I was happy to be on the opposite side of the counter – something to protect me from the wrath of Johnny Wolfe. Johnny’s a white-fleshed fellow no wider at the shoulders than he is at the hips, so you’d think it would be an even match. But he’s also a former pro skater, a former bronze medal-winning Olympic skater, too. He’s got the ego to match.
Right now, his charcoal-blue eyes were flashing like a storm crossing the desert. And that storm was aiming straight for me. Yes, better to have a sturdy counter between the two of us.
‘What do you mean, all my fault?’
Johnny’s a real coxcomb and a pain in the patooty.
‘He was with you, wasn’t he?’ Johnny jammed his fists against his hips. He wore an expensive tailored gray pinstriped suit with a solid black silk shirt underneath. Johnny’s also a real clothes horse.
Aubrey swiveled her head back and forth, catching all the action while sucking lemonade through a skinny straw.
‘Well,’ I stammered, ‘sure he was with me. But what’s that got to do with anything?’ Not that there wasn’t a certain logic to his argument, borne out by history, but still, who did this guy think he was? An Olympic gold medalist? Heck, he’d come in third. There were days when I slipped in the shower reaching for the towel rack and twisted in ways that could have seen me take the silver if there’d been any judges there to score me.
‘Don’t play coy with me, Miller. I heard from the police. Clive has been charged with murder and they say you were with him.’ His eyes blazed at me as he planted his hands on the counter and pushed. ‘Why they haven’t arrested you, too, I’ll never know!’
‘Uh,’ Aubrey raised an index finger, ‘would somebody mind telling me what’s going on?’ She raised a hopeful brow.
Kelly Herman came through from the storeroom. ‘What’s with all the shouting, peeps?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ replied Aubrey. ‘Something about a murder?’ She scrunched up her nose.
Kelly gaped. ‘A murder? Where?’ Kelly’s a half-Havasupi, half-Jewish beauty about Aubrey’s age – twenty-three. The color drained from her face like somebody’d just pulled her plug.
‘That’s right,’ Johnny spat. ‘Murder.’ He glared my way. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
I bit the inside of my cheek. ‘Now, now,’ I said, pushing my palms at him. Customers were getting up and leaving, their faces troubled. ‘Let’s all calm down.’ I didn’t want people thinking they weren’t safe stepping inside Maggie’s Beignet Café. I took a chance and leaned closer to Johnny, hoping he didn’t punch me in the nose. ‘Let’s talk about this privately.’
He scrunched his brows together and pouted. ‘Fine,’ he huffed finally. Johnny pirouetted across the tiles and followed me into the storeroom. I gave him a six-point-five for execution and a perfect ten for obnoxiousness.
I pulled a stool over to my office desk. OK, so it was a cardboard box turned on its side, but it was a pretty sturdy one. Though I’d been a little annoyed with Aubrey when she’d drawn a couple of drawers on the face of it as a joke, I was over it now. ‘Have a seat.’
I looked forlornly at the pile of invoices and receipts scattered across my cardboard box slash desk. Bookkeeping is miserable work. That’s why I kept putting it off. Too bad my dead husband Brian wasn’t still around. He used to work in a bank; he’d have been great at all this mindless paperwork.
Johnny remained standing, obviously preferring to loom over me – something he couldn’t do if I was standing as well. After all, I was about five-seven and I figured he was about the same depending on how much gel he’d bathed his hair in that day. Today his unnaturally black locks were swept back across his swelled head like a wave of ego externalized. Perhaps he was trying to channel Elvis. Maybe I’d buy him some blue suede shoes for Xmas.
Johnny’s right hand twisted the Rolex on his left wrist. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Miller.’
‘Are you ever going to call me Maggie?’ I smiled. Maybe I could counterbalance his strident attitude with a rident one.
His eyebrows formed a single line and he stared down his nose at me. ‘When there are so many other things I’d like to call you first?’
I chewed my lip. Boy, I’d really thrown him a softball that time. ‘OK, OK,’ I said, waving my hands. ‘I can see you’re upset about this.’ Lesson learned. Strident definitely tips the scales in a contest with rident.
‘Of course I’m upset!’
