by Dana Mentink
She flushed but did not answer. Sleuthing apparently required a subtle touch, which she did not seem to have.
Sonny was still staring at her. “Think about it. You’re a newcomer to town, trying to get settled. It would be a bad time to make enemies.”
His eyes were flat and cold. Had she goaded him too much? She forced herself not to retreat, but she gripped the phone in her pocket, heart beating wildly. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Petrakis?”
He held the hard stare for a moment longer, then his face morphed into an easygoing smile. “Nah, of course not. I’m not that kinda guy. Sorry if I came on too strong. It set me back a pace, all those personal questions. I’m not used to interrogation, especially by someone I just met.” He shrugged, smile still in place. “Anyway, I guess I’d better go.” He picked his way along the overgrown flagstones that led to the side gate.
He wasn’t sorry, and he knew for certain that he’d scared her. Her fear at his subtle threat turned into a hard kernel of anger. “Mr. Petrakis?”
He stopped and turned. “Call me Sonny.”
“All right, Sonny. Mind if I ask what you found in Lupin’s storage unit?”
“Just my luck. Nothing but junk that that I passed off to the flea market: fly swatters, an old gumball machine with the red paint half-rusted off, clay pots, a cash register with a stuck drawer that held a whopping seventy cents, three toilet plungers, and such. What did anyone need with three plungers? I probably won’t even make my money back. I had to look at everything in private, so as to keep the gawkers away. Sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t find anything valuable.” He gave her a paintbrush salute. “Anyway, gotta run. Nice to have met you, Trinidad.”
The gate squealed closed behind him. She gave him a head start. Sonny Petrakis was not a man she intended to be alone with ever again. There was something hard and opportunistic about him, yet, to be fair, he had done nothing illegal, just like he said. And she had asked nosy questions. When she heard his engine start up and his truck rumble away, she and Noodles headed around the side. Reaching for the garage door handle, she found it locked. So, Sonny did not want anyone else poking around in Lupin’s belongings. She’d have to get the ice cream maker another time. On a whim, she peeked through the dirty rectangular window. She scanned the cluttered space, the boxes marked for donation, the bulletin board.
One thing was missing: the old books perched on the top of the donation box. If Sonny was certain there was no treasure, why was he taking the Collector’s Treasure Trove series? And why lie and say it was a box of his paint? The seconds ticked by, and she had no answer as she returned to the Pinto.
It came to her on the way home. The boxes marked S were being diverted to Sonny by Candy Simon. Perhaps it was all very innocent. Lupin’s family didn’t want to deal with sorting through the contents, as with the ice cream machine, so Candy was left to dispose of things as she saw fit.
But what if Candy was sending Sonny items so he could look through anything promising that might lead him to the valuable item Lupin had been searching for? How much did Candy divulge to Lupin’s Michigan family about what she was distributing?
If Candy and Sonny were searching for something, they had not found it—not yet, anyway. A thought sizzled through her mind.
Nothing but junk that went to the flea market, Sonny had said. Why did so many details bring her back around to the flea market?
Lupin’s “junk” wound up there.
Kevin had made a purchase there before he was murdered. The boxes from the flea market were piled behind his store. And she’d had the strangest sense somebody had been out there when she discovered Kevin’s body. Could they have been searching through those boxes?
Was it possible that whatever Lupin had been looking for and Kevin’s murder were connected? And, further, could the flea market hold the answer? Trinidad tootled along the quiet streets of Sprocket, her thoughts anything but quiet.
As she drove by the Vintage Theater, she noticed the front doors were propped open. She remembered she had to ask Warren about the crumpled flyer she’d found on that horrible day at Popcorn Palace. Maybe it would be better to talk to the theater manager instead, since Warren’s credibility might be in question.
