by Linda Reilly
For a moment, Talia thought she’d lost the connection. Misty seemed to have dissolved into the ozone.
“Sorry, I had to put the phone down for a minute,” Misty said, her voice a few notches lower. “I thought my boss was waving me over.”
“You were saying she had a mani-pedi?” Talia prompted.
“Yes, that was her last treatment, at eight forty-five. Although …”
Another lengthy silence. Blast the girl!
“Um, sorry,” Misty said. “Yes, her mani-pedi was at eight forty-five. I believe she left right after that.”
“Eight forty-five,” Talia repeated. Seemed late for a mani-pedi. “How late are you open?”
“On Wednesdays and Thursdays we stay open till ten, although our last appointment is at nine,” Misty said. “Obviously if a customer’s appointment goes a little over the time limit, we remain open as long as we need to. We never make a customer feel rushed.”
“Oh goodness, well, that’s an excellent policy.” Talia was babbling now, but as Bea always said, in for a ha’penny, in for a quid. “So a mani-pedi probably takes about forty-five minutes, right? Do you know what time Ms. LaPlante paid for her … services?”
“Ms. LaPlante has an account with us,” Misty said, her tone now bubbling with suspicion. “We bill her on a monthly basis.”
“Oh right,” Talia said. “I should’ve remembered that.”
“Shall I call you if the cosmetics bag does turn up?” Misty said stiffly.
“No need. Thanks for your time, though.” Talia disconnected before Misty could ask any more questions.
Darn. Kendra’s alibi seemed solid. Still, there was something in Misty’s voice, plus all those long silences, that had definitely seemed off-kilter.
Talia hopped out of her car just as Bea was swinging her old brown Datsun into the parking lot. A puff of relief escaped Talia. Bea was still a free woman. Talia caught up with her, and together they headed back to Lambert’s.
“How did it go?” Talia asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Bea shot Talia a grim look, her small feet barreling along the sidewalk. “I had to surrender my passport. That state police chap was a tough bugger. Asked me the same blasted questions, over and over. I tell you, Tal, I thought my head was going to spin clean off my neck.”
Talia slid her arm through Bea’s. “I know giving up your passport seems drastic, Bea, but it won’t be for long.” She hoped.
They strode past Peggy’s Bakery, where the dual aromas of yeast and cinnamon wafted out from the propped-open door. Peggy was smart—she knew how to entice customers! The tantalizing scent suddenly reminded Talia that she was in charge of bringing desserts to the play on Sunday.
“What were you doing in your car?” Bea asked.
“I … had a quick personal call I needed to make.”
Bea gave her an odd look but said nothing. They ducked into the alley behind Lambert’s and scurried inside through the kitchen door.
“Hey, you’re back!” Whitnee said to Bea, looking pleased to see her. She lifted a basket of crispy fries out of the fryer. In the adjacent basket, two fat chunks of battered haddock were sizzling their way to golden perfection.
“Yes, I’m back, and it looks like you’re doing one bleeding good job, luv.” Bea squeezed Whitnee’s arm affectionately.
Talia hung her jacket and then peeked into the dining area, where two elderly fellows were seated at one of the tables. She turned back to Whitnee. “Sorry I took so long, but you obviously have things under control.”
Whitnee beamed, and a flush crept into her pale cheeks. “Thanks. I kinda like being on my own here once in a while. It’s sort of fun, you know, being in charge. I mean, as long as it doesn’t get too crazy.” She inserted paper liners into a pair of serving cones. “Are you, like, okay, Bea?”
Bea slipped on a clean apron, her face unreadable. “I’ve got problems,” she said in a low voice.
The three worked through the dinner rush in near silence. By quarter to seven, the dining area had emptied out, and the last phone order had been prepared. Judging by the number of customers they’d served, the “two-fer” had been a ringing success.
“Come over here, luvs,” Bea said, motioning Talia and Whitnee over to the table in the alcove at the back of the kitchen. “Before we close up, I need to talk to you both.”
Whitnee looked at Talia, a panicked expression on her face. They each took a seat, and Bea leaned toward them. “The cops think I murdered Phil, and I’m afraid my lawyer and I didn’t do much to convince them otherwise.”