‘And you have every right to be.’ I glanced at the café’s electric bill lying open on my corrugated cardboard desk. Did electricity really cost that much? If I paid my Table Rock Electric Co. bill I might not be able to afford to eat for a month. I’d be reduced to mooching canned food from my mom’s condo when she wasn’t looking. Worse yet, I’d be taking potluck – and I do mean luck – at Donna and Andy’s house. Trust me, there’s no luck coming out of those pots. More like bulgur wheat, soggy tofu, beansprouts and broccoli. Stuff I wouldn’t even force my cat to eat. And she enjoyed stuff like sardines and kidneys. ‘I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding.’ I crossed and uncrossed my legs. ‘Detective Highsmith told me he was only taking Clive down to the station to ask him some questions. You know, to try to figure out what happened to Lisa. Put all the pieces together.’
Though there was no way they’d ever put all the pieces of that cake together again. Lisa Willoughby and Markie’s latest masterpiece had done a major Humpty Dumpty. And a unidirectional one at that. There was no way of putting either back together again.
I suddenly wondered who’d ordered that cake and if it might have something to do with the young woman’s demise. An ex-lover, perhaps? Someone with a grudge who’d ordered the cake, intent all along on using that cake to send her to a messy death? Improbable? Maybe. But impossible? Who was to say?
Johnny shook his fist at me. His jacket popped open revealing a slash of bright pink silk lining. It looked every bit as garish as some of those costumes he used to wear out on the ice during his pro performances. Once a showman, always a showman, I suppose. ‘Clive telephoned me and told me he’d been arrested!’
‘Oh, please.’ I sighed. ‘You know Clive.’ I tossed a hand in the air. ‘Always so melodramatic. Overreacts to everything.’ Like Johnny Wolfe was doing now. ‘He’s probably sitting in a cozy room down at the police station, sipping coffee, nibbling on a maple donut and having a grand old time.’
I glanced at the Boar’s Head-branded clock on the wall, a remnant from the previous deli owner of my space. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t done by now.’ I leaned forward and placed my hands on my desk. It wobbled and caved. I hastily straightened. ‘In fact, I’ll bet he’s next door at The Hitching Post wondering where you are.’ I turned in the bridal shop’s direction. ‘Why don’t you go check?’ Please. I snapped my fingers. ‘If he isn’t there I’ll bet he’s resting at home, out on the veranda, watching the sun skate across the sky—’ I threw the skate metaphor in there for Johnny’s sake. ‘A nice piña colada in hand.’ Go join him.
Kelly Herman popped her head between the swinging doors. ‘Ms Miller?’ She tugged at the white headband on her forehead. She wore indigo jeans and a white shirt with Mother Earth/Father Sun written over the chest in green script. I’d have to ask Aubrey to make Kelly an outfit to match ours. I love my sister but I needed my staff to promote beignets not vegetables.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a Detective Highsmith here to see you.’ She looked uneasy. I guess it’s always tough when there’s talk of murder and police the first day on a new job.
‘Perfect!’ I jumped to my feet. ‘Send him back here, would you?’
A moment later, Detective Highsmith pushed the swinging doors aside with all the swagger of a gunfighter in the Old West. He strode into the room like he owned the place. I checked his feet for spurs. Nope, not even cowboy boots. Adidas. That explained the lack of a jangle.
He’d added a brown sports coat to the cargo shorts and muscle shirt he’d been wearing that morning. It wasn’t an improvement. In fact, it looked like a four-year-old’s attempt at dressing up for church on Sunday.
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Detective.’ I turned to Johnny, who stood glowering near the walk-in fridge. Maybe he wanted to keep his blood chilled. I’d read somewhere that vampires have lower core body temps than we humans – probably in a vampire mystery novel. So it had to be true. ‘You remember Johnny Wolfe?’
‘Of course,’ replied Highsmith. ‘Mr Wolfe.’ He nodded toward Johnny. ‘I’d like to get Ms Miller’s statement now.’ He pointed to the door. ‘In private.’
‘Fine,’ I said rather snappishly. ‘But first, would you please explain to Johnny that you only asked Clive to go down to the station to take his statement.’ I forced a laugh. ‘Johnny here is under the impression that Clive has been arrested. Can you believe it?’ I shook my head and laughed some more. Nobody joined in. Party poopers.
Johnny glared at me. I pulled at my lower lip with my teeth.
‘Yeah, I can believe it,’ Highsmith said, his words falling like stones down a waterspout. He stuffed his hands in his jacket.
‘You see!’ Johnny shouted triumphantly. ‘What did I tell you?’
I swiveled toward Johnny. ‘Quiet,’ I hissed.
He thrust his chin out at me.
I stepped toward Detective Highsmith and looked up into his M&M eyes. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Highsmith shrugged. ‘It means I didn’t really have much choice in the matter.’
I creased my brow. Table Rock’s lone detective could be annoyingly inscrutable.
‘He confessed.’