“And then I hear this one screaming her head off. Almost gave me a heart attack.”
My head rested between my legs as I sat in Grandma Flynn’s kitchen, and in my dazed state, I was impressed at how her green tile floor shone. Maybe she’d share her cleaning secrets.
I could hear people moving through the other rooms in the house and knew it must be the police.
“Why did she kill my Fiona? Why?”
My head shot up at this accusation, and the room spun. I lowered my forehead to my knees and muttered, “She was dead when I got there.”
“Calm down, Mrs. Flynn,” Detective Bowers said. “Frankie, can you talk yet?”
I lifted my head, slowly this time, and felt the blood rush out of it. After a moment’s dizziness, the room stopped spinning and I could clearly see the furious face of Grandma Flynn. She wanted to kill me.
“What were you doing here?” Bowers’ hard tone, barely controlled, was like a green light to Grandma Flynn.
“Yes, Missy. Why were you here? Why did you kill my Fiona in the prime of her life?”
“I came by because I heard Fiona left the studio. She’d been talking about opening up her own beauty shop.”
“And she was going to make a success of it,” Grandma Flynn said. “She had a natural talent for beauty. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that.”
I guess it’s hard to break the habit of praising the grandkids, even when they’re dead.
“I knocked on her door, but she didn’t answer.”
“Maybe she knew you were going to kill her where she stood, and she froze, silent as a mouse, because she was afraid.”
Her description was eerily similar to the one I’d envisioned as I waited at Fiona’s bedroom door, though in my version, she was paralyzed with the fear of talking to me, not of losing her life.
“Go on,” Bowers said.
“I peeked in and saw the Blessed Mary statue tipped over and knew something was wrong.”
Grandma Flynn crossed herself several times, pulled a rosary from her pocket and kissed it. “Attacking the Virgin. I’ve never heard of such filth.”
“I didn’t see her, but the room was pretty messed up.”
“Fiona always kept it neat as a pin.”
“The window was open, so I went to look out—”
“Thought you’d catch her running for her life, did you?” Grandma Flynn’s sneer showed me what her opinion was of people who followed other people out of windows.
“That’s when I found her.”
“Did you recognize any of the cars parked out front when you got here?” Bowers asked.
“I wouldn’t even know what to look for. I assumed they belonged.”
He took me by the elbows and stood me up. Then he hooked a finger under my chin and lifted my face, so he could look me in the eye. His knit brows and blue eyes showed more concern than anger. “Can you drive?”
My shaky nod wasn’t encouraging, but he handed me my purse and keys.
“I want you to go straight home. I’ll come by later.”
Grandma Flynn sputtered. “You’re not arresting her?”
“Not yet.”
“She waltzed into the house, friendly as you please, and disappeared down the hallway. Now Fiona’s dead. What more proof do you need?”
“When’s the last time you actually saw Fiona alive, Mrs. Flynn?”
“I vacuumed her room right before Pizza with Tony came on.” She clutched her hands together in a prayerful position. “I know it’s not a Baking Channel show, but I always made sure to flip the channel during commercials to see the wonderful job my Fiona did on the faces of the hosts and guests.” Tears ran down her sturdy cheeks. “She specialized in hair.”
Bowers looked at his watch. “That was about an hour ago.” He bent his head to look me in the eye. “And how long ago did you get here?”
Grandma Flynn answered for me. “She interrupted me during the second commercial break.”
“The killer had about a twenty-minute window.”
He turned me toward the door. “Home. Now.”
When I returned to Arrowhead Drive, I was relieved to find that Auntie hadn’t returned from her outing. Let her enjoy her gardening date with Bull. In the time it took me to drink a glass of cold water and splash my face in the bathroom sink, Bowers made the drive to my house. The control he’d shown at Grandma Flynn’s? He left that behind. He stormed through the living room, dragging me by the hand, and then flung me onto the couch so hard my bottom bounced when it hit the cushion. He sat on the coffee table facing me, and his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth.
“What business did you have going to Fiona Flynn’s? And don’t tell me the two of you were pals.”
“Okay. Here’s the truth.”
“It better be.”
