by Becky Clark
“I loved that show! They were so kickass, and yet those stupid men never gave them the props they deserved.” Loma tsk-tsked.
“I watched every episode that summer, that’s all I did. Then I went back and organized and color-coded them as to season and episode, numbering them from one to one hundred on a complicated scale where I analyzed believability of crime, cuteness of guest stars, and whether I solved the crime before the second set of commercials.” Suddenly embarrassed, Quinn quit talking and turned away from Loma. She lined up the markers at the top of the butcher paper in the order she’d used them.
Loma lightly touched her back. “How is your OCD?” she asked quietly.
Quinn whirled around. “How did you—”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious right now and the way you checked the lock so many times, but Jake told me when he was thinking about hiring you. And the other day, he told me he was worried about you with everything going on.”
“You two talk about me?” Quinn blushed.
Loma shrugged. “We talk all the time. How do you think I knew about those chocolate strawberries? You’d think by looking at me that sniffing out chocolate was my superpower. But really, Jake called and invited me over. After all, it was my alimony day too.”
“But…”
“Ain’t no big deal.”
Quinn didn’t know if she meant the OCD or the fact she and Jake talked all the time. Either way, Quinn was shocked. Jake was worried about her? He didn’t act like it. Just like he didn’t act like he was besties with Loma.
Loma saw the look on Quinn’s face and laughed. “Girl, you look like I just ate an iguana, tail first.”
“But the way you two talked that day. I thought you hated each other.”
Loma waved her hand as if shooing away a pesky gnat. “It’s all an act. He worries, but doesn’t like to show it. I have diabetes, which is why he was so mad at me when I wanted to eat those scrumptious-looking chocolates. Didn’t you see how he kept trying to hand me that bowl of fruit? This rubber band was his idea.” She snapped it twice. “He figured when I get tempted by sweets I could snap myself out of it. It’s terrible when I come here.”
Quinn remembered all the snapping going on when Loma was in the diner that day. “If he didn’t want you to eat those chocolate strawberries, why’d he make them, then call you to come over?”
“He’s an enigma.” Loma laughed. “Why does Jake do anything?”
Like hire someone with OCD, Quinn thought. Or not tell anyone he was being blackmailed.
“And why aren’t you snapping now? You’re in the diner.”
Loma waved her arm around. “Do you see anything to tempt me? No pies out. No Danish. Barely any food at all, from what I hear.”
Quinn glanced around the diner. She wasn’t wrong. “Be right back,” she told Loma. When she returned, she was wearing a rubber band on each wrist.
Loma shook her head. “Won’t work. You’re just gonna substitute it for that finger thing you do and organizing and color-coding everything.”
Quinn felt naked, on display in front of Loma, who’d seen everything.
“Ain’t no better than a Band-Aid,” Loma continued. “If it worked, would I still be sixty pounds overweight and this close”—she held her thumb and her first finger two millimeters apart—“to needing insulin?”
Quinn didn’t respond, but kept both rubber bands on. If counting, organizing, and her finger thing hadn’t yet worked to keep her anxiety at bay, maybe this would.
They spent the next two hours discussing each suspect, sharing information, formulating theories, nit-picking every fact, arguing about Jake’s possible involvement. Things began to get heated when they discussed Jake, so they agreed to table that conversation until they had more facts. But neither knew how they were going to get more facts.
Plus, despite the fact she was beginning to like Loma quite a bit, something still nagged at her. Maybe sleep would help.
Chapter 13
Though Quinn couldn’t sleep, she spent the night in bed running over everything she and Loma had talked about. Loma was so convinced of Jake’s innocence that Quinn decided to set aside her feelings about it for now.
She wondered if reading would help her relax. Even though tomorrow was Saturday and Chris and Kristi would handle the diner, another sleepless night would be bad for her health, mental and otherwise. She clicked on her lamp and picked up a magazine from her nightstand. Flipping through the pages, she stopped at a long profile piece about a Silicon Valley wunderkind. It came complete with a full-page photo of him in his office, a mischievous grin pulling the corners of his mouth. If it was a different kind of magazine, she’d expect to read about how much he liked long walks on the beach, candlelight dinners, and smart, playful women who love to travel.
Quinn dropped the magazine. Didn’t Jake tell her about some interview he and Emmett had done that caused bad blood between them? She searched their names online and found it exactly like Jake said, more about him than Emmett. No wonder it hadn’t come up when Quinn had searched for information about Emmett. Jake was quoted extensively and there were two photos of Jake—one in his chef garb in a kitchen, and one where he was sitting on the arm of a couch, a mischievous grin pulling the corners of his mouth, just like the guy in the other article. It must be the pose du jour for business profiles.
Nothing she read was earth-shattering or gave her any new information, but she read it through again, then took a chance that the reporter might remember any of this. Maybe even give her more information, but of what she wasn’t certain.
Quinn clicked on the byline “Patti Rich” and emailed her. She explained that she was curious about the article and linked to it so Patti would know what she was referring to. It had been some years ago, after all.
