I’d asked Aubrey to run Johnny’s key fob back to him last evening and to say nothing about the little dent in his front bumper, figuring I’d deal with the fallout from that minor disaster later. I’d been hoping Johnny wouldn’t see the dent until I’d come up with a plan to fix it.
Since there was nothing I could do about it now, I turned to preparing for the Labor of Love myself. The logistics of participating in the charity event were daunting. Why had I let Mrs Higgins cajole me into taking part?
I drew up a list of things I was going to need and telephoned Laura Duval. She had some things in her store – tables, tablecloths, an extra coffee urn and even a used fryer that she said she could rent me for the weekend. She was giving me a rock-bottom price on everything, but this weekend’s charity event was still going to set me back plenty.
Aubrey showed up around noon and I left her and Mom in charge of the café while I headed for Laura’s Lightly Used. I was pleased to see that she’d laid the whole lot out in a corner of her store, arranging everything the way it might look under the tent. ‘This is perfect.’ I gave her a hug.
‘Thanks. I tried to think of every item you’d need.’
I nodded effusively. ‘Like I said, perfect.’ She’d even remembered to include a couple of folding chairs and a napkin dispenser. ‘How’d you happen to have all this stuff?’
‘Restaurants open and close all the time. You know how it is.’
I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew exactly how it was.
‘Then the owners come in here trying to get a few bucks for their equipment.’ Laura fingered a tabletop deep fryer that was going to be perfect for cooking up beignets. ‘You’d be amazed how cheaply I’m able to get used restaurant supplies. The failure rate on restaurants is—’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Sorry.’
I managed a smile. ‘It’s OK. I’ll cry later.’ I clapped my hands together. ‘Change of subject. Tell me about Houston. Have you seen him again?’
Laura invited me to sit on a second-hand white daybed with a flowery quilt top. ‘Not since the other night. And breakfast.’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘He did ask me out. Tonight, in fact.’
I gazed at her. ‘Did you accept?’
She shook her head no. ‘He’s not my type. And I don’t care much for that weird business associate of his.’
‘Irwin Acheson?’
She nodded. ‘He scares me.’
He scared me too. ‘He’s still around?’
‘I’ve seen him walking around in town and also at Lisa’s condo.’ She gave me a meaningful look. ‘Or should I say Houston’s condo. I suppose it belongs to him now.’
‘Yeah, like everything else that had once been hers.’ I filled Laura in on the latest news about a witness having seen Johnny down at the Entronque the morning of her death. Laura didn’t believe Johnny was guilty of murder any more than I did. I wrote Lisa a check for the supplies and she agreed to drive the whole lot over to Table Rock Town Square early the next morning. That was nice of her. It meant I wasn’t going to have to ask Andy to haul it over for me in his pickup.
I was pedaling back to the café when I glanced in the window of Hopping Mad, the Hopi-Irish pub run by Johnny Honanie. Irwin Acheson stood at the bar, all six foot forever of him, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged his pectorals and highlighted his biceps. A sports show played on the three flat-screen TVs behind the bar. He caught me looking at him and waved. ‘Come on in.’ There was a gleam in his eye.
I parked the Schwinn against the fire hydrant and went inside.
He draped a python over my shoulder and I drew back. ‘Hey, Red. Let me buy you a drink.’ He scratched the underside of his chin. ‘What was your name again?’
Despite his sexy Irish accent, I suppressed a shudder. ‘Maggie Miller.’
Irwin flashed a set of white teeth. ‘That’s right.’ He pulled tighter and I felt the python squeezing the life out of me. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me my name?’
I extricated myself from his grip and took the empty stool at his side. ‘Irwin Acheson.’
‘Yep.’ Irwin puffed out his chest, looking satisfied. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Coffee,’ I replied, looking at the bartender. I didn’t get it; what business did Houston Willoughby have with this lout?
Irwin laughed. ‘Give her one of these.’ He pinged a tall damp beer mug with his fingertip. ‘In fact, get me another while you’re at it.’ He turned to me. ‘It’s the house beer. Pretty good stuff, too. I’m thinking of trying it out at one of my establishments back home.’ He fiddled with his mug. ‘Goes great with their beer-glazed bacon. Want some?’
‘No, thanks.’ I’d rather eat ostrich. My lips brushed my glass, catching mostly foam. I wanted to keep my wits about me. I feared Irwin’s wits were long gone, and I wasn’t sure that could be blamed on the beer he’d consumed. ‘So, you and Houston go way back?’
His big shoulders heaved up then fell. ‘A few years. We’ve done some business.’
‘You’re in the restaurant business, too?’
Irwin nodded. ‘A sushi bar, an Italian fine-dining restaurant and a stake in Houston’s Mexican joint.’
‘Covering all your culinary bases, aren’t you? No casual American?’
He smiled lasciviously. ‘Not yet.’ He practically purred. ‘But I’m game if you are.’
A frisson of dread ran up my arms. I’d have to be careful around this guy. I cleared my throat and took a sip of beer. The brew was tangy and cold. ‘What brings you to Table Rock? Looking for another investment?’
