Fifty-eight

FORTY-FIVE minutes later, The Critter Crawl had come to its grueling end. I was perched on a stool at the chrome-plated counter of the Euclid, the tony fitness club’s minimalist juice bar.

I pondered why a juice bar would be named after the father of geometry, a science that took us into space. After I arrived, I decided it was because of the astronomical prices—eighteen dollars for a banana smoothie?!

(And, yes, no one knew better than I the need for retailers and wholesalers to pass along costs of importing produce and necessary labor—to, for example, pick, process, ship, and roast quality coffee beans. But, last I checked, even organic bananas were less than a dollar a pound. So unless their “World Famous Banana Smoothie” included Plantation rum, I’d be getting globally hosed on that one.)

At last, true to his word, Tucker arrived with Punch. Their evening slate was suddenly clear—since dinner with the cast had been postponed due to the producer’s torn ligament.

Punch shuddered at the memory. “Those monkey moves were next to impossible, and I’m a trained dancer.”

“But it was the Yellow Kangaroo that did him in,” Tuck replied.

Over (twelve-dollar) Sparkling Pear Pick-Me-Ups—icy cold, fruity, honey-sweet, and nicely refreshing after all that exercise—Tuck and I finally talked.

I pleaded with my former assistant manager to rethink his relocation, and return to his job at the Village Blend. After fifteen minutes of relentless cajoling, I was halfway to victory. Tuck still refused to “burden my failing business with his salary,” but he did come to the conclusion that returning to Louisiana would be a mistake.

“I have good reason to stay now,” he said. “Punch and I came up with a brilliant concept for a fitness program, and we’ve decided to convince the McBurney YMCA to sponsor it.”

“I call it exer-tainment,” Punch said. “Mostly because enter-cise sounds vaguely indecent.”

Not wishing to press Tuck too hard, I switched subjects to the message I’d sent him after Haley Hartford’s murder.

“I’m sorry, Clare. I didn’t even open your text. I was in makeup for hours, starting at four AM. Then we heard about Carol Lynn’s arrest, and before we knew it, the police came and questioned the entire cast and crew about her, the prop gun, everything! Things were too frantic.”

I opened my smartphone and displayed the grim image. “Tell me now. Did you know this woman?”

Tucker gave the photo a hard look then turned away.

“I know her face but not her name—honestly, I recognize that heart tattoo more than anything else. I do remember that she was in the coffeehouse the day Carol Lynn pointed out Richard Crest.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m certain because Crest was sitting with the heart-tattoo girl. At the number three table by the window.”

Finally, a second witness! I felt like cheering.

“What else do you remember about their tryst?” I pressed.

“It wasn’t a tryst. It was more like a business meeting. Heart Girl showed Crest something on her laptop, and he passed her an envelope. Then they both left, but not together.”

“Was it a big envelope? Little envelope?”

“Just a regular envelope, kind of bulky.”

A new wrinkle. Was Haley doing work for Crest, too? Or was there something else besides money in that envelope?

I held up my smartphone to ask Tuck another question.

“Oh, that ghastly photo again!” a familiar voice cried.

Tuck, Punch, and I turned on our stools, to face Tristan Ferrell, Nancy by his side.