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THE NIXON’S LARGE VICTORIAN loomed against the gray sky, the greens and yellows brightening up the neighborhood with cheerful abandon. Who’d have thought it would be a house of mourning?
I climbed the stairs, my head throbbing slightly with each step. The lump on the back of my skull was smaller, but it still hurt like a son of a bee sting. I’d even iced it and everything.
Chimes rang from the other side of the door as I pressed the button for the doorbell. That set off a frenzy of yappy barking and tiny paws scrabbling against the wood, trying to get out and viciously rip out my throat.
“Tank, shut up.” The male voice had to be Blaine’s. The dog didn’t listen. “Quiet, Tank, or I’ll lock you in the damn basement.”
Tank shut up. The door swung open to reveal a rumpled Blaine, who’d clearly just crawled out of bed, barely. He was still wearing pajama pants with his Iron Man t-shirt and his hair stuck out in several different directions. He squinted at me. “What?”
“Good morning to you, too,” I chirped brightly. “I stopped by to see how you and your mother were doing.” I gave him an innocent smile and held out the white bag I was carrying. “And I brought you pastries.” To my mind, pastries were always an appropriate bribe.
“We’re fine.” Ignoring the pastry bag, he leaned down and scooped up what I could only assume was Tank as the tiny dog made a break for freedom. I almost burst out laughing. Tank was a Chihuahua.
“That’s good to hear.” I held the pastry bag awkwardly in front of me, not sure what to do. “I thought maybe yesterday might have been a bit of a shock for you. You know, bringing up old memories.”
“What do you mean?” His expression was a total blank.
“I saw you at the docks yesterday. Where Annabelle Smead was murdered.”
“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “Just passing by. Wondered what the fuss was about.”
“Interesting. Because someone ran Cheryl’s car off the road after they followed us from the docks. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Why on earth would I?”
“Well, you were there. You might have seen something. A dark-colored SUV with tinted windows?”
“Well, I didn’t.”
I gave him a long look. “Or maybe you’re the one who was driving the SUV?”
His eyes widened. “You’re nuts. Why would I do that?”
“Because you realized we were getting close to the truth.”
He snorted. “And what truth would that be?”
“That you killed your father.”
He stiffened, his face turning an angry red. “I think you better go now.” He started to slam the door, but I stuck my foot in the gap. The door bounced off my shoe, and I tried not to wince. Believe me, it looked cool in movies, but in real life it hurt like a mother.
“Actually, I think we better talk; otherwise, I’m going to let the police know everything.”
He went a little pale. “There’s nothing to tell. I didn’t kill my father. I have an alibi.”
“Really? Because that whole thing about being out with the band is pretty weak. You could have slipped out at any time. No one would have noticed.”
He looked downright ill. “Listen, I didn’t want anyone to know before. But, um, I was with someone.”
My eyes narrowed. “A female someone?”
“Er, yes.”
“And not Portia.” Obviously.
He swallowed. “No.”
“Who?”
He sighed. “I really was out with the band. At the bar where they were playing, I ran into an old girlfriend. We talked. Had some drinks. One thing led to another.” He shrugged.
“You cheated on Portia?” I didn’t have to fake my outrage.
“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
“What? You just tripped and fell into bed with another woman?”
“Well, not exactly—”
“Oh, shut up. You make me sick. I suggest you call Detective Battersea immediately and give him your real alibi.”
“You’re not going to tell Portia are you?”
I gave him an evil look. “What do you think?”
I stomped back down the porch steps, livid, calling Blaine all sorts of names in my head. It was a good thing he had refused the bag of pastries, because I was either going to ring his neck or eat an entire bear claw.
––––––––
I SAT IN FRONT OF MY laptop and glared at the screen while I munched on a cherry danish. Rolf and Scarlet still weren’t cooperating. All I could think about was the murders and how I could help Portia.
I needed to go back through the alibis of all the players. Especially those who had wimpy ones, like Roger Collins and Mary Nixon. Not that I believed either of them did it, but I didn’t know what else to do, and I couldn’t sit around doing nothing. So far, despite mounting evidence of her innocence, Detective Battersea was still convinced Portia was guilty. I had to help her.
I closed my manuscript, opened up a blank document, and began taking notes. Roger Collins had claimed to be at a pot party, and the police had supposedly confirmed this. But was he actually there? Could he have slipped out while everyone else was dancing with fairies (or whatever happened at pot parties)?
Mary Nixon had claimed to be at the movies with friends. Was that the truth? She could have convinced her friends to lie for her while she went and koshed her husband over the head. Didn’t they always say the most likely suspect was the spouse?
I needed to find out who Mary’s friends were and question them. And then I needed to find out who was at that pot party. The police may have already questioned everyone, but in my experience, people will tell writers things they would never tell the police. Mostly because they all think they’ve got an interesting story to tell. Sometimes they’re right.