“No time like the present,” she told Noodles as they hopped from the car. The dog sat on the shady front step to wait. Inside, the scent of mildew and the faint odor of spray paint hit her nose. The lobby was like something steeped in yesteryear, from the ornate wooden ticket counter to the ceiling covered in fancy wooden tiles. A yellow penny candy machine added to the vintage feel. Feet muffled by the thick carpet, she pushed through a heavy curtain. The interior was dark with velveted seats that had seen better days and a sprawling stage crowded with a backdrop painted to look like some sort of old meeting hall. It was warm, beyond warm, which probably explained the open front doors. Perspiration beaded her forehead.
Warren was deep in conversation with Cora, the theater manager Trinidad had met outside of Juliette’s house. It was hard to tell Cora’s age, but Trinidad guessed her to be somewhere in her early sixties. Her face shone milk-white against the dark fabric of her T-shirt, giving her head a strange, disembodied look. Trinidad suspected her dangly, beaded earrings were handcrafted like her fringed T-shirt had been.
“Those dishes are perfectly satisfactory,” Cora snapped. “I just finished spray-painting them to look like rustic pottery. I even stamped them with a stripe around the edge for effect. They’re fine.”
Warren lifted his palms in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Cora. This is his bailiwick.” He pointed to Vince Jr., whom Trinidad had not seen in the gloom.
Vince fisted his hands on his hips. “You asked me to consult on the authenticity of your props, didn’t you? Those plates are way too embellished for the time period. The colonials would have plain redware or stoneware.”
“Vince,” Cora almost shrieked. “Who do you think we’re performing this for? Antiques Roadshow? No one gives a Fig Newton about your fancy history facts. In act three, Ben Franklin is on stage eating from a plate that no one will even notice, so you can take your fancy history knowledge and file it under u for useless.”
Harsh, Trinidad thought.
Vince stiffened. “But you asked me…”
“I did not solicit advice. I asked you for pizza, which you delivered, thank you very much. It was Warren here who butted in and inquired what you thought of the props.” She fired an invisible laser beam at Warren, who seemed to shrink under the intensity.
“I, uh…well, I figured he could give us his two cents. Kid needs a job since his boss is in the slammer.”
“He can keep his two cents,” Cora snapped.
“And I don’t need charity,” Vince said hotly.
“Fine, since I wasn’t offering any,” Cora returned. “There’s only one paid position in this cozy theater family, and that’s mine. Everyone else is strictly volunteer, as I keep trying to tell Warren here.”
“Well, we sure don’t hang around here for the pay,” Warren sniped.
“Come again?” Cora said. “If you have a complaint, man up, and let’s hear it.”
At that moment, Trinidad’s phone began to buzz with a call. All three of them swiveled to see her. Hastily she silenced the phone. “I’m sorry.” The look Cora gave her would have withered even a silk plant.
“There are absolutely NO cell phones allowed in this theater,” she said.
“I apologize. I thought I’d silenced it. I usually have it on vibrate, but I must have forgotten.”
“No. Cell. Phones. Silenced or otherwise. Didn’t you see the box?”
Trinidad knew her cheeks were on fire. “Uh, no.”
“No one ever notices that box,” Warren said. He offered Trinidad a sympathetic look and pointed to a cardboard carton with “Deposit Cell Phones Here” stenciled in marker on the sid
e.
“I didn’t see it there.”
Vince offered her a “better you than me” look.
Cora shook her head. “I prepped something fancier, but it hasn’t had time to dry.” She muttered as she strode up onto the stage. “Maybe a three-ton safe would be better. No one would miss that, would they?”
Warren laughed. “Good one. Cora’s a real do-it-yourselfer. Loves her art projects. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t get hold of that three-ton safe and paint the Taj Mahal on the side or something.”
“If this meeting is over, I have work to finish.” Cora marched up the stage steps and disappeared behind a swish of the ornate curtain.
Trinidad sighed. “I’m sorry to have made her angry.”
