by Dana Mentink
“And maybe she came back later to convince him and things got out of hand and she clobbered him.”
“No prints, though,” Quinn said.
Trinidad frowned. “Could be she grabbed up a towel or something.”
“That speaks more to premeditation,” Stan said.
Quinn rubbed his forehead. “I guess you’re right. So where does that leave us?”
The clatter of dog toenails announced that Noodles and Papa Luis had returned. Noodles bounded in and nosed Trinidad in the thigh. She stroked his ears and kissed the top of his head.
Papa arched an eyebrow as he took in the gathering, his arms filled with grocery bags.
“Are you ready to become the house chef?” Trinidad said, hoping Papa would not realize something terrifying had just occurred.
“It’s for the cookout.”
“What cookout?”
“The Fourth of July cookout.”
She blinked. “Whose?”
“Ours, of course.”
“Ours?” She watched him slide a pork roast into the cramped refrigerator and lay a package of dry beans and a bulging sack of rice onto the counter. “Oh, Papa. Are you…I mean…are you planning to have a party? Here?”
“Sure,” he said. “Where else?”
No surprise. She should have anticipated it. Papa needed no excuse to organize a party. Once he’d had a “Monday party” just because he could think of no other reason to gather. The Fourth of July would not disappear into obscurity without a soiree as big as Papa could make it. “But it’s too small here,” she said.
“Oh, pooh. Always room for friends. We can sit outside. Make a bonfire and watch the fireworks.” He beamed at Quinn, Doug, and Stan. “You’ll all come, of course?”
All heads nodded. “But we might need to leave before the fireworks,” Quinn said uneasily.
Doug looked at Noodles.
“And Noodles certainly isn’t a fan, either.” Trinidad stroked his graying muzzle.
“Maybe we all will be having so much fun you won’t even notice the fireworks.” Papa continued to unload the food.
Quinn’s expression was doubtful.
“Papa, how many other people did you invite?”
“Everyone,” he said simply.
She passed a hand across her eyes. “Oh, dear.”
“I think I’d better bake more lemon squares,” Stan said with a smile.
“And I’ll bring over some folding chairs,” Quinn added. “Do you need hot dogs or buns?”
Papa looked mortified. “Not hot dogs. Pork roast, beans and rice, tostones. No one can live on hot dogs.” Papa yawned and stretched before settling at the table. “So,” he said. “I passed a police car on the way here. What did I miss?”
“You’re not going to believe it,” Trinidad said.
“Hold on, then,” Papa said. “I will fix myself some coffee and settle in for the report.”
She knew how he would respond when she got to the end. He’d insist she move home to Miami.
Her body rippled in goose bumps as she recalled the vicious kick to the door, the rattling handle, the desperation of the intruder to attempt a break-in before dark.
If anything else happened, she just might start to come around to Papa’s way of thinking. Miami was beginning to sound like paradise.
***
Wednesday morning arrived, and Trinidad couldn’t believe how the time had flown. A mere six weeks before she’d landed in this outwardly sleepy hamlet. The next phase of her life would start in earnest the following day when her shake shop launched into the world. She was alternately thrilled and petrified. It was definitely a better way to occupy her mind than replaying what had happened at the tiny house the previous night. If the door had failed… If she hadn’t been able to call the police… With a concerted effort, she pushed the anxiety away and got back to work.
By midmorning, during her return from her second trip to the grocery, this time to replace the bag of sugar she’d spilled all over the floor, she saw Cora walking up the steps to the Vintage Theater, peering at something under the eaves.
Trinidad stopped. Nosiness, she’d learned, was a key quality in sniffing out the facts people would like to keep buried. It worked for Miss Marple and Jessica Fletcher, after all. Of course, those two characters never went anywhere without being followed by a trail of carnage. Trinidad plastered on a smile. Cora eyed her approach.
“This is your fault,” Cora said.
Trinidad faltered. “Uh, what is?”
“That I’ve had to change the locks and put up these motion detector lights.” Cora rolled her eyes. “Everyone in town thinks there’s the Irish crown jewels hidden in my theater.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm.
“I wasn’t the only one who bought into the candy machine theory.”
“But Warren is a nut. I would have thought better of you.”
She wasn’t sure whether to be offended or amused. “Kevin was killed for something he got at the flea market. You regularly purchase items from the flea market, right? You and Warren?”
“Yes,” she conceded. “I like to do crafts. It’s a cheap way to get supplies for my hobby. Warren’s problem is he can’t stand having money in his pocket. If there’s something with a price tag in front of him, he has to buy it. I should know. He was my husband, once upon a time.”
Trinidad pulled in a breath. “I didn’t know you and Warren were married.”
“That’s a surprise to you? I would have thought the gossips would have filled you in the moment you hit town.” Her expression turned sly. “We heard all about you and the other two exes before you even arrived. The Bigley babes. You could start a club.”
Trinidad knew her face must be a fiery shade of strawberry, but she kept her voice level. Fletcher and Marple must have had to deal with a bit of mortification from time to time as well. “Well, yes, it did surprise me. I mean, most exes don’t stay so closely connected.”
