“Hello, Frankie.”
I looked up into the wary blue eyes of Detective Martin Bowers of the Wolf Creek police force. With his tall, slim physique; dark, wavy hair; and blue eyes that crinkled when he laughed—which wasn’t often—Bowers could have been a billboard model for a golf resort, but only if that model had been on a bender the night before the assignment. He looked in desperate need of a weekend of uninterrupted sleep. The lines around his eyes spoke of long hours. He also needed a haircut. His dark hair curled at the collar of his brown sports jacket.
The last time we’d met had been in front of a burning building with an unconscious man and a panicked dog trapped inside. When I had telepathically tried to direct the dog to an escape route, I grabbed the hands of the two men next to me for support. Afterwards, I’d been able to read both of their minds, not something that’s considered an asset by potential boyfriends. Detective Bowers was one of those men. The other belonged to Seamus McGuire, owner of Canine Camp, a doggie daycare.
I smiled weakly. “I didn’t do it.”
He didn’t smile back, and the panic I’d held at bay so far broke loose.
“Tell me this is a mistake. Tell me this isn’t happening again. Tell me I did not just land on the body of the Blue-Ribbon Queen.” I lowered my voice. “Tell me I did not just throw up on a studio set.”
He took a seat on the couch to my right. “Sorry, kiddo. It’s real.” He grimaced. “And you did.”
“What’s wrong with me?” I said with a laugh that was half sob. “Why does this keep happening to me? Normal people don’t run into dead bodies every time they turn around.”
He kept his voice cool. “Technically, it doesn’t keep happening to you because you didn’t discover the body of Margarita Morales.” He was referring to last month’s murder victim. He added a brief smile, as if that revelation would cheer me up. “Are you up to telling me about it?”
I blinked a few times and gathered my thoughts. The police had taken Auntie to another room to interview her, probably to keep us from influencing each other’s story. I tried to be as concise as possible.
“We drove here.”
“Who’s we?”
“My aunt came with me. Or I came with her. She was the one with the invitation.”
“Where is she now?” He looked around the empty room.
“I don’t know. Somewhere. The police led her away.”
He raised one brow.
“Not led her away as in you’re under arrest, but as in we’d like to interview you, privately.”
The other brow went up.
“My aunt was with me when I found the body,” I snapped. “They wanted to talk to her, just like you want to talk to me.” I let loose a snort of disgust. “Do you want to hear my story or not?”
He wore his blank cop-face, so I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Go ahead.”
He kept his tone neutral, which I hate. I mean, I found the body. He should be eager to hear what I had to say.
“We saw the show. Afterwards, a page led us to this room for the reception. We ate. We drank. In order to leave, we had to go back past the set. That’s when we found her.”
“That’s good for starters.”
“What do you mean, starters? That’s it!”
“How about some details?”
“We walked by the pretty set?” I was hyperventilating and might have been shrieking at this point.
His expression switched into one of complete sympathy. His eyes, the color of deep Caribbean waters, met mine in a direct stare that almost hypnotized. He lowered his voice to a soothing tone, as if he were auditioning to do voiceovers for a meditation tape.
“Bear with me. I realize this is very, very hard for you, and I really, really appreciate your help, but I’m trying to imagine the scene. I need you to help me see exactly what you saw, so I’m going to walk you through it again, very slowly. Don’t be nervous. I’m right here.”
I guffawed. “Does that technique actually work on nervous witnesses?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Yes. It does.”
“Because it makes me want to punch you. Stop talking to me as if I were about to break out in a fit of the vapors.” I noticed that my irritation with him left me calmer.
He dropped the act, sat back, crossed one leg over the other, and opened his notebook on his lap. “Thanks. It’ll take less time if I don’t have to hold your hand. Now, the actual kitchen set, including the island, were out of your way. You didn’t have to pass through them to get out of the building. Why were you poking around?”
“I wasn’t poking around. You make me sound like Gladys Kravitz.”
“Who?”