Just a couple of minutes after Quinn pressed send on the email, a reply popped up. I remember that article and interview. What do you want to know? I’m available to talk now if you want to call.
Quinn dialed the number she gave. “Hi, Patti. I’m surprised you want to talk since it’s so late.”
“I’m waiting outside a bar, probably until closing. There’s a guy I need to ambush.”
“With questions, I hope.”
Patti laughed. “Yes, just questions. So what did you want to know about Jake Szabo?”
“I’m not really sure. I work for him and he told me about this interview. And now with Emmett Dubois dead—”
“I heard about that. How terrible! Now I feel bad I didn’t highlight him more in the article.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Honestly? I found Jake so much more charming and interesting than Emmett. Put them in a room together and see who the crowd gravitates toward. It won’t be Emmett.” Patti paused. “I guess that can’t happen now. Poor Emmett.” Patti confirmed everything Quinn had already been told about Emmett and Jake, but then added, “Jake spun out of control after his firing, drinking too much, confronting anyone he thought might be involved in his firing, and he stalked Emmett. No other way to say it. Followed him around town, waiting for him to come out of his apartment.”
“And nobody called the cops?”
“Not that I know. I think everyone felt as bad as Jake did, so they just let him rage. Plus, like I said, everybody liked Jake and nobody really understood why Emmett fired him. There were stories about embezzlement and something about an affair, as I recall, but nothing really made sense. All just gossip. Just like some supposed silent partner I could never track down.”
They chatted a bit more until Patti interrupted herself. “Gotta go—there’s my guy,” and disconnected.
Quinn puzzled over why nobody had mentioned Jake’s meltdown before this. Was it true or was it the product of a reporter’s faulty memory? Surely Patti Rich had written a million words since she’d written that article. She couldn’t possib
ly keep all those facts straight, but she sounded very confident. Maybe it was a reporter’s skill.
If it was true, that everyone felt bad about Jake’s firing and they all knew he was a better chef than Emmett, Quinn felt even more confident that there was never any reason for Jake to murder Emmett. Jake told her he had received lots of offers from big-deal restaurants over the years, but turned them all down. He liked his diner in Chestnut Station. He could do any menu he wanted, as long as cheeseburgers, BLTs, green chili, and some kind of pie was always on it to satisfy the palate of his regulars. He was able to do a turn at the many hipster pop-up restaurants in Denver whenever he felt like it, and the cost of living was low enough that he didn’t have to worry excessively about money. Until now, that is.
The more she thought about it, the more Jake’s original assessment of the blackmail notes made sense. If it was Emmett sending the notes, he clearly wanted closure. He was either feeling guilty for treating Jake the way he did, or he truly felt he deserved an apology from Jake.
If Emmett hadn’t sent the notes himself, it wasn’t a stretch to think that someone close to Emmett who knew about all the bad blood between him and Jake could use that information to pretend to be Emmett and set up Jake for his murder.
At about two in the morning, Quinn decided that Margosha was her main suspect. She had to be involved, probably for the life insurance or some other financial gain. After all, Emmett had owned very high-end restaurants. Surely they hadn’t all failed and left him with nothing, despite what Kelli had told her at the Crazy Mule.
Even though it was late, she texted Rico, knowing that he’d answer and that he’d tell her the truth. Are you looking in to Margosha? Is she a suspect?
Don’t you ever sleep?
Is she?
She’s not a suspect.
Why?
Because she’s not. Go to sleep.
Do you know who the silent partner in Emmett’s business was?
No. Go to sleep.
Are you sure it’s not Margosha?
Go. To. Sleep.
She turned her pillow to the cool side, then settled into it. Was Chief Chestnut tying Rico’s hands somehow, or was Rico learning to tell well-placed fibs? If so, did he really have to learn it right now? Everyone knew that to survive this world, both personally and professionally, one had to fib.
When her dad schmoozed clients, he took them out to restaurants that were more expensive than he could truly afford, just to impress them. That was a fib.
When the Retireds complained about the coffee being stale, didn’t Jake just take their mugs and refill them with coffee from the same pot? They were none the wiser and everybody ended up happy. That was a fib too.
When Abe the handyman winked at her while telling Georgeanne that it would take him until Friday to paint the kitchen that time, only to finish on Wednesday, he was fibbing. He’d told Quinn so himself. “Just good business,” he’d said. “Promise them something they can live with, then deliver sooner. Why do you think I get so many glowing referrals?”
Abe got referrals because he was skilled at his job. Just like Dad and Jake.
And Rico.
But maybe, despite the fact Rico was a good cop, maybe he got his head turned by Margosha’s extreme beauty. Gorgeous women had that effect on men. “If she’s so innocent, why won’t she talk to me?” Quinn angrily punched her pillow and turned it over again, knowing that Margosha had absolutely no reason or duty to speak to her about anything.
Quinn flounced on to her back and interlaced her fingers behind her head. Was Margosha Emmett’s beneficiary? Quinn picked up her phone and texted that very question to Rico. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t asked him that already. She stared at her phone: one minute, two minutes. Loma told her that Margosha and Emmett didn’t have any children. Five minutes, ten minutes. No answer. He must have turned off his phone for the night.