“When I was at the reception after the Blue-Ribbon Babes show, Fiona acted like she recognized someone, but she didn’t have a chance to say who. Then, when I asked her about it at the memorial, she said she’d made a mistake.”
Bowers didn’t say anything, but his left eye twitched.
“Come on, Bowers. She suddenly comes into enough money to open her own shop? And Grandma Flynn looked pretty good for a dead woman.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Fiona said she’d gotten the money from her dead grandma. Since she only mentioned one grandmother living in the area, it had to be the same woman.”
“Maybe she didn’t think it was any of your business where she got the money.”
“True, but she didn’t have to lie about it.”
“What exactly did she say about recognizing someone?”
“She was talking about how she got her start at a beauty parlor, where she was doing such a good job with the makeup and hair of some women in the show—”
“What show?”
“She didn’t say. But then she came back to Arizona to live with Granny and work on the Baking Channel.”
“Back from where?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to hear what I do know? She looked over at this group of people and said something like how interesting or it couldn’t be.”
“Who was she looking at?”
“Who wasn’t she looking at? The entire cast of Blue-Ribbon Babes had just come in, including Bert the producer and Natasha the director. Guests were walking up to talk to them, and their family members were there. It could have been anybody.”
He thought about this for a minute, and then he said, “I want to know everything that you or your aunt have been up to. Everything.”
Bowers was being a bossy pants again, and that raised my verbal hackles. “Auntie bought some new shoes the other day.” I probably shouldn’t have been a smart aleck at this moment, not when Bowers had steam coming out of his ears. His expression didn’t change; his eyes remained on my face, disconcertingly steady. His body stayed rigid and tense, his hands on his knees. It would have been less intimidating if he said something nasty or yelled at me.
“Okay.” I let out a big sigh to show him his request was unreasonable. “Where to start. First Auntie and I went to Saguaro Studios to have a word with Heather Ozu.”
“Now why would you do that?”
“Auntie pitched Heather an idea for the show and she was following up. At Heather’s invitation.”
Crossing his arms, Bowers kept his voice neutral. “And what did you ladies talk about?”
“Well, it’s more interesting what we found on Heather’s desk before she got there. Not that we were snooping, but there wasn’t a receptionist and we just walked into her office and these papers were just sitting on her desk.” Okay. That did sound like snooping.
“And what kind of papers were they?”
“Past due notices.”
“So, the woman’s late on her credit cards.”
I hadn’t really noticed who the invoices were from. “She’s not just the star, you know. She’s a producer.”
“That’s listed in the credits.”
Oh.
“But did you know her assistant—former assistant—said they didn’t have enough cash in the bank to cover the prize money?”
“And how would he know?”
“Because…he was her assistant?”
“He managed the bank accounts for her?”
I didn’t have an answer to that one. “But Jeremy said he hadn’t been paid in three weeks, so there must have been money problems.”
Bowers pressed his lips into a grim smile. “Not exactly true. Heather advanced him his paycheck a couple of weeks in a row and refused to do it again. Then he decided to take a personal loan from petty cash.”
“But…but…” Actually, what I was thinking was butthead, as in Jeremy was a lying butthead. “But what about Heather’s gambling problem?”
He drew his brows together. “Who says she has a problem? The angry assistant?”
“She had a racing form in her desk drawer. Maybe you should check out if she suffered any recent losses at the track. Maybe that’s what happened to the prize money. She blew it at Turf Paradise the day before the premiere.”
He stared. His mouth drooped at the corners in an unhappy frown, but perhaps he was unhappy because I was finally making sense and had beaten him to the solution to the crime.
“Don’t you see? Heather Ozu would be the perfect person to kill Elvira. It matches up with that conversation I overheard. That’s confidential information. And the threatening response, The truth is the truth, honey. Jeremy said the prize money wasn’t there. That the check was a fraud. That’s illegal, you know.”
“Heather Ozu explained the situation to me. She quite fairly told the contestants in confidence before the show that there was a glitch and they’d have to wait twenty-four hours for the money.” He held up a hand to stop my protest. “And it’s been confirmed by the other contestants.”