I knew one person who might be able to help me with my inquiries. Agatha. She answered her phone immediately.
“What do you know about pot parties?” I asked without preamble. Most people are shocked to hear little old ladies know anything about pot. I was not. I happened to know Agatha was a hippie back in her day.
She chuckled. “Are you talking about that ridiculous club where everyone gets together and smokes each other’s pot?”
“Apparently. Roger Collins claims he was at one the night August Nixon was murdered.”
“Well, then you should talk to Jimmy Vargas down at the Green Apothecary. He’s got his finger on everything pot-related in this town.” She gave me Jimmy’s name, number, and the address for his pot store. Er, marijuana dispensary.
“What about Mary Nixon?”
“Oh, she’s not into pot.”
“No, I mean, do you know who she hangs out with? Who her friends are?”
“Darla Manes and Lisa Cutty,” Agatha said without hesitation. “Been thick as thieves since high school, those three.”
The perfect friends to back up an alibi. The kind of friends who’d lie for you.
After I’d collected their details from Agatha, I thanked her profusely, promised to bring pineapple upside-down cake to the next bunco night, and hung up.
I knew Jimmy Vargas by reputation only, but I figured he’d be easy to find since he ran the local pot shop, The Green Apothecary. Yeah, I found the name amusing, too.
The pot shop was located right downtown in one of the more historical buildings. A green neon sign shaped like a cross shone brightly out front. Once pot had been made legal in Oregon, those type of places had sprung up practically overnight. There were three of them on Marine Drive alone.
The bell above the door jingled merrily as I pushed my way inside. A middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed goatee and little, round glasses stood behind a long, glass counter, labelling edibles with a price gun. He glanced up. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Jimmy Vargas?”
He grinned. “Sure, man.”
“I’m Viola Roberts.” I stuck out my hand, and he gave me a firm handshake. “Nice place you have here.” It was cheerful with mellow-yellow walls and neatly stacked edibles in the glass case, like we were standing in a pastry shop.
“Thanks. I like it. What can I do you for, Viola?”
“You heard about the recent murders?”
He pulled thoughtfully on his lower lip. “You mean the one at the museum?’
“Yes. And the girl who was killed down at the docks.”
“Huh. Yeah, I heard something about that. Sad stuff, man. Sad stuff.”
“Very sad. I’m investigating the murders,” I explained.
He squinted. “You a cop? You don’t look like a cop.”
“Er, no. More of a private thing.”
“Cool. Never met a private eye before.”
He still hadn’t, but I figured it didn’t hurt to let him keep thinking along those lines. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“Don’t see how I could be any help, but I’ll do what I can.”
I leaned against the counter. “You know Roger Collins? Works up at the museum.”
“Sure. Rog and I go way back. He’s been coming to my pot parties for years. Even before it was all kosher, if you know what I mean.” He winked.
“He said he was at one of those parties the night August Nixon was murdered up at Flavel House.”
Jimmy frowned. “What day was that?”
“Last Thursday.”
“Oh, yeah. Mariposa made the most epic pot cupcakes. Peanut butter cupcake with chocolate frosting. Totally brought edibles to a new level, man.”
“Sounds delish.”
“Bet I can get you the recipe,” he offered.
“Maybe later.” I couldn’t imagine whipping up pot cupcakes in my kitchen. My drugs of choice were caffeine and alcohol. Both in moderation. “Do you remember if Roger was there that Thursday night?”
“Oh, sure. He was there.”
Dagnabbit. I’d thought for sure I’d be able to break Roger Collins’s alibi.
“I mean at least he was there when the party started at six. After that, things got a little fuzzy, know what I mean?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Yep. I get it. So, you can’t confirm he was there at, say, eight that evening.”
“Nope. Don’t remember much after about seven. Or six thirty. Or something.”
“How far was the party from town?”
“’Bout a mile down the highway.” He jerked his thumb behind him in what was apparently the direction of the party.
So Roger could have easily snuck out and killed Nixon. Then he could have driven back to the party, no one the wiser.
“Tell you who you can ask, though,” Jimmy said. “Mariposa. That girl loves to bake, but she doesn’t partake. Diet or some nonsense. She was probably the only sober one there. She’ll for sure know if Rog left or not.”
Jimmy gave me Mariposa’s cell number and wished me luck. He offered me a product sample, which I politely refused.
Outside, I dialed Mariposa’s number. The woman who answered had a pleasant voice and a cheerful disposition. After explaining who I was and what I needed, she eagerly supplied me with the information.
“Roger was here all night,” she assured me.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Oh, yes. We had a deep, philosophical discussion about ancient religions. I remember it perfectly.”
“Thanks,” I said and hung up.
Well, there went one of my suspects. Roger Collins couldn’t have killed August Nixon. I had only one suspect left. If I couldn’t prove Mary killed her husband, Portia might just wind up in prison, after all.