A tall, thin man and a short, thin woman came into Deputy Donut. My parents.
Chapter 17
Except for grocery shopping, my parents seldom ventured out of the campground at Fallingbrook Falls, where they lived in their RV during the warmest month or two of every summer. I ran out of the office and hugged first my mother and then my father.
Tom was right behind me. “Annie! Walt! Welcome. What can I get you?”
My mom said, “Nothing, thank you. I’m fine.” She was in tight jeans and a peasant blouse she’d made and embroidered when I was a kid. As always, she wore strings of colorful beads over the blouse. Her hair was curly like mine, but hers had turned silver.
My dad said, “Coffee.” He also fit into jeans that he might have had since 1968. He wore his loose blue chambray shirt untucked. Except for his hair, now white, and a few wrinkles, he had barely changed since I was a kid. My parents were in their early forties when they had me, and I’d always thought of them as old, but because of their youthful and idealistic outlook on life, and the way they’d always treated me as a beloved but surprising equal, they now seemed ageless.
Tom told me, “Sit down with them, Emily. I’ll get the coffee.”
I sat down.
My mother placed her hand over mine and squeezed. “How’s Nina?” Her eyes, the same brilliant blue as mine, were concerned.
“She didn’t do it.”
My mother patted my hand. “We know. She couldn’t have.”
Jocelyn brought them each a coffee and a lemon meringue donut, filled with lemon and topped by points of meringue. “How are you, Mr. and Mrs. Young?” Jocelyn’s parents also spent their summers in an RV in the Fallingbrook Falls campground. My parents would be returning to Florida right after Samantha and Hooligan’s wedding. Jocelyn’s parents were much younger and commuted to their jobs near Fallingbrook during the summer. The rest of the time, they lived in a Victorian house in my neighborhood. When Jocelyn wasn’t away at college, she stayed in their home and biked to and from work.
“We’re fine,” my mother said, “or we would be if you called us by our names, Walt and Annie.”
My father added, “And when Nina is released from jail.”
Without complaining, my folks ate the donuts they hadn’t ordered and drank the coffee that my mother had pretended she didn’t want. Although they were obviously concerned about Nina, they didn’t make suggestions about how I could help her. They had always trusted me to do what was right, and except for a few little rebellions when I was a teen, I had attempted to live up to their expectations. Similarly, I seldom interfered in their lives, although I worried about them, and I loved visiting them out at the falls and listening to them play their guitars and banjos around a campfire. I might have inherited my mother’s lack of height, blue eyes, and curly hair. I hadn’t inherited either of my parents’ musical abilities.
Although Tom and I told them the coffees and donuts were on the house, they insisted on paying for them, and on leaving a large tip for Jocelyn. My father explained, “She has college expenses.”
Telling me to call them if I needed anything or if they could help with Nina, they got up to go.
My mother said softly, “See you at Samantha’s wedding.” She turned to go, but not before I saw the tears about to spill over. My mother was a prime wedding-crier. Also, she’d known Samantha since we were in junior high. Samantha’s, Misty’s, and my parents had always treated all three of us as daughters. Maybe my mom was also remembering Alec’s and my wedding, and how young, in love, and full of hope for a long, happy life with Alec I had been.
I tried to put that self out of my mind. During the rest of the afternoon, I pondered how I could prove that Nina was innocent. I reminded myself that if someone was making attempts on her life, she was probably safest where she was.
After we closed, the evening was still warm. On the way home through our pretty Victorian neighborhood, Dep had fun creeping under hedges and leaping out at my feet. I laughed and scooped her up for snuggles. As soon as I set her down, she did it again. People on porches waved at me and called to her. The woman whose hedge we’d landed in came down the walkway from her house and pointed at the front of her hedge. “You barely damaged it, and after I pruned it, no one would ever be able to tell that anyone had fallen into it.”
I picked Dep up and hugged her. “Thank you. I don’t see any bare spots.”
“I asked around. No one heard or saw the car that almost hit you and your friend. Where is she?” She scratched underneath Dep’s chin. Dep purred.
The woman might eventually hear about Nina’s arrest. I explained.
The woman folded her arms. “That’s terrible. She seemed very sweet the other day. They have the wrong person, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure they do.”
She glowered at a car passing us and going sedately below the already-low speed limit. “At least she’s safe from reckless drivers.”
The car was gray. An older man was driving it. He was not texting. Both of his hands were on the wheel. “Yes,” I agreed. “She is.”
The woman nodded. “Protective custody, I think they call it.”
My answering smile was a little wan. I wished that Nina was only in protective custody.
Several blocks away, a windowless black van drove slowly south on Wisconsin Street. I couldn’t see much of the driver, but I caught a glimpse of something white, possibly the size of a cowboy hat, just inside the passenger window.
I said goodbye to the woman and quickly carried Dep home. Running up my porch steps, I reminded myself that there were probably lots of windowless black vans in northern Wisconsin. I hadn’t been able to see the back of this one, so I didn’t know if there was a galloping horse where a rear window would have been. I also hadn’t noticed lettering on the van’s side. I took Dep inside and locked the door.
