Puzzling Ink

by Becky Clark

  “Where’s his office?”

  “No idea. Never been there.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Never met him. Only talked to him on the phone.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  Jake cocked his head and stared into space. “I don’t think I’ve ever known it. He always just says, This is Sam from Colorado Premium Employment.”

  “Did you know his business isn’t listed anywhere on the internet?”

  “What’s all this about, Quinn?”

  “I think he’s the guy with Emmett the night he was killed.”

  Jake stood up and walked over to her, gripping the bars of the cell with both hands. “Why?”

  Quinn didn’t want to get into the whole Wrong thing, since in the daylight it was beginning to seem like a very tenuous clue. “Just some things he said to me when I talked to him.”

  “Did you tell Rico?”

  She looked at Jake’s hopeful face. How could she tell him that Rico didn’t believe her, didn’t seem willing to pursue it any further, and didn’t really want her involved in the investigation anymore? “Yeah. We’re going to talk about it more later. But I wanted to ask you something else. I talked to that reporter last night…Patti Rich. The one who wrote about you and Emmett and the restaurants.”

  Jake ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up in odd directions. “And?”

  “And she said you were a wee bit annoyed when Emmett fired you. Raged was the word she used.”

  “Yeah, so I raged.” His voice was monotone. “Said some things I probably shouldn’t have. But I got over it. I knew I was the better chef. More creative and more intuitive and had better people skills. After a few days, I realized I’d land on my feet while Emmett would always have to struggle. I didn’t want to pile on.” At Quinn’s skepticism he added, “We had history. We’d been friends for a long time before that.”

  Quinn asked, “Did you ever clear your name, set the record straight, that you were the better chef?”

  “No. Seemed like bad form, sour grapes, taking advantage when he couldn’t defend himself. People were mad. Turned against him. What good would it have done? I just moved on.”

  Quinn stared at him, wanting to believe, but just not sure.

  Jake was studying her sundress and sandals. “Are you on your way to the diner?”

  “Nope. It’s Saturday. My day off. I’m heading to Denver today. Maybe walk around the lake at City Park.” But he didn’t need to know the rest of her plans.

  She left the jail. Still no Rico. It was probably just as well. She was still too angry and, if she was being honest, hurt and embarrassed that he thought of her as a child he needed to pacify. He’d go over to Jake’s office and find that phone number, call it, talk to Sam, and figure out she was right about the whole thing.

  Quinn debated whether she actually needed to go to Denver, now that it was pretty clear Sam the headhunter was the one who killed Emmett. But she was still curious about Margosha and wanted some answers from her. Plus, it was a glorious day off and she could leave Chestnut Station for an excursion if she wanted.

  As she turned her ignition, she had a fleeting thought that maybe Rico wouldn’t go over to Jake’s office and get that phone number. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get away from his desk today. Maybe he wasn’t even going to be in Chestnut Station today.

  Quinn pulled away from the curb and headed for the diner. It was a bit too early for Chris and Kristi to get there to start prep, so she used her key and hurried to Jake’s office. It seemed to be too early for Jethro as well, which saved her the time waiting for him to make his rounds of the diner. Chris could give him his bacon payment.

  She checked Jake’s Rolodex first, but there was nothing under Sam or Colorado Premium Employment so she hit the call history button until she saw it. It was too early to call and see if she could get the address, so she entered it into her contacts.

  Then she texted Rico. In case you can’t get over to the diner today, here’s the headhunter’s #. Jake doesn’t know his name or address.

  * * * *

  “Oh, shoot.” Quinn pulled to the side of the road and dialed her phone. “Hey, Chris, I forgot to tell you that the guy never showed up to fix the credit card machine. I told him that Saturday was our busiest day and—”

  “Don’t matter to me.”

  “Okay, that’s great. I’ve just been keeping track of the cash, then dropping it in the night drop at the bank. Nobody has complained yet. If you want me to, I can swing by later and do the deposit for you.”

