."
They were finally alone for the first time since Manny's arrest--although she was fully aware of her brother’s watchful eyes. It felt like days had gone by.
.
Tony caressed her cheek, cupping it. She suddenly was very tired, too, and leaned into his warm palm. "I’m sorry tonight didn’t turn out the way we hoped." His voice was low.
"S'okay." She wrapped her arms around his waist.
"I'll make it up to you." He kissed her nose softly, then on the lips. "I promise," he said, then left.
***
The next morning, Josie was up and ready for the day. Sleeping in the penthouse's guest bedroom had been all right. Of course it had all the works: flat-screen TV, king-size bed, and a small attached en-suite, where the tub featured Jacuzzi settings.
This was luxury living.
But it didn't compare to her ancient clock radio, rusty springed-bed, or waking up with a mouth full of fur and a classy view of her twenty-eight-pound corgi's poofy bottom.
That was quality living.
She was dressed in the clothes Russell had so lovingly bought for her: a coral V-neck t-shirt and a pair of dark skinny jeans. She had quickly tugged on her shirt, avoiding a glimpse of her new undergarments.
Not tighty-whities.
These were a lot worse.
Her bra and underwear were covered in terrifyingly, psychotic-driven duckies with red-tinged teeth.
"What the heck is this?!" she’d asked, horrified, when Russell had un-bagged them. "Ducks aren't supposed to have fangs!"
"They were on sale!"
And so were the other five matching pairs of creepy critters.
Tony, clad in jeans and a black t-shirt that looked to have melted onto him, hustled her out of the apartment. They got ahead of the weekday morning traffic to make the drive to Marco's home address (provided by Russell), in search of the newly widowed Betty.
West Emily had an invisible line, dividing itself between the new and the old. The rich and the poor.
North vs. South.
Southern West Emily was made up of decades-old diners, shops, and middle-class neighborhoods. Parents had to fare with a failing public school system that didn’t care if their sons or daughters ditched class to go pickpocketing in the streets. Turning to their local justice system, you hit a dead end.
Crime? Plenty.
Employment? Scarce.
As was the faith in receiving aid of human resources. The salty outer crust of the south side was run-down and littered with abandoned hope and empty promises from many who said new jobs would soon bring the community back to life.
This was the community Tony had lived in, and had referred to as his new reality and personal hell since being put under the custody of his uncle at the age of sixteen.
CHAPTER THREE
Uncle Sal had done as much as he could to keep Tony out of trouble, focusing him on school and teaching him how to cook. Josie recalled when she had asked Tony what living in the desolate area had been like.
"Excruciating, at first. Then things started to get put into perspective. Especially when you catch the kid you were just hangin' with digging through the trash, knowing whatever food he finds will be the first meal he's had in days. I'm grateful for what my uncle taught me and made me become. I own—and have grown from—my mistakes, but he kept me in line."
"How so?" Josie remembered asking.
"When I used to come home with a black eye or busted lip, instead of forcing me to go seek revenge—like most parents did—Sal just threw a towel at my head and said, 'Clean yourself up. We've got meat to braise.'"
"You're lucky to have him."
"I am."
Now, at twenty-six, Tony had gladly taken over the bistro when Sal retired to the sunny, bikini-model-infested beaches of JewelCove.
When Tony turned eighteen, life shifted for uncle and nephew.
Sal bought the small building that became the birthplace of In The Box bistro in Greenville, and, instead of following, Tony bought a motorcycle and took off with it, heading deeper and deeper into the city. Not ready to face small-town life, he managed to get a job repairing others’ rubber-burning hogs. On-call repairs led him to northern West Emily.
Currently, this is where he and Josie drove through.
Immediately, you were smacked in the face with the city's busier, high-end amenities and attractions—top-notch restaurants, cafés, and bars. Expensive retail shops and other exclusive businesses that lined the crowded sidewalks. Tall, upscale office buildings and apartment complexes (such as Reese and Russell’s) touched the clouds. Josie and Tony passed the tourist-magnet structure that housed an aquarium called The Tank.
A large gate, with beefed-up security, blocked the massive film studio where movies and TV shows came to life on screen. Josie wondered if Brad's main squeeze, Mark (Coffee Cupid to new starlet Scarlett Bloomfield) had made the trip back into the city this morning to uphold his mocha-supplying duties.
Weaving through cabs and stopping at a crosswalk filled with citizens, Josie spotted the popular multi-window, brick Fitz and Glitz hotel. She suppressed a shudder. It hadn’t been too long ago when Gordy, the son of the late owner of the hotel, Martha Fitzgerald, had been murdered in the kitchen of Danny’s Deli in Greenville. And, sadly, by his own brother, Brian Fitzgerald, over what else? Greed. Money. Jealousy. Josie's naiveté had led her and Brad close to death when Brian threatened her with the knife he used to kill Gordy.