“You didn’t make her angry,” Warren said. “She was born that way. Got the disposition of an irate hornet, which explains why she was the perfect personality to work for the IRS in her younger days. Can’t argue with the fact that she’s a wiz of a theater manager, though. Do you want to audition for a part or something?”
Trinidad alternately gulped and shook her head. “Oh no. Not me. I’m not actress material.”
“Shame. Not sure if our leading lady is going to feel up to performing since she lost her beau.”
“Tanya won’t be lonely long. She has plenty of admirers,” Vince said, frowning.
“Besides Kevin?” Trinidad felt embarrassed asking.
“Sonny might step up again and take a swing. Tanya does love her working-class men,” Warren said.
Vince shrugged. “Sorry, I have to get to my class.” He scooted across a row of seats to retrieve his stack of books and scurried out.
Warren seemed in no hurry to leave. “Do you know Sonny?” he asked.
“Yes. We just met at Lupin’s house.”
“He and Kevin and Tanya went to high school together. He did some work for her. Now that Kevin’s out of the way…”
“Does Tanya still have feelings for Sonny?”
Warren shrugged. “Probably not. Not to be crass, but Tanya’s a wealthy woman, so she gets her share of attention. I work at her place, and it’s chock-full of expensive goodies, artwork and such, fancy cars in the garage. Sonny could do worse than making a match with her. He was probably pretty annoyed when she dumped him and returned to Kevin.”
Annoyed enough to kill? “Warren, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Fire away.”
“The flyers you had printed for the show.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Cora’s still on my back because of that typo on the last bunch. It cost us a hundred bucks to reprint.”
“I’m not talking about the typo. When I met you there in front of Kevin’s place the day he was killed, you said you’d just gotten them from the printers.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I found one flying around loose. I stepped on it after—I mean—after I found Kevin’s body. It had a staple at the top.”
“Huh. That must have been the proof stapled on the outside of the box.” Warren’s eyes shifted in thought. “That’s weird.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Did you open up the rear of the van for any reason when it might have flown out?”
“No. Loaded up at the printers and drove back to Sprocket where I found you while I was having a snack and waiting for the engine to cool down. I got back in the van after we chatted and stayed there until you screamed, and then I bolted out to help you.” He blinked. “I didn’t open the back, so I have no idea how the flyer blew out.”
“What was in the back besides the flyers?”
He looked chagrined. “A big mess, according to Cora. She tells me I am a slob of the grandest order. I guess she’s right, judging by the way the rear of the van looks.” He tapped his chin in thought. “So what was back there? The flyers, of course, some old theater junk. Spray paint, plastic gloves, maybe a soda can or two, and quite possibly an empty pizza box. Some cardboard. That kind of stuff.”
“Is it conceivable someone stole an item from your van?”
“Don’t see why they would.”
They stewed on that for a while until she made her excuses and left. Warren followed her outside.
“I dunno how that flyer got out of my van, but it doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, Kevin, poor gent, was dead before either one of us showed up. And…” he shrugged, “not to offend, but it seems like Chief Bigley’s got your friend Juliette for the crime. Evidence doesn’t lie.”
“She didn’t do it.”
Warren offered that genial grin again. “Like I said, evidence doesn’t lie.”
His tone didn’t quite match his friendly smile.
Evidence doesn’t lie, she thought, but plenty of people do.
Her mind fixed on a detail, plastic gloves. Warren had them in the van. He could have slid a pair on, killed Kevin, and driven around again pretending to have just arrived. No fingerprints left on the murder weapon. It would explain how the flyer might have gotten loose as well.
She still had zero proof and plenty of speculation. As she left the confines of the dark theater, the chill seemed to linger inside her.
Murder was a cold business indeed.
Chapter Nine
As usual, the Shimmy and Shake Shop provided the perfect distraction. Sunday morning dawned hot and bright as she started the next round of preparations. More key lime ice cream was underway with the substituted regular-sized limes standing in for their smaller counterparts. The graham crackers added halfway through the churning process would break down and soften to a wonderful creamy consistency, the perfect sweet compliment to the sharpness of the lime.
