I swiveled in Clive’s direction. His mouth was hanging open. ‘It’s mine,’ he finally croaked.
I cleared my throat. ‘Well,’ I began, turning to the paramedics, ‘it’s an awful, terrible accident.’ And some bride was probably going to have to settle for a store-bought wedding cake. ‘But shouldn’t you guys be, you know,’ I motioned with my head, ‘removing the body? Notifying the next of kin?’ It seemed wrong seeing the woman simply lying there amid all that cake. Disrespectful, even. Something told me nobody would be bringing cake to her wake.
I wished they would let us go. I’d been around enough death to last me a lifetime.
The two paramedics looked at Officer Singh who shook his head in the negative. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’ I replied.
He looked first at me, then at Clive. His dark brown eyes were flat. ‘Because first we must rule out foul play.’
Clive hiccoughed then covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking awkwardly around the stairwell. His cheeks had flushed red. ‘Just nerves, I guess.’
I took a step toward the victim and scrunched up my nose. ‘What makes you think there might have been foul play?’ The very suggestion sent goosebumps rising along my forearms. ‘The woman slipped, probably on some buttercream, and fell down the stairs.’
‘Please step back, ma’am.’ Officer Ellen Collins gripped my upper arm firmly and pulled me away. ‘Maybe you two should wait outside.’ Her eyes connected with her partner’s and he nodded his agreement.
We stepped back out into the sunlight. I used my hand for a visor and watched as an old but clearly well-maintained bright red Pontiac Firebird slowed off the main road then surged into the parking lot. I don’t know much about cars but I knew this model with the flashy black decal of a Firebird on its broad hood was straight out of the eighties. Several of the boys at Camelback High School had driven similar cars, including my then boyfriend.
The Firebird roared to within inches of us and then came to a tire-squealing halt. Whoever sat behind the wheel of that tinted glass ode to testosterone was so high school.
I lowered my hands to my hips and watched as the driver-side door popped open.
I should have known.
I stared as Table Rock’s one and only detective slowly unfolded himself from the Firebird and stepped toward Officer Collins. ‘Morning, Ellen.’
The corner of her mouth inched up. ‘Sorry to bother you on your day off, Mark.’
Wearing baggy cargo shorts and a sleeveless pale green shirt that showed off all his muscles, Detective Mark Highsmith glanced at Clive then loomed over me. He made a sour face. Even so, those chocolate M&M eyes of his still looked mighty appealing. I don’t know what it is, but I practically got type-2 diabetes just looking at them. ‘Ms Miller,’ he sighed. He rubbed his temples. ‘I should have known.’
What was that supposed to mean?
I pursed my lips but stayed mum. Officer Singh must have contacted the detective.
‘Ravi thought you’d want to be in on this,’ Ellen said. ‘There’s a dead woman inside. It might be an accident but Ravi says something doesn’t seem right.’
‘He thinks it might have been foul play,’ I added.
‘Maggie!’ cried Clive.
Sorry, I mouthed, realizing I shouldn’t have said that.
Clive shot a handful of green-eyed daggers at me.
Highsmith silently studied us for a moment then nodded. ‘Where?’
Ellen jerked her thumb toward the side entrance.
‘Fine.’ He pointed a finger at Clive and me. ‘Make sure these two stick around.’ He disappeared inside.
Several minutes later the door squeaked open and Detective Highsmith beckoned us with his finger. That digit of his was a real multitasking tool.
‘What does he want with us?’ Clive whispered urgently.
I shrugged. ‘I guess he just wants to hear what happened.’ I started for the door.
‘But I don’t know what happened,’ complained Clive.
‘Tell him that.’
Highsmith held the door open. ‘Tell me what?’
I answered for Clive. ‘That we don’t know what happened to her. This Lisa woman.’ Except that she’s wearing a lot of cake, that is.
‘Lisa Willoughby, age twenty-seven,’ said Highsmith, filling in the blanks. ‘Single.’
I arched an eyebrow.
‘We found her purse under the cake.’ He pointed to a small bubblegum-colored clutch. Very nice. She’d been carrying a four-tiered cake down a narrow flight of stairs and a clutch? No wonder she’d lost her footing.
We all looked upward upon hearing the sound of light footsteps above. A woman turned the corner of the next landing up and cried out. ‘Oh my gosh! What happened?’ She was probably in her twenties. There was a streak of white in her hair. I couldn’t tell if it was paint or early graying. She wore a loose pair of paint-and-varnish-stained overalls with a sleeveless cotton T-shirt underneath. Her light brown hair was knotted in back.
‘Please,’ said Highsmith, thrusting his hand up like a stop sign, ‘don’t come any further. There’s been an accident.’
‘An accident?’ She looked downward. Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘I’m Detective Highsmith. You are?’
She wiped her lips with her tongue. ‘Blake Sherwood.’ She gestured with her head. ‘I have a studio on the second floor.’
Detective Highsmith patted his pockets and came up empty. ‘Sherwood, right. Got it.’ He nodded to Officer Singh. ‘One of us will be up later to get your statement.’