I narrowed my eyes. “The nosy neighbor on the television show Bewitched. Did you grow up in a cave?”
“Let me rephrase the question. Why were you on the actual set? Did something catch your attention? Something you heard or saw? Or did you have an—er—intuition?”
I knew what it cost Bowers to acknowledge the mere possibility of psychic phenomenon, even though he’d experienced it firsthand. He was a dedicated pragmatist, just as I once was.
“There was a bird.”
“Big white thing? I saw it. Elvira Jenkins’ husband left it behind because he went to a poker party directly from here. She planned to drop by the reception and then catch a ride home with her daughter-in-law.”
“I thought someone abandoned it.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“Only from the show.”
He flipped through his notebook. “But her bio says she was from Loon Lake. That’s where you’re from.”
“How do you know that? I only told you I came from Wisconsin.”
He had the grace to look away. I’d always suspected he’d done a background check on me when he investigated the death of Margarita Morales.
“She was a complete stranger.”
“So, it’s just a coincidence that you’re both from Loon Lake, Wisconsin,” he said, his eyes focused on me with what I called his interrogation face. No expression, but the hint of a frown behind the mask.
“Yes.”
He looked around the room. Empty party trays and overflowing wastebaskets were the only sign a celebration had taken place. A patrol officer had taken the names of most of the audience members and let them go, but they instructed lucky Auntie and me to remain behind. The joys of being witnesses.
“How did you wind up here?” Bowers asked. “I mean, no offense, but Blue-Ribbon Babes doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.”
I’m not sure why I felt the need to defend my honor. I blame him. It was his condescending tone and the smirk.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Not my kind of thing.”
“Feminine, homey things, like cooking and—” He caught my expression. “Like cooking.”
“I’m not suffering from some kind of kitchen deficiency. I can cook.”
“You know what I mean. It’s the kind of thing my sisters would be into.”
Bowers had great respect for—and fear of—the seven older sisters who raised him after his mother’s death. It was a good thing we’d never made it past a minor flirtation, because I’d never make it past the inquisition.
He frowned. “You weren’t doing some hocus-pocus? Attempting to read the minds of the audience for the Baking Channel?”
He leaned back on the couch, unconsciously putting more distance between us as he re-crossed his legs to face away from me and held up his notebook for protection.
“I don’t read people’s minds. Except that once, and that was by accident. I don’t even read pets minds anymore. And it’s not as if I had a choice. As Penny would say, it’s a gift from God.”
“Let’s hope that’s where it comes from,” he mumbled.
My eyebrows shot up and my mouth dropped open. “Not that I consider it a fun gift, like chocolate or a massage, but what are you suggesting? That there’s something Satanic about reading animals?”
Bowers refused to enter into a theological discussion. “Why are you here?”
“I told you. I came because my Aunt Gertrude received an invitation.”
His brows shot up. “Gertrude Pitt?”
“How do you know her?” I asked, and then I sucked in my breath. “She’s not in trouble, is she?”
“She’s being interviewed by Detective Gutierrez.”
I swallowed hard. My mouth puckered because my saliva had dried up. Juanita Gutierrez, nicknamed The Python, was a formidable, drop-dead beautiful cop. Her intensity level ran so high that she actually gave off an energy signal when she felt strong emotions, just like an animal. I said a small prayer for Auntie.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Frankie, if she received an invitation, your aunt must have known someone from the show. The premiere was exclusive.”
“She says not. I already asked.”
“It would be much better if you told me now than if Gutierrez finds out later.”
“Are you calling my aunt a liar? You’ve never even met her. My aunt received her invitation because she’s won a few blue ribbons herself.”
“Fine. Take me over the evening again, but with a little more detail this time.”
I groaned, and he said in a pleasant, no-nonsense voice, “Just start when you got here.”
“Fine. But prepared to be bored out of your skull.”
“Comes with the job.”