  “Won’t be here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we won’t be here so you can come whenever you want.”

  Quinn felt her jaw tighten. “Where will you be?”

  “Me and the missus are on our way to Boise.”

  “Boise? Idaho? You and Kristi are supposed to be working at the diner today and tomorrow! Why are you going to Boise?”

  “We’re moving there! Rad, huh? Got a sweet deal on a house and a job with Kristi’s dad.”

  Quinn stared out the window, counted fence posts, and snapped the rubber band on her wrist.

  “You still there?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this on Thursday when we talked?” Quinn tried to control the volume and tone of her voice. Screechy wouldn’t help solve this problem.

  “We didn’t leave until yesterday. Tell Jake he can just send our paychecks to us at—”

  Quinn disconnected. “They can shove their paychecks right up their—” She covered her face with her hands and tried to steady her breathing. The only thing that had kept her going all week was the thought of a glorious weekend away from the diner. Now—poof—gone to Boise.

  She snapped the rubber band as she ran through her options. Keep the diner closed until she got back to Chestnut Station. Turn around right now. Dynamite Jake out of jail. Get someone else on the payroll yesterday.

  With a sigh, she put the car in gear to go back to Chestnut Station, then immediately put it back into park. She picked up her phone. “Mom? Are you and Dad busy today?”

  * * * *

  “Hurry up, Dan! We have to get to the diner. Quinn’s counting on us.”

  “I’m hurrying.” Dan finished lacing up his sneakers. “Nobody wants to see me in my flip-flops when they’re eating.”

  As they sped to the diner, Georgeanne ticked off the instructions Quinn gave her. “Spare keys in the electrical box. Simple is better, nothing fancy. And we don’t have to offer Jake’s menu. We’ll have to make do with whatever is on hand and she’s not sure when they’ll get the next delivery.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Oh, and the credit card dealybob and the cash register are both broken, so we can only take cash. She said she’ll be back as quick as she can. And she’ll do a deposit when she gets here.”

  “Sounds easy enough.” Dan squeezed his wife’s knee.

  “Right? Easy peasy lemon squeezy!” Georgeanne grinned at him and rearranged the canvas bag on her lap.

  “What do you have in there, anyway?”

  “Nothing much. Just my spices and things from the cupboard I might need.” Georgeanne’s dimples deepened.

  * * * *

  Quinn sat on a bench in front of the lake at City Park in Denver. There had been no traffic on the drive so she had plenty of time for a visit with the ducks and geese. When she lived in Denver, this was one of the places she liked to hang out whenever she had the time. Normally, she liked to walk the path around the lake, but today she decided on the bench. The morning sun cast long shadows across the lake and park. Not many people were here yet, but she knew it would be crowded before long with families heading to the zoo and the Museum of Nature & Science, or just enjoying the lake with its swan-shaped paddleboats, picnic spots
, and playgrounds. For now, though, it was quiet and peaceful. The only people around were a group of yoga enthusiasts saluting the sun and the occasional jogger or biker.

  Quinn took the opportunity to practice what to say to Margosha. Because she couldn’t leave her parents to run the diner for too long, she decided a quick conversation with her was the way to go. But now she worried that it would come out bossy and curt.

  “Margosha…” Quinn practiced. “Hi there, Margosha, isn’t this a lovely…Good morning, Margosha. We’ve never met, but I’m a friend of Loma’s. She told you I wanted to talk to you? I need you to tell me…” Good grief. She’s never going to talk to me. Why would she? She’ll just slam the door in my face.

  She tried several more openers and segues, but landed on nothing that would be surefire.

  Quinn gave up and checked the time. She scrolled her contacts for Colorado Premium Employment and then groaned. It was Saturday. It wouldn’t even be open today. She immediately brightened, thinking that if it went to voice mail, maybe there’d be an address or something on their message. She clicked the number and almost instantaneously heard the dreaded three tones that signaled a disconnected number.