Cora sighed. “We were married for ten years, divorced for nearly that long now. Warren was different back then. I thought he had more of a spine. That’s important. I need to have someone strong enough to stand up to me, and I thought he was that way, at first.” Trinidad saw what looked like honest grief soften Cora’s sharp features. “He’s addicted to gambling, and he can’t beat it—or he won’t.” She shook her head. “The annoying thing is he’s a good man, a wonderful man, except for that ugly part of him.”
The chief’s words about Gabe came back to her. People can be many things.
“That ugly part…” Cora sighed. “It’s a monster that he has to feed by any means necessary, so he’ll lie and cheat if he has to.” She shook her head. “It’s not a good feeling to be in that kind of a relationship, you know, with someone you can’t trust.”
She did. Intimately. But living so close together? How could Cora stand it? The woman was made of tough stuff indeed. “I do know how you feel.”
Cora slid a look at her. “Yeah, I guess you would, being a Bigley babe.”
“An ex–Bigley babe. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” She chewed her lip. “Warren’s gotten himself involved with some dangerous men in the past, men who insist he repay his debts. I worry what will happen one day when he can’t.”
“Did Kevin loan him money to pay them?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, but Warren wouldn’t have hurt Kevin, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Not even to feed the monster? She debated whether to press, but time was growing short for Juliette. “The day I found Kevin, there was a flyer from Warren’s van caught under my tires, but he said he hadn’t opened the back doors.”
Frown lines grooved her forehead, and she toyed with her beaded necklace. “Are you saying he was lying about it?”
“Not necessarily. Some
one else might have opened the doors, hidden inside, maybe, or stashed something there. Did you look in the van after Warren returned to the theater that afternoon?”
“Yes, eventually. It was a colossal mess, as usual, and I threw a fit, demanded he clean it out. He moved the boxes of flyers into the storage room along with other stuff. I helped for a few minutes, but I had to take a phone call, so I didn’t see it all. Warren dumps everything he can’t find a place for in that storage room, so it’s a mess.”
“What other stuff came from the van to the storage room? Do you recall?”
She shrugged. “Cleaning supplies, bags of old props, miscellaneous office supplies. Really, I’m not sure what he brought in that day, and neither is he. Like I said, the storage room is a catastrophe.”
Here goes nothing, she thought. “Can I get a look in there?”
Something between concern and curiosity crossed her face. “No, I don’t think there’s anything worth spit in that room, and I’d rather let this inane treasure business die of its own accord.”
“But, Cora,” she said softly, “do you think Warren will ever stop searching for Lupin’s valuables?”
The seconds ticked by until she shook her head. “No.”
“One look. Fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t see how it will put an end to the rumors.”
“If we find something it will. Let me look. Please.” She hesitated. “Kevin was killed for something that might be in your storage room right now.”
“Not likely. We are in and out of there all the time. I’m telling you, there’s nothing.”
“Maybe you just didn’t recognize it.”
Cora huffed out a breath. “Okay. Let’s get it over with.”
Trinidad swallowed. “And just to keep myself out of further trouble, I’m going to call Chief Bigley to supervise.”
Cora waved a hand. “Whatever, just tell her not to make a big spectacle of herself. I don’t want every harebrained thrill seeker in Sprocket showing up thinking we’ve found Montezuma’s Treasure or something.”
The chief arrived in a jogging suit and athletic shoes ten minutes after Trinidad called. “You’ve messed up my run again, Trinidad,” she said as Cora ushered her through the door into the theater lobby.
“Sorry, but I figured you didn’t want me poking around on my own.”
“Truth,” the chief said.
“Have you discovered anything on the tape?” she said quietly so Cora wouldn’t overhear.
“I’ve got Officer Oliver going through it frame by frame. He should have a report any time now. Before I came here, I dropped a copy with Stan, so you can look to your heart’s content.”
“A copy of what?” Cora asked before she waved off the question. “Never mind, I don’t really care.” She led the way down a narrow hall to a door on the end.
“Has it been unlocked all this time?” Chief Bigley asked.
“Yes.” Cora was indignant. “What is someone going to steal? A mop? A bottle of floor cleaner?” She flipped a switch, and a weak bulb buzzed to life. The cramped room had a metal shelving unit on one wall. Each shelf was stuffed to the brim with old flyers, plastic containers labeled “wigs,” “shoes,” “etc.,” and a tangle of what looked to be silk flowers.
The other side of the room housed a beat-up desk piled high with papers, a crooked fake palm tree, and all manner of odds and ends. Cardboard boxes were jammed under the desk.
The chief grimaced. “This is gonna take a while.” She shot a look at Trinidad. “And I’m going to do it myself so it’s methodical and by the book, just in case. Both of you will have to wait elsewhere.”
“But…” Trinidad said, deflated.
“Miss Jones, you’re turning into a pretty committed sleuth, but this is still a police investigation.” She paused. “And, besides, I think you have a shop to open tomorrow, don’t you?” The chief left no room for negotiation.
Trinidad closed her mouth. “Yes, I do. Will you promise to let me know if you find anything?”
But she had already turned her back on both of them.