“What happened, Bea?” Talia folded her hands over the table. “Can we help in any way?”
Bea shook her head, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Turns out the knife that killed Turnbull had traces of whitefish at the base, near the handle.”
Talia already knew that, and a wave of guilt swept over her for not having divulged it to Bea sooner. “What about fingerprints? The real killer’s prints must’ve been on the knife.” Unless he, or she, was cunning enough to have wiped them off.
“Ah, well, that’s a problem, too. There were lots of prints on the knife handle, you see, although some were too smudged to be useful. It’s as if the flipping thing was never washed.” Bea’s eyes flashed with indignation. “Unfortunately, they couldn’t match any of the prints to anyone in the national system, or database, or whatever it is the coppers use.”
“But … your prints weren’t on the knife, right?”
“No,” Bea muttered softly, “and that’s exactly the problem. The investigator, that O’Donnell fellow, thinks I wore a pair of disposable gloves to murder Turnbull.”
Talia blew out a long sigh. “Did they show you a picture of the knife?”
“Actually they showed me the real thing—in a plastic bag, naturally. I’d never seen it before. I’ve never owned a knife with a handle like that. It was a fancy piece of work, let me tell you. Not something a practical soul like me would ever buy.”
“What about your attorney?” Talia said. “I thought he was supposed to help you.”
“He did help, Tal. He objected to more questions that I can count.” She sat back in her chair and scrubbed a hand over her face. “And the questions I did answer, I answered truthfully, but that O’Donnell bloke just kept badgering me.”
“Bea,” Talia said, “if the knife had been yours and you’d used a disposable glove to murder Phil, then the other prints should match mine or Whitnee’s, right? Assuming the police think the knife came from Lambert’s.”
“That’s exactly right, luv. They couldn’t explain the other prints. All of the arcade owners voluntarily submitted to fingerprinting, but none of their prints are on the knife, either. It’s the main reason the cops didn’t detain me.”
Whitnee looked at Bea with a worried face. “I … I don’t know much about these things, Bea, but it sounds to me like, you know, the evidence against you is all circumstantial.”
“That’s exactly what my lawyer said.” Bea smiled at her. “Maybe I should have you on my legal team. Or maybe what I really need is my own detective. Someone who’s not trying to string a rope around my neck.” She gave Talia a wide-eyed look. “Someone like you, Tal. Didn’t you tell me a story once about how you tracked down a stolen rabbit?”
“I did?” Talia chewed one side of her lip. She thought back to her school days. “Oh yeah, Rachel’s brother’s rabbit. Gosh, I’d forgotten all about that. How did you even remember that story?”
“Well, all those years ago, when you first started working here, you had a lot of heavy things on your mind,” Bea said gently. “To distract you, I used to ask about your childhood. You know, what kinds of things you liked to do when you were growing up.”
“And I told you the rabbit story.” Talia frowned.
“I want to hear it,” Whitnee piped in. “I had a rabbit of my own once.”
“It’s not much of a story. Rachel’s little brother, Noah, had gotten a rabbi
t for his birthday—his seventh birthday, I think.” Talia recalled how desperately the little boy had wanted that rabbit, how he’d begged his parents to buy one for him.
“A white one?”
“No, it was black and white—a darling little bunny. His folks bought it at a pet store, along with a big cage. They were very particular about their home—didn’t let the kids breathe in it—so they made Noah keep it in the garage.”
“Ugh,” Bea said. “With all those exhaust fumes?”
“During the day they left the garage door open, and Noah was forever taking Punky—that’s what he named him—out of the cage and plunking him on the lawn to play. In spite of his name, the bunny always stuck close to him—he never tried to go very far.”
“So what happened?” Whitnee said impatiently.
Surprised at the girl’s tone, Talia continued. “He’d had the rabbit for several weeks, and then one morning discovered it was gone.”
“Stolen?” Whitnee said.
Talia nodded. “Yup. There was a side door into the garage, and even though it had a twist lock on the doorknob, Noah never remembered to lock it. The poor kid was heartsick when he found that cage door hanging open and his beloved bunny missing.”