When I related the evening to Bowers, I skipped Auntie’s reaction to Elvira Jenkins—both when she saw her step on set and when she met her at the reception. She might come off sounding a little petty, and I didn’t want him to think badly of her before he’d even met her. By the time I finished, Bowers’ eyes were closed.
“Are you still awake?”
“You were right. That was painfully boring.” He opened his eyes. “Heather Ozu mentioned the altercation between herself and the victim. It would have been pointless to hide it, since they televised it. Did you recognize the voices you heard on the other side of the wall while you were stuffing yourself with shrimp?”
“Obviously, the one who said, ‘The truth is the truth’ was Elvira.”
“Why obviously?”
“That seemed to be her catchphrase. She’d just said it to Heather on the show.”
“Which means anyone could have repeated the phrase in sarcasm. Did it actually sound like her?”
“That was my first impression.”
“Do you have any idea who she was arguing with?”
“You mean talking to? I don’t think it was an argument.” In my family, a conversation required at least one swear word and possibly physical contact before it qualified as an argument. “I think it was a woman, but the person was hissing, so I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean, hissing?”
“Whispering with emotion.”
His lips pressed together in a thin line of disapproval. “Can you think of anything to add that might be helpful?”
“Like what, super cop?”
“I heard you were talking to the victim a short time before she met her death.”
Met her death. It sounded like a polite social introduction.
“I was just starting to talk to her when Linda the Page came up and told Elvira the photographer wanted her on the set.”
“He took publicity photos right after the show, and then he left. He was gone by the time Linda passed Elvira the message.”
“So, who told Linda to find Elvira?”
“Good question.”
He studied me for a minute, and it looked like he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask the next question. “You seem to have a gift for pegging personalities. What impression did the dead woman make on you?”
“She was baking, and she was on TV. To put it nicely, she came across as a take-charge gal, but that means nothing. I’m sure I’d act differently if I had a camera right in front of my face and had to put on a show.”
“Point taken. Did you notice anything unusual in the way people were acting? Did anyone do anything that seemed, well, odd?”
Auntie’s behavior was a tad odd. I must have shown some reaction, because he jumped on it.
“What is it?”
I squirmed in my chair. “Everything was odd. I’ve never been at a live show before. The cameras. The warm-up comedian. The cue cards.”
I was saved from further explanations when I felt a crackle of energy as if someone had touched my skin with a live battery. My body did a little jump.
“Son of a—”
Since I knew animal control officers had carted the bird away until the husband could come for it, that wasn’t the source of my gooseflesh. The last time I felt this live wire voltage pass through my system without the presence of an animal, Detective Juanita Gutierrez was close by, which was bad news for me.
Detective Gutierrez didn’t like me, but that wasn’t my current concern. For someone who’d lost her ability to receive telepathic communications, I was getting a load of messages tonight. First, the bird broke through to share its fear, and now this crackly feeling had come to me uninvited.
Auntie swept into the room followed by Detective Gutierrez, who brought a buzzing to my ears that resembled the dangerous noise given off by power lines. Her expression didn’t betray her thoughts. In fact, she and Bowers had mastered the same bland look. And they carried the same notebook. I wondered if they shouldn’t offer them options at detective training school.
“Auntie!”
I rushed over and gave her a hug. Gutierrez looked from my aunt to me and said:
“You’ve got to be kidding. You seem to attend murders like other people go to Bunco parties.”
“This is just horrible,” Auntie said, wringing her hands together, though she had the wherewithal to pause and pull out a business card for Gutierrez. “You just call me if you have any more questions.”
Gutierrez stared at the tarot card and then turned her gaze on me. “Another psychic in the family? Surprise, surprise.”
“I’m not technically a psychic, dear,” Auntie said. “Just a simple but talented card reader.”
The detective didn’t show signs of leaving, so Bowers thanked her and said he was wrapping things up and would be right with her. She took the hint and left, but she strolled out just to show that he wasn’t her superior and she could leave when she felt like it.
“I have one more question to ask you,” Bowers said, and after a glance at Auntie, added, “Privately.”