  She stared at the phone in her hand. She knew she’d input the number correctly. But what did this mean? Was her theory completely off base? Or was Sam the headhunter on the run and covering his trail?

  She sat on the bench a while longer, getting more and more depressed as it became increasingly clear they’d never find him. Without another suspect, Chief Chestnut wouldn’t let Jake go.

  Well, I’ll just have to make a pretty compelling case for someone else.

  She practiced more opening lines for her meeting with Margosha while she picked her way through the park, trying to avoid the copious quantities of goose poop on the way to her car.

  * * * *

  She pulled to the curb in front of Margosha’s neighbor’s house, where a beautiful honey locust shaded the street. She sat for twenty minutes with her windows rolled down to catch a breeze while she tried to screw up the courage to ring Margosha’s doorbell.

  A noise caught Quinn’s attention and she saw Margosha’s garage door slowly rise. A pristine BMW backed out. When it got to the end of the driveway, Quinn saw Margosha check for traffic. Quinn ducked down and immediately regretted it. Her posture reeked of deceit and suspicion. If Margosha saw her planted there in front of her neighbor’s house, spying on her, she would never in a million years talk to her.

  Quinn slowly lifted her head in time to see Margosha drive away. “She must not have seen me.” Quinn rolled slowly away from the curb. Maybe I can think of something to get her to talk to me that won’t sound crazy. And if she’s in public, she can’t slam her door in my face.

  Margosha drove to a hair salon in Cherry Creek and dropped her keys with the valet.

  Quinn passed the salon, pulling around the corner where there was an empty metered space. “A dollar for thirty minutes? Jeez.” She fed the meter, then slowly made her way back toward the salon. She found herself tiptoeing and counting her mincing steps. She blushed when a woman passed her holding hands with a little girl, who began walking on tiptoes.

  Quinn reached the salon and pivoted three times, each time stepping away to reassess her inadequate plan. She couldn’t very well barge in there and start talking to Margosha while she was getting shampooed. Too weird. Or cut, I’d be in the way. Or styled, too loud. Instead, she got an iced coffee at the place across the street and waited for Margosha to come out, hoping she wasn’t taking the time for a full dye job or anything. She was torn about feeding the meter. She didn’t want to miss Margosha. Besides, what were the odds she’d get a parking ticket?

  All the ice had melted in Quinn’s drink by the time Margosha left the salon. She chatted briefly with the valet, then walked away. She looked as stunning on a Saturday morning as she did at the fancy fundraiser at the governor’s mansion. Up close, there was no indication of enough makeup to paint a barn, nor did Margosha look—as her mother would say—Botoxicated.

  Quinn followed, still hoping for an opportunity to speak with Margosha and praying for the right words to come to her.

  Margosha walked a block, then crossed the street before entering a jewelry store. Quinn hurried to catch up with her, deciding to speak with her as she came out. Quinn loitered on the sidewalk near the jewelers, pretending to study the flowers in the landscaping while waiting for Margosha. She finally emerged and Quinn took two steps toward her, but a woman squealed, “Margosha? It’s been ages! How are you?”

  As they air-kissed, Quinn pretended to tie her shoe. They stood in the shade of the jewelry store’s awning while they caught up. Quinn couldn’t justify hanging around any longer, and didn’t want to be rude and interrupt their reunion, so she sauntered past to study the window of a bookstore. She could see Margosha and her friend through the reflection of the glass. Her attention bounced between them and a poster for an event with two Colorado mystery authors, Charlemagne Russo and Cynthia Kuhn. That’s what Quinn needed, an author to write some dialogue for her.

  Finally, Margosha and her friend parted, traveling in opposite directions. Quinn waited until Margosha had almost reached the bookstore window before saying, “Excuse me,” and stepping forward, gesturing with her empty cup.

  Startled, Margosha crossed the wide sidewalk, giving Quinn a wide berth. “I’m not havink any change,” she said, hurrying away.