Over the gearshift, Tony took her hand, entwining his fingers through hers. His mind-reading abilities were spot-on when homing in on the battles that wreaked havoc inside her head. His simple touch made her forget; the sexy grin and quirked brow made her insides turn to a pan of fresh
-out-of-the-oven mac ‘n cheese.
Hot and gooey.
The West Emily Press came into view. Men and women in suits flowed through the golden revolving doors, into the big, sleek fortress. Josie pressed her nose against the car window like a lollipop-sticky-fingered kid when pulling into an amusement park.
"Any word back yet?" Tony asked.
"If there was, you'd currently be picking up the pieces of my brain after exploding." Josie turned back to the building, where her dreams were most likely being kept on an editor's desk. Tony chuckled, squeezing her hand.
Inside West Emily Press, editors were typing delicious recipe-laced articles, and photographers were snapping high-res photos of strawberry topped crepes to blossom into the phenomenal food magazine, Forks & Knives. Last week, Josie had received an email notice that the creators were accepting submissions, seeking a new writer. Josie had sent several write-ups of blog posts and snapshots of dishes she’d cooked or come across, including one with Petey nibbling on a sage pepperoni cube. Then a link to her blog. In the end, she added a quick note of being inspired by her parents’ heart-warming meals, the reason she started her blog, to share her love and discoveries of different culinary works.
The deadline of sending submissions had passed and the days of judgment and the dreaded waiting had commenced.
She'd wanted this for a long time.
It was in her blood.
"They'll call. I'm sure of it, babe," Tony said.
"I hope so."
The Gonzaleses lived among the residents who weekly got their lawns primped and pools cleaned by polo shirt-wearing boys with an overabundance of hair gel. Mailboxes were short stone pillars with little doors. Vehicles parked in half-mile long driveways were glossy and large, like the egos of their owners.
Welcome to the land of McMansions.
Josie let out a low whistle.
"Wow. Marco's restaurant must've been doing well enough for him to afford this," she mused, scanning the pristine home. "Does Manny live in something similar?" Tony leaned closer to peer through her window.
"No. Manny uses his earnings on things more important than seven-foot flamingo-shaped hedges."
"Such as seven-foot avocado-shaped hedges?" Josie joked.
“Cute." Tony kissed her cheek. "Flaunting how much his business makes through an expensive house isn't who Manny is. He lives a little outside of the city, in a two-bedroom townhouse, with his elderly aunt, nephew, and three teenage cousins."
"Sounds...cramped."
"That’s what I thought when he invited me over for dinner a while back. But he said he and his family are very content." Tony rested his arm behind the headrest of her seat. "And unfortunately, at the time, he didn’t mention that his aunt had a wandering left hand and liked to play footsie." Josie laughed and nudged him with her elbow.
"You liked it," she joked. Tony grimaced.
"It was uncomfortable."
"No kidding." She pointed to the house. "Do you think Betty is here?" The driveway was vacant. "Perhaps she's parked in the garage?"
"Maybe—" The rumble of an incoming car caught Tony's attention. He glanced behind them, hissing a curse.
He hit the gas.
A police cruiser, followed by an unmarked SUV, had turned onto the street. Tony quickly swerved his truck right at an intersection, then made a U-turn, stopping at the curb of a beige-brick house, concealing the car alongside a large cherry-red rose bush, obtaining enough view to see Detective Perkins and Lieutenant Gibson get out of the SUV. A uniformed officer and three men wearing dark blue jackets exited the cruiser.
"W. E. Forensics" read the yellow lettering on their jackets. They popped the trunk, taking out grey suitcases, and followed Perkins and Gibson to the front door. Josie rolled down her window and listened to the lieutenant ring the doorbell.
No answer.
They headed for the backyard.
"I guess snooping is on the agenda for today," she asked. Tony gave her a “Really?” look.
"I know, I know. It’s on our agenda too. But we're doing it for a good cause. You can practically see Perkins's smug little face from here." She wrinkled her nose. "Anyways, by the looks of Forensics and Company, it's safe to say they’re back to look for more evidence." Tony made a noise of agreement. He and Josie sat in silence and waited.
Moments later, Gibson and Perkins returned. The nylon men peeled off latex gloves. Detective Perkins practically skipped to the SUV.
"Oh, no."
Lieutenant Gibson talked a mile a minute on his phone. He held a plastic bag; inside, a dark object.
"What did they find?" Josie squinted and unclipped her seat belt, scooting forward. Tony gripped her arm, stilling her movements. Although her window was down, Gibson's conversation came through choppily.