After dinner Dep ran up the stairs to the second floor ahead of me. Mentally apologizing to Nina for invading her room, which was also my home office, I turned on my computer.
I found references to Nina Lapeer in only two places on the internet. Her website showed photos of her paintings displayed dramatically on expanses of white, her name, and nothing else. No artist’s bio, no cute stories about wanting to be an artist ever since she was a little girl or having suddenly decided to become one as an adult. No reference to her previous last name or why she’d changed it. Not even a middle name. The other place where she was mentioned was the Arthur C. Arthurs Gallery website. It announced her show. At least that hadn’t changed. Yet.
It also mentioned that she was from Fallingbrook, Wisconsin. A headshot portrayed her high cheekbones, huge brown eyes, and enviably long and thick eyelashes. Instead of smiling, she looked so serious that she was almost glaring at the camera. I shivered at the thought that the Fallingbrook Police might now have a mugshot of her wearing almost that same expression.
Zippy must have visited the Arthur C. Arthurs website. She would have seen Nina’s new last name and her grown-up face.
Zippy could have become enraged with jealousy.
And the website had told her that Nina lived in Fallingbrook. Zippy must have hoped that by paying Nina a visit and destroying her artwork, she could stall Nina’s career and advance her own. Maybe she’d even hoped to find and damage all of the paintings slated for Nina’s show. Luckily, all but the largest one had been shipped.
Nina didn’t seem to use social media, and I couldn’t find her named as one of the survivors in any online obituaries, which was a morbid but occasionally useful method of learning the names of people’s relatives. I might have found a mention of her if I’d known her original last name.
Telling myself I could discover something that would help her, I pushed my chair back and got up to snoop in the duffel bag that she’d brought from her apartment and left on the open sofa bed beside a nightgown and bathrobe. Dep had beaten me to the bag. Its top was unzipped, and Dep was nestled inside. Her pupils wi
de, she watched me approach. I baby-talked to her. “You know you’re not supposed to be there, don’t you?”
She waggled her head in a playful way and then hid her face behind one of the unzipped sides.
I scratched at the heavy nylon with a fingernail.
Dep flung a paw out and nearly caught my hand.
“Um, Dep, honey, I need to look underneath you.”
Her head popped up again. I reached in, snugged my hands around her warm little chest, lifted her out, and set her on the blue and white rug. She scooted beneath overhanging blankets and batted at Nina’s slippers.
I found toiletries, a novel with a bookmark in it near the middle, lingerie, a pair of Deputy Donut shorts, and one of the white polo shirts that went with them. I opened the closet. Two pairs of comfy shoes and a pair of sparkly silver sandals were lined up on the floor. She’d hung up two blouses, a skirt, a pair of the black jeans we wore at Deputy Donut on cooler days, her black nylon jacket, and the green silk dress. Nothing was in the jacket pockets. I smoothed the dress on its hanger. Would she ever be able to wear it and the sparkly sandals she’d bought for Samantha and Hooligan’s wedding? I eased the closet door shut and brushed a tear off my cheek.
I almost missed Nina’s phone, plugged into its charger behind my computer. It was practically in factory condition and was not password-protected. She had only a few contacts—Arthur C. Arthurs, The Craft Croft, our landline at Deputy Donut, Tom’s, Jocelyn’s, and my cell phone numbers, and a number for Harry and Larry, her landlords at Klassy Kitchens. There was no one else, no doctor or dentist, and no one who could be a relative or friend that I didn’t already know about. I hadn’t realized how alone she was. I should have included her in more of my social life. Snooping among Nina’s things hadn’t given me any new leads that I could use to prove her innocence. It also didn’t make me feel less unhappy about her and her plight. I could stay home and stew, making myself sadder and sadder, or I could try something else.
I looked down at Dep. “Sorry, Dep. I’m going out without you.”
“Mew,” Dep said.
Still in her playful mood, she ran down the stairs ahead of me and arrived at the front door first. I picked her up, opened the door, stepped out onto the porch, and set her inside on the living room floor. Tail up, she frolicked toward the back of the house.
“Good girl,” I said approvingly, not that praise and compliments ever swayed her from doing whatever she pleased. I closed the door, locked it, and trotted down the steps to the sidewalk.
The evening was still sunny and warm. I cut through my neighborhood to Wisconsin Street and strolled south. Saddened by the sight of yellow police tape draped across the street door to the stairs leading to Nina’s loft, I passed Klassy Kitchens. It appeared to be closed for the evening. The bakery selling gourmet pet foods next to it wasn’t open, either. Beyond a barbershop, I stopped across the street from the address that Kassandra had written on her job application at The Craft Croft. I wasn’t surprised to discover that the address was for Suds for Buds, the pub where Kassandra had said she’d worked.
Kassandra had written that she lived on the second floor.
That did not seem possible.
Chapter 18
Suds for Buds was on the first floor. Above it, the building had one of those false fronts designed to make it look taller. Maybe there was a second floor at the rear of the building, too far back from the street to be visible from where I was standing, but it appeared that Kassandra had lied about living on the second floor at 976 Wisconsin Street South.