  Quinn frowned before it dawned on her that with her empty cup, Margosha mistook her for a panhandler. She looked down at her sundress. It wasn’t terrible; no holes, fairly clean. Was this what people wore to beg in this upscale part of town? It seemed offensive somehow, but Quinn didn’t have time to question how homeless she actually looked. She maybe should have taken the time to shave her legs, but it had been eons and would have required expertise in weed-whacking.

  Margosha had disappeared into one of the stores, so Quinn peered into each as she passed. Quinn finally found her in a boutique. Just as she reached for the door handle, so did a man in uniform.

  “Oh, excuse me, Officer.”

  “After you.” He held the door for her.

  The air-conditioning felt good and she blinked to get her eyes to adjust to the indoor lighting faster.

  “That’s her. She follows me all mornink.”

  “Is that true, ma’am?”

  Quinn glanced around the store and was surprised to see Margosha pointing at her. “I’m not following—” Wait. Yes, she was. “Well, I am, but only to talk to her about her husband.” Quinn leaned around the police officer, who had moved directly to her side, blocking the distance between her and Margosha. “I didn’t mean to scare you—”

  “Do you know this woman?” he asked Margosha.

  She shook her head and moved closer to the sales clerk.

  The police officer took Quinn by the elbow. “Let’s go outside and let these women get on with their business.” He propelled her toward the door.

  “I’m not a stalker or anything.” Quinn laughed nervously. “I just want to—”

  “Outside, ma’am.”

  He moved Quinn about three doors down where there were some benches. “Take a seat, please, and tell me what’s going on.”

  Quinn sat while the officer loomed over her. His name badge read Childers. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a no-nonsense demeanor. She’d met many like him and knew enough to do what he asked.

  “Nothing’s actually going on, sir. I just needed to ask her something and she misunderstood.”

  “Misunderstood how?”

  “She thought I was panhandling.”

  “Were you?”

  Quinn shook her empty cup at him. “No. Just couldn’t find a trash can.”

  “The two of you know each other?”

  “I know her, but she doesn’t know me. I mean, I’ve seen pi
ctures of her, but she doesn’t know that.”

  The officer lowered his chin just the slightest bit and Quinn realized she sounded exactly like a stalker. She snapped her rubber band. “See, we have this mutual friend, Loma, and I got her address from her—Margosha’s—and I drove to her house but before I got there she drove out—Margosha.” Words cascaded, unhindered, from Quinn’s mouth. “I need to find out some things about her husband because my boss is in jail for his murder—Jake—and I don’t think he did it and maybe Margosha, that lady in the store, did.”

  Without seeming to take his eyes off her, the officer pulled out a tiny notebook from his pocket. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Quinn Carr.”

  “Address?”

  Quinn rattled off all her information, which he wrote down, then cocked his head.

  “Chestnut Station. Is that the town with all those crazy nut statues?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He snorted. “My mom took us there when we were kids. I swear she made us pose with every single one of them.” He smiled briefly at the memory, then returned to cop mode.

  “Who did you say was in jail?”

  “My boss, Jake Szabo.”

  “Where is he being held?”

  “In Chestnut Station.”

  “On murder charges?”

  Quinn nodded.

  Another police officer joined them, carrying two iced drinks. Even though she was a woman, she also loomed over Quinn on the bench, staring at her through government-issued mirrored sunglasses. They must have learned that at the police academy. It was quite effective.

  Officer Childers took one of the drinks. “Thanks, Jefferson.” He took a long gulp. The two officers stared at Quinn. After an uncomfortably long time, at least for Quinn, he said, “Tell you what I’m going to do.” Quinn hoped he was going to say he was going to let her go, but instead he continued, “I’m going to call over and have a chat with someone at the Chestnut Station PD and find out what’s going on.”

  Quinn breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, call Rico…Officer Lopez. He’ll vouch for me. He’ll tell you everything is perfectly fine.”