Whitnee shivered. “What did he do?”
“Well, Rachel and I—we were nine or ten at the time—helped him make ‘lost bunny’ posters. We tacked them up all over the neighborhood and inside every store and restaurant that would let us hang one.”
“Poor little boy,” Whitnee whispered, almost to herself.
Talia shot her a glance and went on. “About a week after Punky went missing, I was in the checkout line at Queenie’s with my mom. I noticed a little girl, all by herself, standing in front of us holding a basket filled with carrots and lettuce. Totally weird for a kid, I thought. At that age, all I ever wanted to buy were peanut butter cups and Snickers bars. Anyway, I recognized her—she was a fifth-grader in my school. Her name was Oriana Butterforth. The kids used to poke fun at her name, but I always thought it was exotic and enchanting.”
“Did you follow her?” Whitnee asked.
Talia smiled. “Not quite, but my suspicions had definitely been aroused. As soon as I got home, I looked up her last name in the phone book. Turned out her family lived on Hampton Avenue, only three streets away from our house. I asked Mom if I could ride my bike for a while, and as soon as I’d turned off from our street, I was barreling toward Oriana’s.”
“I’ll bet I can guess the ending.” Whitnee grinned.
“Well, when I got there, I didn’t see any sign of the rabbit. The Butterforths lived in a two-family house and didn’t have a garage, so I knew the rabbit had to be somewhere in the house, maybe even in the basement.”
“What did you do?” Whitnee said urgently.
Talia shrugged. “The only thing I could think of. I rang the bell, and when Oriana opened the door I told her I really, really needed to use the bathroom.”
“Did she let you in?”
“Oddly enough she did, though she looked totally perplexed. She pointed at a staircase, and I raced upstairs. I remember it bothered me that she seemed to be home by herself. I found the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and then started snooping. Which wasn’t too hard, since the apartment only had two tiny bedrooms. Sure enough, in the first room I looked, I spotted the makeshift cage she’d constructed for Punky. She’d duct-taped two big cardboard boxes together and made the bunny a cozy little home. It was pretty clever, actually.”
Whitnee’s eyes widened. “Did you call the police?”
“Let her finish the story, luv,” Bea said softly.
Looking chastised, Whitnee shrank lower into her chair.
“Punky was in the box munching happily on a carrot,” Talia continued. “I was so relieved that he was okay, I never heard Oriana creep up behind me. But when I turned to leave there she was, these huge tears streaming down her cheeks. I’ll never forget her face—it was so sad. ‘You have to give him back,’ I told her. She nodded, reached into the box, and picked up Punky. She handed him to me, and I rode all the way home with him sitting in my bicycle basket.”
“Yesss!” Whitnee pumped her fist.
“Noah was thrilled to have him back, but I felt horrible. I couldn’t stop seeing Oriana’s tiny, freckled face drenched in tears.” Talia looked away and rubbed her hand over her forehead. “I remember asking my mom, if I saved enough from my allowance, could I buy Oriana a rabbit of her own? But Mom said no, because that would be rewarding her for stealing. When I think back, I wish I’d done it anyway.”
And she wished Bea had never reminded her of the rabbit story. Oriana had looked so shattered that day when Talia cycled away with Punky. It was probably why she’d pushed the memory from her mind. She hadn’t thought about Oriana Butterforth in a very long time. Oriana and her mom moved out of town a few years later, and Talia never saw her again.
Whitnee seemed entranced by the story. “Talia, you really are a detective. If you were that smart when you were nine, then you can, like, definitely figure out who killed Phil!”
“I appreciate your confidence,” Talia said, “but that’s a pretty big stretch.”
“Not really.” Bea pounded her small fist on the table. “That story tells me you have the imagination to hunt down the clues and put them together. Of course, I’ve always known you were a clever cookie.” She gazed at Talia with affection, and then looked at her watch and sighed. “Ah, look at me, keeping you hardworking girls here so late. Let’s close up, shall we? But you think about that, luv, okay? Along with that other matter we talked about this morning.” She gave Talia a meaningful wink.