‘But I don’t know anything, I just—’
The detective cut her off. He was good at that. ‘Please wait for us upstairs, miss.’
She nodded and disappeared.
Several additional officers pushed through the side door and joined us. One of the cops opened a small soft-sided black case and pulled out a digital camera. He began snapping pictures while Officers Singh and Collins started stringing yellow crime-scene tape around the perimeter.
Clive and I just stood there looking stupid. And useless. Neither of which was much of a stretch. I smiled at Clive as if to say, ‘Buck up, buddy. Everything is going to be OK!’
He glowered back at me, as if to say, ‘I could kill you, Maggie Miller!’
Clive and I have a special relationship too.
Highsmith borrowed a notepad and pen from one of his colleagues. I noticed it was a Karma Koffee-logoed pen from the coffee-and-pastry shop across the street from my café. I gritted my teeth and bit my tongue. That place and its husband and wife owners, the Gregorys, were getting to be a thorn in my side. A six-inch prickly cactus thorn.
And to make matters worse, I was addicted to their muffins.
To make matters their very worst, I’d recently discovered they also own the fourplex where I rent my apartment. I was only a few months into a one-year lease and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it – financially or mentally.
Come to think of it, if the Gregorys found out I now had Mom staying with me and a cat, what would they do? Evict me? I was going to have to tread carefully.
‘You both found the body?’ Highsmith asked, his pen hovering over the pad.
I turned to Clive.
‘I – I found her,’ he answered.
I nodded and Clive glowered in my direction. He had found her, hadn’t he? It wasn’t like I was throwing him under the bus or anything.
The detective closed in on Clive. ‘Was she like this when you found her?’ He waved his pen in the direction of the dead woman and cake catastrophe.
‘Well—’ Clive began. Sweat pooled at his hairline.
I interjected: ‘We weren’t sure if she was dead so,’ I mimicked shoveling, ‘we dug her out a little.’ I smiled weakly.
Highsmith groaned loudly. ‘Why don’t the two of you wait for me in Ethiopia?’
‘That sounds a little far away,’ I replied, confused, ‘but sure, we’ll be glad to drive back downtown and get out of your hair.’
Clive tugged my sleeve. ‘Ethiopia is the name of a restaurant here in the Entronque, Maggie.’
‘Oh?’ I flushed red. Thank goodness; I didn’t think I could afford the price of any international airfare at the moment.
Clive nodded. ‘It’s on the first floor in the main entry. I’ll show you, Maggie.’
After promising not to go far – at least no further than Ethiopia – Clive and I left the way we had come. Clive led me around to the building’s main entrance. An art gallery was to the left of the double-door entry and Ethiopia filled the space on the right. Clive held the door to the lobby open for me. The first floor was an upscale arts and crafts mini-mall with shops leading back along either side. The floors were paved in old brick. A green, blue and yellow nine-foot-tall Spanish-tiled fountain in the center of the atrium held a larger-than-life bronze roadrunner. Water trickled from its beak.
Shoppers wandered in and out of the stores. If the cameras around their necks were any indication, the majority of them were tourists. Navajo Junction was a shopping destination for the locals as well, but during the busiest seasons of the year Navajo Junction, like Table Rock itself, swelled up with out-of-town visitors. Resorts in the area included Navajo Junction on their shuttle bus routes.
It was all very serene. I might have felt serene myself if it wasn’t for the woman lying dead just yards away from where I stood. The only thing remaining to be seen was whether she’d died a violent death or a clumsy one.
A middle-aged woman in an orange, red and yellow caftan greeted us inside the door to Ethiopia – a cozy place, with teakwood paneling running halfway up the walls and apple-green paint from there to the ceiling. A full bar ran along the left side. An unattended creamy white baby grand piano sat in the corner near the bar. She guided us to a table for four next to the window and laid out two menus atop the thick gold tablecloth.
Clive sighed heavily. ‘I don’t think I can eat a thing.’ He thumbed the small menu.
‘Come on, Clive. It’s important that you keep your strength up.’ I read through the list of drinks. ‘How about a nice glass of tej? It says here it’s sort of like mead, made with honey and is a traditional Ethiopian beverage.’ I unfolded my tented raspberry-colored linen napkin and draped it across my lap.
‘It’s a little early in the day for alcohol, don’t you think?’
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘but you’ve got to eat something.’
‘I’m telling you, Maggie, I have no appetite.’
I leaned over the table and felt his forehead. ‘You’re not feeling lightheaded or anything, are you?’ His temperature seemed OK to me, not that I knew what to expect. I fell back in my chair. ‘Your blood pressure isn’t acting up again, is it?’ Clive had a bit of a BP issue.
Clive shook his head in the negative. ‘No, really, I’m fine.’ He fanned his face with his hand. ‘Maybe I will have a drink.’ He turned and looked for our server.
‘That’s the spirit.’ I waved to a couple of servers hovering near the register at the bar.
One of the two waiters stepped over to take our drink orders. ‘I’ll have an iced tea,’ Clive said.