“I need fresh air,” Auntie said, waving a fan of business cards at her face. “I’m feeling kind of warm. I’ll wait for you outside.”
Alone again, Bowers tapped his notebook against his leg. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this is an official investigation.”
“I would hope so.”
“And that means I don’t want to hear about any side trips to suspects’ homes or accidental meetings with the victim’s family.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And I meant it when I said it.
“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”
His gaze softened for a moment, and he looked as if wanted to say something. In the end, he pressed his lips together and motioned toward the exit, dismissing me.
As soon as I stepped into the cool night air, a light bulb flashed. I held up a hand and blinked. About a hundred feet from the door, the police had cordoned off an area with rope and left a patrol officer on guard. A small crowd of gawkers leaned over that rope, and the press shouted a flurry of questions.
Auntie stood directly in front of the rope. I held back a scream. Her partner in conversation was Paul Simpson, a champion of sleazy reporting who had tried to run a story about my embarrassing past in Wisconsin after I’d refused to give him an interview about the murder of Margarita Morales. I jogged up behind her and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“How many subscribers do you have?” Auntie asked.
“Don’t talk to the bad man,” I said. Before he could answer, I steered her away, noticing as we walked that she clutched her business cards in her right hand.
“Did you give Paul Simpson your contact information?” I shrieked. I looked at him and debated whether to go back and demand he give it back, but it seemed better to keep walking.
“It’s kind of automatic with me.”
“Give me those!” I snatched the cards away and jammed them into my purse.
On the drive home. I wondered about the points Bowers had brought up.
“You didn’t know Elvira Jenkins before tonight, did you?”
“On my honor, the first time I heard the name Elvira Jenkins was when they introduced her. That pretty detective asked me that same question several times. I finally had to ask if she was having trouble understanding me. You know, old people aren’t the only ones who need hearing aids, and both the old and young can be vain about wearing them.”
“She must have loved that.”
“I’m sure she understood I was only trying to be helpful.”
“Still, out of all the bakers in the United States, I wonder how your name wound up on their invitation list.”
“I already told you. I’ve won a lot of blue ribbons in my time.”
“At state fairs?”
“Well, no, but the competition is just as fierce at the local level.”
When I opened the front door to my house, Emily wound her body through my ankles, pretending for a moment that I really mattered. There wasn’t much to cheer me as I entered my sparsely furnished living room. The furniture was shabby chic—with the emphases on shabby—most of it purchased at cheap furniture stores and garage sales except for a blue and white checkered couch donated by my parents that gave the room its only spot of color.
I hadn’t gotten around to decorating the walls in the year-and-a-half I’d lived here. My idea of personalizing the space was to leave chocolate wrappers on the couch. I tossed my purse on the armchair and went in search of my ginger mutt. I found Chauncey sprawled on his tummy on the kitchen floor, his nose touching his food dish. As soon as the kibble hit their bowls, my pets scarfed down dinner as if they’d gone for weeks without food.
I returned to my theme. “But there are other women in Loon Lake who have won just as many ribbons, aren’t there? Why didn’t they get invitations? And why invite anyone from Wisconsin at all? It’s not as if this were a huge, important premiere. And Wisconsin isn’t exactly next door.”
“Honey, I don’t know about you, but I’m dead tired.”
I stopped yapping long enough to take in my aunt’s condition. Pale and tired, she looked her age, which as my mother’s older sister made her almost seventy. With complete selfishness, I hadn’t thought about how seeing a dead body might affect my aged relative. She might have fainted. She might have suffered a heart attack.
“I am so thoughtless.” I kissed her forehead. “Get some sleep and don’t set the alarm.”
She gratefully accepted my invitation and went to bed.
I made up my temporary bed on the couch, and once snuggled in, stared at the ceiling. We’d gone to an event where someone died. Not someone we loved or cared about. Not even someone we knew. Auntie and I could consider our involvement with the investigation finished. Bowers could rest easy. And with that incredibly naïve, ridiculous thought, I fell asleep.