Worry about the open house preparations hovered just under the surface as she stared into the walk-in freezer. She could haul the ice cream to Lupin’s house in coolers, but how would she efficiently retrieve and scoop the stuff without everything melting into a colorful goo?
“Are you looking for answers in there?”
She screamed and whirled to see Quinn and Doug standing behind the front counter.
“Sorry,” Quinn said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. The door was open, so we thought we’d pop in. You okay?”
She pressed a hand to her thumping heart. “Yes, just trying to figure out how to avoid a total meltdown.” She told him about her plans for Candy Simon’s open house.
He laughed. “I’m not surprised that she found a bargain that didn’t cost her anything. She can pinch a penny until it screams. Vince Jr. told me one time she gave him a pencil as a tip for a pizza delivery, said it would help with his studies.”
“Oh, gee. Tightfisted?”
“More like a tightwad.” He cocked his head. “I have an idea about how to help with the open house. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll call you. It’s a wacky thought, though.”
“I welcome any and all help, wacky or otherwise. I’m having trouble keeping my mind on my business responsibilities with Juliette locked away in jail.” Her throat tightened on the last word.
“Yeah,” he said darkly. “Seems like plenty of people have decided she’s guilty as charged. I heard a couple talking about canceling their storage agreements and pulling their stuff out of Store Some More.”
Trinidad groaned. Could things get worse for her friend?
“Anyway, I gotta get Doug back to the farm. After he’s been ‘peopling’ for a while, he needs some quiet time. I’ll catch you later.”
She said goodbye and began to wash up.
She considered her interaction with Sonny Petrakis again at Lupin’s house. Could love gone wrong be the motive for murder, rather than greed or power? Tanya toyed with Sonny, used him. Was it enough to spark him to murder his rival? Relationships ended all the time, and people didn’t commit murder. That said, she remembered recording a trial where the defendant was accus
ed of killing a fellow businessman over a parking place. Tempers got the best of people all the time.
The loose flyer nagged at her, too. Someone had opened the van doors long enough for the paper to have flown out. Warren? Or someone else? And did they put something in? Or take something out? Stress made her muscles go rigid, and a headache began to build behind her temples.
She had a sudden longing to go home to Miami and sit in her family’s sunny kitchen and bask in the presence of her mother, Yolo, and Papa Luis, but she couldn’t face going back. Papa Luis called regularly to implore her to come home, but she knew he intended to fix her up with the grandson of his longtime Cuban compatriot, Gus. Gus’s grandson Len was a fishmonger, a health food devotee who loved ballroom dancing and mountain biking. She did not think they’d have much in common. Now was not the time to go running home for a meet and greet.
It was the time, however, to head to the flea market before she started up another batch of ice cream. She wanted to know if anyone had shown particular interest in the boxes left over from the sale of Lupin’s storage unit. Maybe a customer had returned a few times to prowl through the items? With some luck, she might also score some cheap coolers for the open house. Noodles was sound asleep after his satisfying tummy rub and showing no further signs of strain, so she figured it would be okay to leave him safely secured in the air-conditioned store.
The drive took only about twenty-five minutes. The flea market was located in a defunct airstrip. The old building that stood sentry over the rows of tables and pop-up tents was an ugly concrete box with a traffic-control tower sprouting out of the top. Inside the lower level, she found a man watching a baseball game on an ancient TV, his feet propped up on a peach crate. His bushy beard hung down to his clavicles.
“Help you?”
“I’m looking for what’s left over from Edward Lupin’s storage unit. Where would I find that?”
He pursed his lips. “That junk?”
“Yes.”
“Talk to Donald, over there on the southeast corner. He consigns for people who don’t have their own booths and takes his cut, of course. Say, aren’t you the new ice cream lady?”