But if not Margosha, then who?
It seemed all of her theories so far had yielded nothing; been wrong, wrong, wrong.
Quinn sat bolt upright in bed. Wrong. When she was talking to Jake’s headhunter he’d said “Wrong” and so had the murder mystery guy. It bothered her both times because it was a weirdly antagonistic thing to say. Narcissistic, perhaps. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Jake’s headhunter was the murder mystery guy!
She scrambled for her phone and texted Rico again. Jake’s headhunter is the guy from the diner who was with Emmett that night. He works for Colorado Premium Employment. I don’t have the number here because I called from Jake’s call history at the diner.
She hoped Rico would call her back, despite the fact he hadn’t answered her earlier text.
Typing Colorado Premium Employment into an internet search would show the phone number and she could pass that along to Rico. She stared at her phone. No results. Did you mean Colorado Prestige Employment? the internet asked. Quinn was sure it was Premium. She typed it again, slower and more carefully this time. Same thing. How was that possible? She squeezed her eyes tight to better access the memory of Jake’s call history. She saw it very clearly in her mind: Colorado Premium Employment. His name was Sam. She thought he had indigestion. He called Chestnut Station a wasteland. It was Premium.
She texted Rico again.
* * * *
Rico had just fallen back to sleep when another text woke him. He groaned, fumbling for his phone, hoping it wasn’t Donnie needing him at the station. Quinn again. He read the text, a solid block of disjointed facts he couldn’t understand. He stared at his phone but didn’t respond to her, suddenly very concerned she was heading directly into an OCD spiral. Maybe she was in it already.
He’d done some internet research about OCD when he found out about her diagnosis, but not much and not in any great depth. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to know about OCD, but because he was afraid if he knew too much it would color his thinking about her. He wanted their friendship to stay strong. It wasn’t until a couple of days after their so-called date that he realized she’d been right. That could have been a complete friendship-ruiner.
But now he wondered if telling her she could help with his investigations wasn’t just as potentially dangerous to their friendship as it was to her.
Texting him questions and unfocused notions in the middle of the night couldn’t be healthy.
No matter how much he wanted her to pursue a law enforcement career, it wasn’t his decision. He shouldn’t push her and he shouldn’t let her involve herself in his investigations.
A job in law enforcement might not even be possible for her anymore.
Rico placed his phone back on his nightstand without answering her.
* * * *
Quinn must have fallen asleep because she’d forgotten to lower the volume on her phone and the sound of a new text landing in her inbox launched her out of bed. “Serves me right,” she grumbled as she hoisted herself up off the rag rug on her floor. She picked up her phone to see what Rico had to say. But it was just a text from her cellphone provider advising her she was now eligible to upgrade to a new phone. No thank you.
She called Rico and he answered with a grunt.
“I know it’s early, but you didn’t answer my texts last night.”
“Because I was sleeping. Like you should have been.”
“I was too excited to sleep. Didn’t you see what I sent? The guy in the diner is Jake’s headhunter! They both said Wrong to me in a really weird way.”
“So you say. Did you know there’s no business called Colorado Premium Employment?”
“Well, there’s none listed on the internet. But it exists. I called it from Jake’s office phone and talked to the guy the other day. He gave me some snooty attitude, so it’s probably one of those word-of-mouth-only places. But it exists, Rico, it exists. You can call him yourself. Go into Jake’s office and hit the call h
istory button. You’ll have to scroll, but it’s right there under Colorado Premium Employment. Oh—or maybe look in Jake’s Rolodex. Maybe he has a card in there. Then go over there and arrest him.”
“Go over where, Quinn? Do you have an address?”
“No, but—”
“Do you know this guy’s name?”
“I told you in my text. It’s Sam.”
“Sam what?”
Rico had steadily dropped his voice and Quinn realized he was trying to placate her.
“Rico, I am not some toddler who missed her nap! I have figured out something important in our case and I’m sharing it with you so you can do your police thing and catch this murderer!”
There was a long pause, then Rico said softly, “It’s not our case, Quinn. It’s my case.” After another pause he added, “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? We can talk more later.”
* * * *
At a more reasonable hour, after she’d had a heart-to-heart with Fang, taken a long shower, and calmed down from her conversation with Rico, Quinn texted Loma for Margosha’s address. Just because Rico wasn’t going to investigate didn’t mean she wouldn’t.
Before she headed to Denver, Quinn swung by the jail. She hoped Rico would be there so she could give him a piece of her mind, but he wasn’t. She’d been so stunned by what he’d said it had rendered her speechless. He’d finally simply hung up. She felt like everything she wanted to say to him was going to choke her if she didn’t get to speak her mind.
Donnie unlocked the door to the lockup and waved her through.
When Jake sat up on the side of the bed, he looked like she’d awakened him. She knew from experience that sleeping too much was a sign of depression. Or was it just a sign of Jake’s boredom? Or the fact it probably was the crack of early for people who actually slept normally.
“Tell me about your headhunter, Sam at Colorado Premium Employment.”
Jake yawned and rubbed his face. “What do you want to know?”