"...We're on our way.... Yes [inaudible]....no delays [inaudible]. ....Start the paperwork. I want [inaudible] ....The case will be officially closed by this afternoon." Gibson ended his call. He inspected the object, which Josie still couldn’t make out, turning it over in his hands. He frowned, then suddenly swiveled his head in their direction.
"Get down!" Tony jerked her down out of sight, covering her body with his.
"I thought the bushes shielded us," she whispered fiercely.
"Mostly," he grunted. "The front is partially exposed. And Gibson wouldn’t have noticed us if your weren’t bouncing in your seat, flashing your bright orange shirt."
"I wasn’t bouncing. And it’s coral!" Seconds ticked, then finally two engines erupted. Tires crunched the road, and the noise faded.
Josie straightened. Her heartbeat slowed from marathon runner to a brisk walk.
"Well, that was fun." She caught Tony grinning at her. "What are you smiling at?" She narrowed her eyes.
His grin widened at the sight of her messy hair. His push must've caused it. The little fine strands that stood straight up, he blamed solely on static electricity.
"Nothing. You look beautiful. Let’s see if Marco's neighbor is home."
CHAPTER FOUR
Side by side, Tony and Josie walked to a baby mansion that stood to the left of the Gonzaleses’, identical to it. Tony gave two hard bangs with his fist on the large green door. Not exactly a friendly-sounding approach. A tailored man, carrying a briefcase, wrenched it open. He was of medium build, had a receding hairline, and wore magnifying glasses that enlarged his irritation.
"I don't have time. Excuse me." He tried to side-step Tony, but was blocked by Tony's large frame.
"Wha-what do you want?" the man asked warily. Tony glanced at Josie, letting her take the lead. She plastered on a bright smile.
"Hello! If you don’t mind, we'd like to ask a few questions about what happened yesterday." Puzzlement dawned on the businessman.
"You're here about the murder?"
"Right. Your neighbor, Marco Gonzales was killed—"
"Yes, yes. I’m very much aware. Are you with the police?"
"He is," Josie lied, pointing to Tony. "I'm his partner." Hopefully, the skeptical man didn’t question why the police department had assigned beefy Tony the short stack of pancakes that was herself. "And you are...?" She read the name plate on his briefcase.”...Harrison."
"Seymour Harrison." He lifted his chin. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes—"
"We'll be quick," she promised. "We just wanna know what you saw or heard."
Seymour rolled his shoulders, sighing. "Fine. I'll tell you what I’ve already told the police yesterday. Heaven knows how many times they made me repeat it." He nudged his glasses up with an index finger. "I came home around six last evening," he began in a monotone, “to get cleaned up for a retirement party at seven. It was to be held at T-Bone Steak and Grill. Ordered by the doctor, at specifically six-fifteen, I took Mrs. Norris outside to urinate."
"Who?" Josie choked.
"My cat. She is bladder-shy and the doctor suggested a strict bathroom schedule would help. Plus, the smell of my tulips soothes her."
Josie was a loss for words.
"After Mrs. Norris was done, I carried her inside and was just closing the back door when I heard gunshots."
"You’re sure?" Tony interjected. Seymour looked offended.
"I'm not deaf. Also, my grandfather was a firearm enthusiast. I know the sound of a gun being fired."
"How many times did it go off?"
"Twice. Then I heard someone run through my backyard. They knocked over my potted tomatoes and the small table I have out for when I entertain. It’s set up by the fence that divides Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales and myself. I immediately called the police. They determined whoever it was had climbed over and landed on the table." Seymour suddenly appeared sad. "It’s now damaged."
"Did you see who? A face?" Josie asked, she felt herself waiting in anticipation for Seymour's answer. Please, please say yes, she thought. Please say you saw their face, hair color, the shape of an exposed birthmark. For crying out loud, anything!
"No."
She deflated.
"By the time I settled Mrs. Norris and dashed out to investigate, the intruder was gone."
At least now she and Tony had something to work with.
The cause of Marco's death.
Josie thanked Seymour and started to turn away.
"I would say an apology is in order," he huffed.
"Um, excuse me?" she frowned.
"The recent disturbing events have caused a substantial amount of stress on Mrs. Norris’s condition," he said, none too pleased. "Spontaneous loud noises have rendered her catatonic, and I'm afraid my mild popcorn addiction is at stake."
***
Back in Tony's truck, Josie chewed her bottom lip.
"Assuming the time frame is correct, Seymour called the police around six-thirty—give or take a few minutes, depending on Mrs. Norris’s potty time." She considered. "So Marco was shot shortly before then. What time did we arrive in West Emily?"
"Quarter 'til seven," Tony replied, pulling the car away from the rose bush. "Our reservation was for seven-thirty."
"Okay...where was Manny between six and six-thirty?" She cocked her head.