“Okay. Scratch Heather. Donna Pederson is now the Blue-Ribbon Queen. That will help her get her new bakery on its feet. Pretty convenient, huh? And Sonny Street was seen paying off a teen who was updating his jokes.”
“What?”
“Elvira threatened to report him to the tax bureau or the president or something. That’s a motive. And Natasha Young has a motive. She’d rather be working on a charity show, but her contract is for a year, so she might miss an opportunity to live her dream. If Blue-Ribbon Babes went under, she’d be free to pursue the job. And Elvira’s family could have wanted her dead…just because.”
“That’s all you’ve got?” He shook his head. “Not a very good case. I’ve got a better one. Old rival travels from Loon Lake to Wolf Creek to carry out old threats and then lies about her past to the police.”
I scrunched up my face. “It’s funny how unworldly older people are, don’t you think? They come from a time when privacy was respected, and you didn’t just blab your entire personal life as if you were a guest on the Jerry Springer show.”
“I can appreciate that, but your aunt wasn’t being demure. She lied to me.”
“I wouldn’t call them lies.”
“I would. When the murdered woman’s husband was once an object of your obsession, that’s important.”
“You know about that?”
Bowers smiled, but it lacked warmth. “We police are actually pretty good at our jobs. And to show you how impressive we really are, I already know about the financial condition of Blue-Ribbon Babes. And I didn’t hear it from a ticked-off ex-employee. And it’s not anything to kill over. They’re slow at paying their bills, but that’s not a crime.”
He checked his watch and stood. “I’ve got work to do, although I might have a better shot at catching the killer if I stay here.”
I struggled to gain the upper hand. “Listen to how you phrased that bit about my aunt. Obsession. No wonder she didn’t want to mention anything. You put a negative spin on everything, and it was probably embarrassing to her. Think of the things you did when you were younger. Imagine if you had to strip them bare in front of an unsympathetic audience?”
Even though his smile hadn’t qualified as a friendly grin, it was better than the scowl that now replaced it. “You think I’m unsympathetic?”
“If the shoe fits.”
“You think I don’t care. Unbelievable.”
The dazed, hurt look in his eyes made me rethink my blunt comment. Grandma always said that words could be like blows, but who knew Bowers was so sensitive? And I’d said unsympathetic, not uncaring. Big difference.
“Of course, you care about your job,” I said in a placating tone. “That’s what makes you good at it.”
“My job? You think all I care about is my job?”
He pulled me to standing, cupped his hand behind my neck, and brought his mouth down on mine in a rough kiss that hurt my neck. When I didn’t struggle to get away or pound on his shoulders with virtuous feminine fists, he took that as a good sign, and the kiss turned soft and sensual. When I started kissing him back—I didn’t want to be rude—he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me to him in a tight grip.
His phone rang, and we broke apart, each struggling to breathe at a normal rate.
He pulled out his cell phone, pointed it at me and said, “You and I are going to have to talk after I wrap up this case.” Then he answered the call with an abrupt, “Hello.”
After I wrap up this case? That statement was a tad arrogant, not to mention kind of cold after the hot lip lock we’d just shared. Was he able to turn off his emotions so easily? My vision was still swimming, and my breathing hadn’t returned to normal, yet here he was sounding all professional and detached on the phone.
Was he really so confident he had the murderer pegged? And was it Auntie? Bowers might have meant his comment about finding the killer in my house as a joke, but it occurred to me that, tickle or no tickle, I might be able to find out how seriously he suspected Auntie if I took a peek inside his head. It might be worth a shot. And he was distracted by the phone call.
I took a deep breath to clear my mind. Bowers hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. After our intimate moment, I was startled by the lack of warmth in his eyes. He rested the phone against his chest, and in a deadly calm voice, said:
“Frankie, if I have something I want you to know, I’ll tell you. Okay?”
He wasn’t asking.
I blinked at him and said, “I don’t know what you mean.” I sighed, as if that’s all I’d been doing a minute ago. “This whole thing has been so trying.”
He wrapped up his call and left without another word to me. I had a feeling I might have crossed a line.