Irwin shook his head. ‘I heard how nice it is this time of year. I had some time on my hands; I thought I’d see for myself.’
‘Quite a coincidence that Houston Willoughby happened to be here at the same time.’
A smile crept across his chiseled face. ‘A happy coincidence.’
‘Did you know his sister, Lisa?’
‘We’d met.’
‘Maybe you visited her here before? In Table Rock?’
Irwin stared at me. I thought I saw something in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
‘You mentioned at the diner that you knew where she lived.’
He downed half his beer and wiped his lips with a finger. His eyes fell to my glass. ‘When you’re finished with that how about showing me the sights?’
‘Sorry, I’ve got to get back to the café.’ I left before the Irish python could coil himself around me, constricting my chest until my heart stopped. Something told me that the only sight he was interested in seeing was the inside of my bedroom. That was definitely not part of the Table Rock tour.
I found Detective Highsmith at his desk and slapped my insurance card and a copy of my driver’s license on his blotter. His brows edged up. ‘What’s this?’ He was wearing the same brown cotton suit he’d worn the first time we’d met. The same milk-stained tie, too.
‘My insurance information.’ Of course, it was void. I had no insurance – I had no car.
The detective leaned back and stretched his arms overhead. The chair creaked loudly. I didn’t blame it. ‘Oh, man,’ he said, ‘you should have seen Johnny Wolfe when I told him about that.’
I fell into the chair opposite his desk. ‘You told him?’
He nodded curtly.
‘You – you blabbed?’ How could he do that? He’d been so kind, so gentle yesterday. He’d kissed me! On the forehead, but still … The big jerk. ‘Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?’ I could feel the heat rising in my face and my heart pounding against my chest.
‘Trouble I’ve caused?’ He leaned toward me. ‘It seems to me that you cause trouble wherever you go.’
‘Why, you—’ I held my tongue and chuffed. ‘Where’s Johnny? I want to see him.’ I scrambled to retrieve my license and insurance card off the desk. Let him pay for his own damages. Besides, I didn’t see any good reason for him to see my biological age right there in black and white.
Highsmith shook his head. ‘No can do. He’s with his attorney. You know, the one whose pickup you recently stole.’
‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response.’ I folded my arms across my chest. ‘Take me to Johnny and Andy. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see me.’
Detective Highsmith rose from his desk and matched my pose. ‘Maybe so, but I don’t expect Veronica will be nearly as glad.’
I gulped. VV Vargas. Had Brad mentioned my little get-together with the detective to VV? ‘Veronica’s here?’ I shivered. It was an involuntary response every time I laid eyes on the woman or heard her name mentioned. I’d rather face Medusa, snakes and all.
Highsmith nodded and gestured toward his door. ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’
I grunted. ‘Fine, but you’re wasting your time. If you ask me the real killer is still out there, at large, at loose, ready to kill again.’
Highsmith smiled. ‘And who might that be?’
I smiled back. Two could play that game. ‘One,’ I said, counting off on my fingers, ‘Markie Gravelle. Two, Ben Baker. Three, Houston Willoughby. He’s going to inherit everything from that aunt now.’
Highsmith shrugged my words off like so much fluff.
I’d lost count. I mouthed the numbers as I counted my fingers again. ‘Four, Cody Ryan.’ Highsmith snorted and I ignored him. ‘Five, Irwin Acheson.’
Highsmith wrinkled his nose. ‘Who?’
‘Some business associate of Lisa’s brother, Houston. He and Houston are partners in a Mexican restaurant over in Santa Fe.’
‘So why would this Acheson fellow want Houston’s sister dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snapped. ‘You tell me. If you’d spend less time harassing Johnny and Clive and more time looking for the real killer, you might have the answer already.’
It was the detective’s turn to count. This guy was a real copycat. ‘Number one,’ he began, pulling on an index finger, ‘your friend, Clive Rothschild, was found at the scene, and that piece of fabric beneath the victim’s body. Number two,’ his eyes drilled into mine. ‘He confessed.’
I jerked my head. ‘Big deal. He took it back.’ Could you recant a murder confession? I was a little fuzzy on the legalities of takesy-backsies when used as a legal defense in such cases as cold-blooded murder.
Highsmith looked down his nose at me. ‘Number—’ He hesitated, looking confused. Huh, not so smart after all, was he? ‘Number whatever,’ he said sternly, ‘Mr Wolfe was seen arguing with the deceased within an hour of her death.’
I started for the door. Nothing he’d said was worthy of a reply.
‘Oh, and Miller?’
I froze in the doorway. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m glad you’re OK.’ He cracked a little smile. ‘How’s the nose?’ His fingers went to his own finely hewn smell detector and jiggled it.
I couldn’t help chuckling. My collision with Highsmith’s Pontiac had been just strong enough for me to strike my nose against the steering wheel but not severe enough to have set off the airbag. ‘Still sore.’ I sighed, my hand clutching the doorjamb. ‘But thanks for asking.’