by Mary Maxwell
“You bet,” Grace said. “This is my late day. We’re open until nine.”
“Okay, let me finish this spreadsheet for my aunt,” I told her. “Then I’ll jump in the car and head your way.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “If I notice Christine leaving before you get here, I’ll text you.”
After checking the cost comparison twice more to make sure that my calculations were correct, I told my aunt that I had a quick errand to run. Then I slipped out the back door, fired up the car and made my way to Cypress Street.
As Grace had promised, Christine was situated behind her desk, nibbling on a sandwich as she flipped through a home design magazine.
“Hi, Liz!” she called. “How are you?”
Christine had met Aunt Dot through Maybelle, so I saw her at least once a week when she came in to buy her beloved Mint Chip Marshmallow Crunch ice cream.
“I’m doing well,” I said. “How about yourself?”
She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “You caught me chowing down! I hope the egg salad isn’t too stinky.”
I shook my head. “It actually smells delicious,” I said. “I love egg salad.”
“Want half?” She motioned at the carryout carton open on her desk. “They make everything so huge over there. I’ll be lucky if I finish half of this monster.”
“No, thanks. I had a late lunch.”
“Okay, but just let me know if you change your mind while you’re here,” she said, taking a sip of the Dr. Pepper.
“That’s kind,” I said. “And I hate to interrupt your lunch, but I was wondering if you’d mind a couple of questions about—”
“Oh, gosh,” she said. “Is it about poor Mr. Wargrave?”
I nodded. “I was just wondering if he and Maybelle had been bickering again.”
She frowned. “Again?”
“Aunt Dot told me about an incident from a couple of years ago,” I explained. “Maybelle was the listing agent on a big piece of undeveloped land up near Delmar Grove. The day before the seller signed her contract, Mr. Wargrave apparently swooped in and stole the client with a fanciful tale of bigger profits and all-cash deals.”
Christine shook her head. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “But that was before my time. I joined Maybelle a few months after than happened. Before that, I was up in St. Pete working for my sister’s agency.”
“Ah, okay. I wasn’t sure exactly when you moved to town.”
“Not quite two years ago,” she said. “I know that there’s no love loss between Maybelle and some of the other agents in town, but I actually thought she was kind of sweet on Simon. The way she talks about him constantly and sits next to him at Rotary meetings.”
“Really? You think she has a crush on him?”
Christine smiled. “I don’t know for sure, but it looks that way to me.”
“Well, that’s news to me.”
“I’m not all that surprised,” she said. “Maybelle tends to keep personal things to herself.”
“Has she mentioned her fondness for Simon to you?”
She shook her head. “Not in so many words. It’s mainly what I just said; she talks about him a lot, goes over to his office with extra cookies when she bakes, and, she sits by him at the monthly meetings.”
“Well, I’d guess that you’re onto something there,” I said.
“If it really is true,” Christine replied, “it never seemed to get her very far. Simon seemed to have his sights set on someone else.”
“Do you know who?” I asked.
“Not for certain,” she answered. “But I saw him smooching on a redhead one time a few weeks ago.”
“A redhead, huh?”
She nodded. “They were in his car,” she said. “In the alley behind BowlMor Lanes. I was taking a shortcut between Buena Vista and First Avenue. You know where you can shave off a good five minutes by sneaking through the back way?”
“I’m familiar,” I said. “There’s a good chance that I also smooched with a boy in that alley one summer when I was in high school.”
Christine smiled. “You don’t say?”
My cheeks turned red. “Danny Bloom,” I said. “We went out for about thirty seconds during junior year.”
“Didn’t last long,” she said.
“It was doomed from the start,” I said. “I thought it was true love, but my best friend told me that Danny was also spotted in the alley behind the BowlMor with Trisha Linwood, Julie Krugger and—”
“Hold up,” she said, raising one finger. “Is that the same Danny Bloom that’s married to the woman that owns the bagel place on Chessman and Findlay?”
I smiled. “That’s him,” I said. “Her name’s Abigail. She’s a really wonderful woman.”
“Does she know about you and her husband smooching in the alley?” Christine said.
“No clue,” I said. “But that’s ancient history.”
“Sure, I suppose.”
“Nowhere near as recent as Maybelle being sweet on Simon Wargrave,” I said.
Christine sighed. “And now she’s in a world of hurt because the police think that she killed him. I mean, there is absolutely no way that she would harm a hair on his head, let alone stab him with a knife.”
“They say it looked like a crime of passion,” I said.
“But passion comes in many forms,” she replied. “It could’ve been related to a failed romance, but it could also have been a bad business deal or a family dispute.”
“True,” I agreed. “And all of those involve passion.”
She motioned for me to step closer. Since we were alone in the office it seemed unnecessary, but I wasn’t about to question it.
“I saw someone in here talking to her a couple of days before Simon was killed,” Christine whispered.
“Anyone that you know?” I asked.
She made a face. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t admit to it. The guy looked like a total thug.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“For sure! I told them. I gave a statement. And I sat down with one of those sketch artists to come up with a composite drawing of the guy.”