“I’m going to spend the weekend with my sister,” Cora said. “It’s my last chance to get away before we open Our Founding Fathers. I’ll be in the mountains. If you make the find of the century, leave a message on my cell phone because, unlike the rest of the natural-born world, I don’t keep it on when I’m driving.” She stalked away, returning a moment later with a duffel bag. “Happy hunting.”
Chapter Nineteen
After she left, Trinidad trudged to the lobby. She tried to fend off the wave of discouragement at being shut out of the search. There was still a video that might provide more clues, and the chief was right; the hours until the Shimmy and Shake Shop opened were melting away like ice cream on a sultry summer day.
Pushing out the front door of the theater, she plowed smack into Tanya Grant. She stumbled backwards, toppling a white plaster container with ABSOLUTELY NO CELL PHONES stenciled in an angry font on the side. Trinidad lugged it back into position.
“Ouch,” Tanya said, rubbing her nose where Trinidad’s head had made contact.
“Sorry.” Trinidad tried to pull the door closed behind her, but Tanya’s dropped purse was in the way. As she bent to retrieve it, Officer Chang hustled up the front walkway with a box of rubber gloves. He held the door while Tanya retrieved her purse and nimbly stepped around her, putting himself squarely in the doorway.
She tried to pass him.
“Apologies, Ms. Grant. You can’t go in there right now.”
She blinked. “I have to pick up a script.” She pushed the door, but Chang held it fast.
“Ma’am, there is police business going on inside. I will have to ask you to leave.”
“Police business?” Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
Tanya’s expression went haughty. “If this has anything to do with that stupid treasure or Kevin’s murder, I have a right to know. My father funds this theater.”
Chang’s forehead shone with sweat, but he did not relinquish his hold on the door. “Come back later, ma’am.”
“I’m going to complain to the chief.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “At the station, there’s a stack of forms you can fill out about how we’ve annoyed you.”
Tanya stared at him. “Are you being sassy with me?”
“No, ma’am. Just informative. There’s a box of number two pencils on the counter next to the forms.”
Trinidad hid her smile. Passive aggressive sassiness. She’d have to try it some time. “Thanks, Officer.”
He nodded and closed the door, locking it from the inside.
Trinidad tried to hurry away, but Tanya caught up with her. “You know what’s going on in there, don’t you?”
“Hmm?”
“What they’re doing?”
“Ah, well, it’s a police thing. I was just…I mean, talking something over with Cora.”
“I heard about the burglary during Kevin’s memorial. This has something to do with his death.”
“Honestly, we’ve just got to wait to hear from the chief, Tanya. That’s all I can say.”
She pressed her lips together, and Trinidad was ready for an outburst. But, instead, she blinked hard, and her lower lip quivered. “He was going to be my husband, you know. We were planning to leave this town and everything in it and start over somewhere else, no matter what Daddy had to say about it.”
“You mentioned that your father wasn’t a fan of Kevin’s,” she said gently.
“My father isn’t a fan of me. Mom died when I was thirteen, and Dad, well, let’s just say he doesn’t have much instinct for parenting. He’s never liked anyone I dated, especially not Kevin. It was a good litmus test, you know?”
“How so
?”
“Kevin knew my dad would cut me off if we got married, and he loved me anyway. It wasn’t just about my money.”
So, Tanya and Kevin would really turn their back on the Grant fortune? And Kevin would leave behind Popcorn Palace and his home? Was she in denial about Kevin’s reluctance to marry her or merely lying to save face?
“I’m sorry, Tanya. I know you loved him very much.”
Tanya’s expression hardened. “I will find out what’s going on with or without your help.” She waited a beat, but Trinidad knew she had to keep the chief’s search on the down low.
After a moment more, Tanya muttered something under her breath before she stalked to her car, slamming the door so hard the window vibrated. Trinidad watched as she drove away. Tanya might raise such a ruckus that, soon, everyone would know something big was happening at the old theater.
Cora and the chief would be furious, but that was not her problem for the moment. She found her compatriots already gathered at the Shimmy and Shake Shop, Papa Luis having let Quinn, Stan, and Doug inside.
She slid in next to Quinn who sat at a posh pink table, peering at Stan’s computer and comparing it to a printed page. Doug sat next to Noodles, kneading his ears until the dog’s eyes rolled in bliss.
Papa insisted on handing around bowls of mango sorbet. “There were a few more crates delivered today, so we have plenty.”
“How many did you tell Farhan we needed?”
He shrugged. “A few. He has an accent, you know. Hard to understand him sometimes.”
Trinidad smiled. Papa always insisted that he himself had no accent whatsoever. She accepted the bowl. “Thank you.”
He stood behind Quinn. “What are we looking for?”
“That’s the problem. We don’t know,” Stan said. Eyes straining, they squinted at the video and tried to match it to the list dutifully typed up by Officer Oliver.
“There’s a baseball bat,” Quinn said, pointing with his spoon. “Could that be worth a mint?”
“Baseball is the greatest sport in the world,” Papa said. “But that list the officer typed up says this bat was made in 1975. No one good went to the world series that year, only the Red Sox and the Reds. I wouldn’t pay a nickel for that bat.”