Talia couldn’t help smiling. She didn’t deserve Bea’s blind faith in her. Should she divulge her suspicions about Kendra? Let her know she’d been checking into Kendra’s whereabouts at the time of the murder?
No, that would only raise Bea’s hopes, and she wasn’t ready to do that—not yet. Talia’s “case” against Kendra was about as strong as cotton candy—all spun sugar and fluff, with no real substance.
As for the “other matter”—the idea of taking over Lambert’s—Talia had to confess that the idea was beginning to get under her skin. During the course of the day, she’d caught herself fantasizing about it several times. Thinking about the changes she’d make, but without destroying the essence of Bea and Howie’s original dream. There was so much she could do, both with the menu and with the eatery itself.
For now, though, she’d have to force it from her mind. Nothing was going to happen until Turnbull’s murderer was caught and Bea’s name was cleared.
They all left together through the front entrance. “Are you seeing Pug tonight?” Talia said to Whitnee, pulling the collar of her flared jacket more tightly around her neck.
“Not tonight. Pug has to work until, like, midnight. He got a job at that new burger joint. The one that opened last month?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Talia said. “It’s in that funky strip mall on Pittsfield-Lenox Road. What does he do there?” Okay, so she couldn’t suppress her perverse curiosity about Whitnee’s repulsive beau.
“Oh, you know, he, like, waits tables, helps clean the kitchen after closing time, that sort of thing.” She lifted her thin shoulders in a world-weary shrug. “I guess I’ll just poke around the mall for a while and then go home. Not much else to do.”
“My offer stands,” Talia said quietly. “If you need a place to stay—”
“Got it,” Whitnee said brusquely. She turned her back on Talia and stared out over the arcade.
Touchy, Talia thought to herself. She didn’t know what to make of Whitnee’s roller-coaster moods, but decided to cut her some slack. Clearly the girl lived under stressful conditions. Having Connie Parker for a mother would make anyone snappish.
The plaza was empty, and eerily quiet. Even Jim Jepson’s jack-o’-lantern had gone dark. On the street behind the lighting shop, the brittle leaves from the fading maples whispered
in the cold breeze. The yellow police tape around Turnbull’s place was gone. Did that mean the police had collected all the evidence they needed?
In the corner shop, Time for Tea, lights shone through the front window. Was Jill still there?
Bea secured the front entrance to Lambert’s. “All right now, luvs, we have to walk to our cars together. I never thought I’d see the day when I didn’t feel safe here.” She shook her dark head sadly. “If the coppers ever catch the real killer, I’m going to throw a big party. And you two”—she slipped an arm through each of theirs—“I can’t do enough to thank you. You’ve been here for me every minute.”
“Bea, we’re only doing our jobs,” Talia said. “And the police are going to find the killer. Maybe they just need a little push in the right direction.” She looked over at the tea shop. “Listen, I think Jill is still in her shop. I need to bend her ear for a few minutes, so I’m going to pop over there and see if she has time for a chat.”
“You be careful!” Bea cried. “Never mind, Whitnee and I will walk you over there, won’t we luvvy?”
“I guess so,” Whitnee said in a peeved tone. “I’ve got no place else to go.”
Why was Whitnee acting so strange? Talia wondered as they headed toward the tea shop. Ever since Talia had told the rabbit story, she’d seemed jumpy, almost to the point of surly.
Give her a break, Talia reminded herself. They’d all been as jumpy as fleas since Turnbull was murdered. Why should Whitnee be any different?
A sudden gust of wind sent a cold blast down the back of Talia’s neck. She shivered, and the memory of the weird guy who’d been watching her earlier slammed into her brain. Was he still hanging around? The idea that he might be close by sent another chill through her.
“Let me see if Jill’s in, then you two can go to your cars,” Talia said, unhooking her arm from Bea’s.
Peeking through the glass, she spotted Jill tidying up the shelves in the tea shop. The sight of all the beautiful teapots gave Talia a momentary lift. She knocked on the door and called Jill’s name, hoping she wouldn’t startle her.