“Really? I didn’t know the Crystal Bay PD had one on the payroll.”
“Oh, they don’t. This woman came over from Orlando.”
“Did you get to keep a copy of the drawing?”
“No, but I can describe him if you’d like,” she offered.
I nodded.
“Well, he was short, fat, stinky and mean,” she said.
I laughed. “That describes half of the people that I know,” I teased. “Can you narrow it down?”
She smiled. Then she went through a more detailed description of the man that she’d seen talking to Maybelle in their office. He was around fifty or so, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and bright red running shoes. His hair was on the greasy side, he stood around five and a half feet tall and he sprinkled his conversation with a fair amount of profanity.
“Anything else?” I asked.
She made a face. “He wasn’t from Florida. He had a really thick New Jersey accent.”
“Did you say that the guy was with a woman when he came in to see Maybelle?”
“Yes,” Christine said quietly. “She was haughty and rude. I asked her a couple of questions, but she completely ignored me!”
“Sorry,” I said. “Sometimes people can be so unfortunate.”
“I agree,” Christine said. “But I’m a duck.”
“Excuse me?”
She smiled. “I just let it roll right off my back,” she said. “You know, like a duck.”
CHAPTER 20
Detective Shaw tapped the Sweet ’N Low packets against the table before tearing off the top and pouring the white granules into his iced coffee.
“Thanks for meeting here,” he said. “I haven’t put anything in my stomach all day besides a handful of Tic Tacs and a couple aspirins. When you called, I was just walking in the door, so I
appreciate your willingness to come to this side of town.”
We were sitting at the counter in Soderberg’s Luncheonette, a landmark diner at the southern end of Crystal Bay. The menu in the quaint eatery ran the gamut from egg creams, donuts and omelets to fried chicken, hamburgers and pancakes. “It’s a bastion of fat, sugar, butter and lard,” Aunt Dot replied whenever tourists asked about the place. “Plus, they’ve got a jukebox that’s loaded with Elvis Presley.”
As Shaw placed his order for a short stack with extra crisp bacon, I listened to “All Shook Up” and thought about the time that Uncle Barney and Aunt Dot danced around the Big Dipper on a rainy Saturday afternoon when I was in middle school. They’d reminded me of dancers that I saw on television, twirling and spinning and smiling from ear to ear as they moved in unison to one Elvis song after the next.
“What’s that all about?” Shaw said after the waitress left.
“Sorry?” I asked. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“The crooked grin,” he said. “It looks like you’re lost in thought over there.”
I blushed. “Special memory of my aunt and uncle. They used to dance around the dining room when business was slow.”
“That’s sweet,” he said.
“You think so?”
He laughed. “Big time. It sounds like something my parents did when I was a kid. Not in an ice cream parlor, but on the driveway at home. My father would crank the car stereo and then they’d dance to Motown hits.”
“Sounds like your parents were pretty easygoing,” I said.
“Unless one of us got into hot water at school or church,” he replied. “Then it was the opposite of easygoing.”
I drank some of the coffee that I’d ordered. Then I asked if there was any news about the Wargrave case.
“Not really,” Ethan answered. “I’m going to talk with a few other folks on Palmetto Drive to see if they noticed anything unusual the day of the murder.”
“Well, this is your lucky day, detective. I happened to be across the street from there right before this. In fact, that’s why I wanted to get together with you.”
“Yeah?”
“I was talking to Maybelle’s business partner,” I said.
“It’s Christine Marshall, right?”
“That’s her,” I said. “She told me about a visitor that came to see Maybelle recently. Sounded like a potentially shady character.”
Detective Shaw grinned. “How can someone be potentially shady?”
“I’m trying not to judge a book by its cover,” I said.
“Don’t worry about that,” he replied. “Let’s fast forward to what Maybelle’s partner had to say about the visitor to their office.”
“Okay, but keep in mind that she told me that she didn’t hear everything,” I said. “She was trying to be discreet.”
“Uh-huh. How about you tell me the parts that she could hear?”
“It had something to do with Maybelle and Simon Wargrave,” I said. “But the best part, at least to me, is the fact that my friend at Smokehouse Bar-B-Q saw the same guy driving the SUV that Jacob Palmore saw at Wargrave’s office the day of the murder.”
“Okay,” Shaw said, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “So we can connect Mr. Shady with both our victim and the prime suspect,” he said.
“Yes, but I was thinking about that,” I replied. “Maybe she wasn’t involved.”
“Who?” he said. “Maybelle Fletcher?”
I nodded.
“But she provided a bogus alibi,” he said. “Remember? One that involved you and your aunt.”
“I know that, but there could be a legitimate explanation.”
“For lying to the police?” His voice was thick with disbelief. “What do you think that might be?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to speculate. There could be any number of reasons.”
“Possibly,” he said. “But how about you give me three.”
“Three reasons?”
“Even just two,” Ethan said.
“Maybe she was protecting someone,” I suggested. “Or there’s a chance it could all be a big misunderstanding. What if Maybelle wasn’t even at Wargrave’s office that day?”
