Wednesday morning. Another day in paradise. The birds were singing, the lilies were blooming, the squirrels were stealing my nectarines. After coffee and Advil, I flew out the door. I had things to do, places to go, people to see. I filled up the gas tank, pointed the car north, and lo and behold, there I was at the campaign headquarters of Lisette Peterson Johnson. And I had every right to be there. Goodness knows, if I’m a believer in anything, I’m a believer in the sanctity of church and family.
Lisette Peterson Johnson. Married to Avery Johnson of Gilbert, Finster, and Johnson. Motive, means, and opportunity. She could very well have gotten wind of my visit to the insurance offices from the Powerpuff Girls running the show over there. She could have followed me to Mrs. Flynn’s, figured out what was going on, and come back later to finish the poor woman off. Her ex-lover. What kind of stomach would it take?
Located just around the corner from the Busy Bee, where all paths in Ventura seemed to converge, the tiny storefront was plastered with color photographs of the lady in question. She was plump and grandmotherly, with white hair that looked like thousands of minimarshmallows conspiring to create a halo effect. There were notices posted advertising a rally the following night at which Mrs. Johnson was to be the featured speaker. Her topic would be creation science in the classroom—i.e., Charles Darwin was a bum.
Inside, all was hustle and bustle. Never in my life had I beheld so many rosy-cheeked young people so hard at work. Scurrying this way and that, typing up flyers, poised at the copy machine, manning the phones, organizing the filing cabinet, and not a piercing or a tattoo or even a pimple in sight. It was August, but I swore I heard Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.”
“Lisette Peterson Johnson! Making the world a more virtuous place one step at a time!” a girl chanted into a megaphone from the back of the room. “Could you hear me up there?”
“All hail!” I shouted.
An older woman finishing up what looked like a grilled cheese sandwich stepped forward, wiped her hands on her jeans, and stuck one in my direction.
“I’m Martha,” she said, smiling. “Sorry. We’re a little unorganized. We’re just getting ready for tomorrow’s rally. It should be great. We’ve got lots of news coverage lined up. And you are?”
“Cece,” I said, since we were going by first names.
“Cece, nice to meet you. What can we do for you today?”
“Well, I love what the candidate stands for, and I’d like to help, maybe with publicity?”
“Is that your field?”
“Sure is. I publicize things. In L.A.,” I said, gaining confidence as I went along. “I’m here for a while because of a family emergency.”
“Oh, my,” she sympathized.
“It’ll be fine,” I said cheerfully.
“Well, great, we can use all the help we can get. Even from somebody from Sin City.” She chuckled.
“Isn’t Las Vegas Sin City?”
“They all are,” Martha explained. “Vegas, L.A., New York. So what were you thinking about for the campaign?”
Hell if I knew.
“Well, maybe a chat with the candidate would be good,” I said, “just to get the ball rolling. Is she expected in today?”
“Actually, she’s over at the Busy Bee, having coffee, I think. You might be able to catch her.”
“Did she drive? What kind of car does she have, out of curiosity? Just so I can watch out for her.”
Martha wrinkled her brow. “I think she drives a Toyota 4-Runner.”
“What color?”
“I can’t say I know,” she said, eyeing me coolly.
“Well, I’m on my way,” I said. “Making the world a safer place, one day at a time!”
“It’s a virtuous place, one step at a time,” Martha corrected me.
“Don’t forget to drop your business card in the bowl,” said the girl in the back. “You can win a free lunch at Tony’s Steak and Seafood. The popcorn shrimp are to die for.”
I wasn’t about to do that, but I didn’t want to arouse anybody’s suspicions, either. So I reached into my purse and grabbed the locksmith’s card and slipped it in the bowl instead. That’s when I noticed the card lying on top. It had an official-looking emblem on it. “Detective Thomas Moriarty, Ventura Police Department.” How amusing. Either Moriarty was a popcorn shrimp fan or he’d followed up on my lead. Given the size of his gut, probably both.
There was a line in the front of the Busy Bee, but I walked straight to the back, where the puffy-haired candidate was huddled over a pile of papers. She was wearing a flowered cotton shift that redefined the word bland. I suppose that was the point. She was supposed to be unthreatening. A mullet cut, lumberjack shirt, and Dickies work pants would’ve probably alienated her constituents.
I got a smile a mile wide, so I slid into the booth.
“Martha sent me over.”
“That’s just fine,” she said, turning over the sheet of paper she’d been studying. The other side was blank. “And what is your name?”
“I’m Cece, and I do publicity. Martha thought I should have a chat with you, to get some ideas. I’m here to help raise awareness of your good works.”
“How wonderful!” She laughed merrily and started rolling up her sleeves, like we were going to bake a pie.
Now I had a problem. First of all, I don’t bake. That’s Lael’s thing. I cook. And second of all, here I was, face-to-face with a double-murderer, well, maybe a double-murderer. What was I supposed to do? I’m not a cop, as Gambino had so delighted in reminding me. Confront her? That seemed a bit rash. Trap her into admitting something? I wasn’t wearing a wire, for god’s sake. Process of elimination? That’s good. Eliminate her as a suspect. Excellent.
“Just a couple questions. Have you seen Theresa Flynn lately? Did you visit her, say, last Saturday?”
“Excuse me?”
“Theresa Flynn. You went to high school with her. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I remember. What is this, young lady? Who sent you? You’re with Frank Shattuck’s camp, aren’t you? You people will stoop to anything to win an election. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“What should you be ashamed of?”
“Nothing. I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Did you know Theresa’s dead?”
“I read about it in the paper,” she said quietly. “I was so sorry.” Her eyes went squinty. One tear trickled southward. It looked like the genuine article, but nobody runs for office without being a skilled performer.
“You haven’t answered me.”
“I don’t have to answer you,” she said, indignant again. She gathered up her things. “Let the past be.”
With that, she made her exit. I finished the doughnut she’d left sitting there, thinking that my interrogation technique could definitely use some work.