I took a deep breath and crossed the street.
Inside, Suds for Buds was a welcoming pub, paneled in dark mahogany with green leather upholstery on seats in the booths and on stools at the brass-trimmed marble-topped bar. The room was about half full of people, most of them holding foamy glasses and talking quietly to one another. I stood between two of the bar stools and placed my hands flat on the smooth, gray-veined white marble.
An aproned man behind the bar looked up from drying a glass. He was probably in his fifties with kind hazel eyes, a wide smile, and brown hair thinning on top. He asked, “What can I get you?”
“Could I speak to the manager, if he or she can spare a few minutes? It’s about a reference for a former employee.”
“You’re looking at him. Well, I’m Buddy. I own this place.”
“I’m Emily.”
He nodded, set the glass down, and picked up another glass. “Who’s the former employee?”
Had Kassandra given Buddy the same name she’d given me? “Kassandra Pyerson.”
Buddy nodded. “Kassandra. She was a good enough employee. Hard-working, that’s for sure, no complaints there, and honest, but she wasn’t as outgoing as I’d like in a waitress. Not that we expect them to become best friends with the customers, nothing like that, but she seemed almost too shy to smile or mumble more than a few syllables. But it turned out that she could carry on a conversation, at least I thought she could. Her last day here, Friday the thirteenth, we weren’t very busy, and she talked to one patron a lot.”
My pulse sped, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from nearly jumping over the bar in my excitement to hear more. “A man or a woman?” I almost sounded calm.
“A man.” Buddy nodded toward a front window. “See that booth over there, the first one in from the front door? A man sat in that bench, the one with its back to the bar, from about five o’clock until about ten at night. He drank only one beer, as far as I know, that entire time, and he had a burger and fries, hold the onion. Mostly, he looked out the window, kind of ducking his head”—Buddy demonstrated bending his neck a little without lowering his gaze—“to see underneath the lit sign hanging there.” It was a sign advertising a local craft brew. “Kassandra talked to that man more than she talked to most of our guests, but he was here for so long he must have begun to feel like family to her.” Buddy winked to show he was joking. “She stood beside him, but where she could see me if I needed to signal her. She didn’t talk to him all that time, but she definitely spent more time with him than she did with other patrons. He and Kassandra both left around ten.”
“Together?”
“Kassandra left first. She said she was going for a short break, but she never came back. He didn’t, either.”
Kassandra had told me that she had returned to work after her break. “Are you sure that she didn’t come back on Friday night?”
“Positive. It got busier in here, and I kept looking for her to help out. And then there were sirens and lights and police cars and an ambulance, and the next day I heard that a woman had been murdered almost across the street from us. Kassandra was probably afraid to venture anywhere near here after that. She was supposed to work on Saturday, but she hasn’t shown up here since Friday night around ten.”
Putting one foot on the brass footrail, I rested my forearms on the cool marble. “Do you think she could have been involved with the murder?”
“Nah. She wouldn’t have had the gumption. If anything, I thought she might have gone off with the man, she was so friendly to him. Friendly for her, that is. She seemed kind of alone and lost. Or maybe they knew each other from somewhere else. She was new in town, she told me, and I don’t know if he was local, but I don’t remember seeing him in here before. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t. I just don’t remember.”
“She said she didn’t think this neighborhood was very safe.”
“It is.”
“I told her that, too. She wanted to work at our shop, Deputy Donut, which is only about seven blocks away.”
I could have sworn his ears perked up like Dep’s sometimes did. “That’s where she applied for a job? Deputy Donut?”
“Yes.”
“Someone from there was the woman who came home and found a woman in her apartment and . . .” With an index finger, he made a cutting motion across his throat. “That doesn’t sound like a safe place to work, except the murderer was caught
. Were you scared, working with her?”
I shook my head so hard I risked becoming dizzy. “She was arrested, but I can’t imagine her ever harming anyone. Ever. They got the wrong person. Can you describe the man that Kassandra was talking to? It could be important and might prevent an innocent person from going to prison.” Although I expected Buddy to describe the magician, I tried to keep an open mind.
Buddy nodded, obviously wanting to be helpful. “Short hair, and he was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. I never saw him open the briefcase or take anything from it. He was looking out the window when he suddenly got up, took off the suit jacket, and stuffed it between the handles of his briefcase.” Buddy moved his hands like someone tucking a jacket across the top of a briefcase and then pinching the top of the handles between a thumb and forefinger. “And then he sat down again. About ten minutes after that, he got up again and left. I never saw him again.”
“How tall was he?”
“I don’t know. Maybe about the same as me, five-ten, not particularly muscular, but not fat, either.”
“Was there anything unusual about the suit?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Was it dressy, like a tuxedo?”
After a pause while his forehead became more and more creased, Buddy shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Did you see his shoes?”
“Nope, sorry.”
“Did he have a beard?”
“I didn’t notice, which means he probably didn’t.”
I guessed that the magician had taken off his fake beard and wig only moments after Nina had started chasing him. I asked, “A hat?”
Beyond a Reasonable Donut Page 15