“But we found her ballpoint under his body,” the detective replied. “Doesn’t that seem to suggest that she was at the scene before he was murdered?”
I shook my head. “Not really,” I said. “It very clearly suggests that her pen was, but that doesn’t mean Maybelle was there.”
Ethan narrowed his gaze. “So what’re you thinking? Her ballpoint somehow magically flew across the street and into Wargrave’s office just in time to end up on the exact spot where he fell after being stabbed?”
The waitress returned with Ethan’s pancakes. After she’d delivered the order and asked if we wanted anything more, I told her that I’d changed my mind.
“I knew that you would,” she said with a wink. “Going for the usual?”
I glanced at Ethan, but he was occupied with the carousel of syrup dispensers.
“Thanks, Bonnie,” I said. “Just the egg cream, please.”
After she left to start my treat, Shaw leaned over. “What’s the rest of it?” he asked. “I’ve got twenty bucks on either donuts or cheese fries.”
I chuckled and held out my hand. “Pay up, mister. It’s silver dollar pancakes with blueberries and whipped cream.”
“How about I buy your egg cream?” he asked.
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”
“Your call,” he said. “I don’t want anyone saying that I welched on a bet.”
“They won’t,” I replied. “Besides, I’m just grateful for the chance to discuss the case with you.”
“Do you have a theory about it?” he asked. “I mean, besides the flying ballpoint pen and the shady guy in Maybelle’s office?”
“I’m still working on a firm theory,” I said. “But you’ll definitely be the first person that I call when I do have one in mind.”
CHAPTER 21
Aunt Dot rushed into the Big Dipper office the next morning at eight. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her lips were pursed tightly and she was gripping a can of Red Bull.
“Did they just call?” she asked. “I thought I heard the phone ring when I was coming in the front door.”
“Nothing yet,” I told her, offering a sympathetic smile. “Try not to think about it.”
Her eyes bulged. “That’s not helpful, Lizzie! Whenever someone tells me to relax or chill out or whatever, it just makes me get all the more anxious.”
“Sorry.” I got up from the desk. “Would a hug help?”
She tightened her grip on the can. “For Pete’s sake! No, a hug wouldn’t help! I need to hear from the TV show, one way or the other. I’m going bonkers wondering whether or not I made the cut.”
“Why don’t you call Lucille Larkin?” I suggested. “It might at least give you some idea which way the wind’s blowing.”
She frowned. “What’s the wind got to do with anything?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Do you need help up front? My mother’s going to be a little late, so I can pitch in with whatever you need.”
Dot’s eyes looped around as she issued an exasperated groan. “I got her text,” she said. “Like anybody’s going to care that her toenails aren’t polished.”
I shrugged. “She likes to look nice.”
“I know that, hon. But she should take care of that stuff on her own time. We’re trying to run a business here, not a fashion show.”
The remark was humorous, considering how often Aunt Dot went home to change her outfit during the day, but I wasn’t about to mention that fact. Instead, I sat down again and went back to paying bills.
“How’s it look?” she asked, peering over my shoulder.
“Pretty fantastic so far this month,” I said. “We’re ahead of projections by fourteen percent.”
“Really?” Her voice squeaked a littl
e. “That’s good news! Do you think Lucille would be interested in that information?”
“Possibly,” I said. “That would give you a reason to call her.”
“Or maybe it would give you a reason to do the same,” my aunt said. “Then you could ask how they’re coming with the final casting decisions for the show. It wouldn’t seem as pushy if you were asking the question.”
I laughed. “I don’t know about that. She’s a pretty savvy operator. I think she’ll see through any ruse that we try.”
“Ruse?” Dot’s eyes bulged again. “This isn’t a ruse! I want to know if I’m going to be on the show. I mean, this is a life or death crossroads, Lizzie.”
“How do you figure?”
She heaved another sigh. “Because all my girlfriends know that I auditioned,” he said. “I told them that the camera crew was going to be here this week. And I spent a hundred and fifty smackeroos on a new dress to wear to the party celebrating my big break in show biz!”
“You don’t think that was a little premature?” I smiled. “Not that I want to be a total downer or anything. But it might’ve been a good idea to wait until you had the official word from the folks at We All Scream for Ice Cream.”
She sneered. “Well, you blew that one, sunshine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Negative Nancy,” she said, propping one hand on her hip. “There’s nothing more important in these situations than the power of positive thinking.”
I dropped my chin to my chest. “You’re right,” I muttered. “I’m sorry. I’ll keep the hesitation to myself.”
As she started to come back with more, the phone on my desk rang. I leaned in to read the name on the display: Beachcomber Motel. I felt a sizzle of excitement in my stomach.
“This is about the Wargrave case,” I said. “Do you mind if I take it?”
Aunt Dot made a face. “Why should I?” she said, spinning around and walking toward the front of the shop. “I’ll be up here, working on my victory speech for winning the Emmy Award for Best AARP Member on a Reality Show!”
CHAPTER 22