I ordered the same because it’s no fun drinking alone. ‘So who is this Lisa Willoughby exactly?’ I asked between sips of tea.
Clive had asked for an extra napkin and was fastidiously wiping cake and icing off his shoes with it. The hostess looked at him with open hostility. No doubt she wasn’t used to her clientele using the restaurant’s expensive linen as shoe rags. ‘One of Markie’s assistants. She is – was – a cake decorator.’
‘Did you know her well?’
Clive hesitated a moment. ‘No, not well at all.’
I nodded. ‘Still, what a pity. And so young, too.’ My appetizer arrived and I dug in. I’d ordered something called a sambusa – a pastry dough stuffed with beef, minced lentils, green chilies and herbs. Delectable. I wondered if I could make some version of it for the café. I’d been toying with the idea of expanding my menu, possibly including some savory beignets to attract a lunch crowd looking for something more than a sweet treat.
I offered a bite to Clive but he declined. Our main courses arrived and we ate in nervous silence. I figured Clive was worrying about what was going on back in the stairwell as much as I was. What was taking the police so long? Why hadn’t Detective Highsmith or one of the other Table Rock officers come to tell us we could leave already?
For the main course, I’d ordered the doro wet, which the menu described as a traditional Ethiopian delicacy: a mixture of chicken simmered in onions and berbere, a blend of spices that I didn’t recognize. Clive had recommended the dish. ‘It’s a delightful, spicy chicken stew,’ he’d explained, urging me to try it.
Good call. The taste was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Ethiopia was definitely a restaurant worth coming back to. Though remembering the prices in the menu, it would have to be on somebody else’s dime. I wondered, optimistically, if the police would be reimbursing us for the cost of lunch. Highsmith had practically ordered us to come here, after all.
I’d have to bring Donna, Andy and my nephews. There were several vegetarian options on the menu that I was sure they’d enjoy – like the tikel gomen, made with cabbage, carrots, green beans and potatoes sautéed with olive oil, garlic and ginger. Heck, that even sounded palatable to me, and I was no vegetarian.
Clive had ordered the gomen besiga, made with beef, boiled collard greens and Ethiopian spices, but left most of his food on the plate.
I took a sip of tea and sucked in a lungful of spice-scented air through my nostrils. Wow. Not only was the food spicy and delicious, it was good for the sinuses. I should tell Donna about it. She’d probably want to bottle the stuff and sell it in Mother Earth/Father Sun as an all-natural nasal decongestant.
A shadow fell over the table. I turned.
It was Detective Mark Highsmith and his M&Ms were looking C&C – cryptic and critical. He pulled out the empty chair beside me and relocated it to the end of the table. ‘Mr Rothschild, right?’ He focused in on poor Clive. I’d been the subject of that focus before. It wasn’t pleasant.
Clive swallowed a lump of beef and nodded, then set down his fork.
‘Let’s go over your movements this morning, Mr Rothschild.’ Highsmith rested his elbows on the table. I watched his biceps flex.
With occasional prompting, Clive carefully went over his entire day, what little of it there had been before arriving here at the Entronque. ‘And then when I came back down the stairs,’ Clive waved his hand helplessly, ‘there she was.’ He looked across the table at me. I patted his hand.
Detective Highsmith scribbled some notes on his borrowed pad and thumped the page with the back of the pen. ‘Let me get this straight, Mr Rothschild. Ms Miller dropped you off at the freight entrance.’
Clive nodded.
‘But because the elevator was broken, you went to the stairwell door?’ Highsmith’s eyes locked onto Clive’s. Clive nodded once again. ‘Why didn’t you go around to the main entrance?’
Clive shrugged lightly. ‘I knew the stairs entrance was closer. I didn’t relish the idea of climbing up four flights but it seemed better than walking all the way around to the front of the building.’ Clive glanced across the table to me. ‘Besides, the public elevators may have been down as well.’
‘And you didn’t notice anything unusual on your way upstairs?’
Clive shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’
I nudged Clive. ‘Tell him about the voices you heard.’
‘Voices?’ said Highsmith, coming to attention.
‘Yeah, you know,’ I encouraged Clive. ‘The voices you said you heard in the stairwell.’
Clive licked his lips nervously. ‘Well …’ He tugged his bowtie for the umpteenth time then cleared his throat. ‘I thought I heard voices. Arguing maybe. In the stairwell.’ He gulped his tea.
‘Were these voices male or female?’ Highsmith inquired.
Clive frowned. ‘I’m not certain. I couldn’t tell.’
‘And you didn’t see anybody?’
‘No,’ Clive admitted after a moment.
Highsmith nodded thoughtfully while Clive and I shot each other questioning looks. ‘There’s only one thing I don’t understand, Mr Rothschild …’
Clive chewed at his lower lip and rolled his neck nervously. ‘What’s that, Detective?’
Highsmith folded his hands on the tabletop. ‘I tried the freight elevator.’ His M&Ms bored into Clive. ‘It works just fine.’