CHAPTER SEVEN

CANNABIS AND CAMOMILE TEA

Detective Maggie Reardon pulled up to the curb in front of a typical Arizona ranch house. The stucco was painted ochre with trim a combination of deep purple and mint green. Several rose bushes lined the front walkway and a Texas Ranger plant sprawled under the picture window, pregnant with hundreds of tiny lavender flowers.

The place looked cozy and inviting.

Maggie flipped through her notes before exiting the car, briefcase and portable fingerprint kit in hand. She had called Mary Rose earlier that morning to set up a time for a visit. The voice on the other end of the phone had been animated and pleasant. Maggie liked questioning people in their own surroundings. Not only did it make them more comfortable and relaxed, but more often than not seeing how a person lived told her a lot more about them than anything that came out of their mouths in an interrogation room.

She walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

The door opened a crack and an elderly woman peered out at her with a twinkle in her eyes.

“You must be Detective Reardon,” she said as she opened the door. “Do come in dear, you must be sweltering out there.”

The room was neat as a pin, but as soon as Maggie entered she detected the faint smell of stale marijuana smoke and cat urine. Not overwhelming, but definitely there, lurking just under the surface. The soft aroma of Blue Waltz perfume floated in the air ever so faintly. The sense of smell, the most powerful memory trigger, flashed images of her mother tucking her in at bedtime. And the room was filled with the scent of freshly baked cookies. Childhood memories wrapped around her like a cozy blanket.

She immediately felt comfortable here.

“Do sit down,” said Mary Rose, indicating a chair with white crocheted doilies on the arms and back. The room reminded Maggie of an English country cottage right out of a BBC mystery. Watercolors filled the sage green walls, mostly flowers and rural scenes in muted shades of lilacs and greens. Each bore the signature of Mary Rose. She shook hands with the elderly woman, properly introduced herself, then settled down into the chair.

“Where are my manners?” asked Mary Rose. “I just put on a nice pot of chamomile tea. May I offer you a cup?”

“That would be nice, thank you.” This darling woman had a comfortable, relaxed aura about her.

As Mary Rose headed to the kitchen Maggie asked if she could assist.

“No, no, no my dear, everything’s under control.”

A white Persian cat trotted across the room and jumped onto Maggie’s lap to check her out. It sniffed her face and tickled her ears with its whiskers and started to purr, then settled onto her lap like they were old friends, dropping little tufts of fur on her navy blue pants.

“You’re definitely sweeter than the ungrateful fellow I have at home.”

“Ah, so you’ve met Sir Chesterfield,” Mary Rose said as she returned to the room and set the tea tray on the coffee table. “I can see you’ve passed muster.”

She handed Maggie a small plate with three home baked cookies and a linen napkin, then poured the hot brew into teacups. “Cream and sugar?”

“Two sugars.”

Mary Rose placed the cup of tea on the side table next to Maggie, then sat down on the love seat across from her and took a long, slow sip from her own dainty cup.

“I was shocked when you called this morning and told me the purpose of our little visit. It’s so hard to imagine Armando not with us. Why, I just saw him last night and he was so—well, alive.”

“Did you know him well? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

“I tend to keep my mouth shut and my ears open. One gets all kinds of little tidbits that way, but no, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to actually hurt him.”

“Actually?”

“Oh, he liked to play the charmer. And he played people. He liked to play a lot of things. He was quite the player, Mr. Armando. And a first class lothario, but,” she ran knobby, arthritic fingers through her white hair and thought for a minute before continuing. “I doubt anyone took offense. My goodness, he’s bedded half the gallery, but nobody took him seriously. This probably isn’t nice to say, but he was, well, sort of a community plaything at Mosaic.” She chuckled.

“Did his wife know? About the affairs I mean.”

“Barbara? She was blind in love where Armando was concerned, but sure she knew. And he knew about her as well. It was no big deal. They may have been married, but they had an understanding. It was a very open relationship.”

“So Barbara had lovers too?”

“At least two that I know of. No, probably just one. Rocco La Crosse stopped seeing her that way once she was married.”

“Why was that?”

“It wouldn’t have mattered to Barbara, but Rocco has his own rules, and not messing with married women is one of them. You know, Rocco’s the best friend a person could have. And they’re still the best of friends. Benefits or no.”

“And the other lover?”

“Oh, that would be Adrian,” she said.

Maggie flipped through her notes.

“Adrian Velikson?”

“You look surprised.”

Maggie cleared her throat. Barbara Atwell was so feminine that the idea had never crossed her mind.

“Do you think Adrian was jealous?”

“Of course she was jealous. How would you feel if someone you’d been lovers with since college turned around and got married? It took her awhile, but she’s accepted it.”

“Maybe not so much....”

“Oh, Detective Reardon, if you’re thinking Adrian is capable of murder you’re mistaken. Adrian is one of the gentlest souls I’ve ever met.”

Maggie tried to wrap her head around that one. Gentle wouldn’t have been the first adjective that came to mind to describe the butch little broad she’d met yesterday at the gallery.

Mary Rose chuckled, sipped her tea and nibbled on her cookie, then set the cup down on the saucer. “Let me tell you about Adrian,” she said. “Adrian is like a roasted marshmallow. She’s crusty as a burnt biscuit on the outside but all soft and mushy on the inside.”

Maggie would let that go for now. After all, Adrian Velikson had the oldest motive in the world.

Jealousy.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary last night? Anyone not familiar?”

“There’s always a few new faces, but no, nothing that stood out really.” She thought for a minute. “Oh, I do remember one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Armando was on the telephone with Paloma Blanca. They made plans to meet up after the show. But obviously he didn’t make it if you found the poor man dead at the gallery.”

“Paloma Blanca? That name isn’t on my list.”

“She wasn’t there last night. Oh, she makes lovely jewelry. She can do things with silver and semi-precious stones that are magical. Paloma made this ring,” she said, holding out her hand to display her dramatic carnelian ring.

“It’s beautiful.” said Maggie, looking at the ring Mary Rose held out so proudly. “Would you happen to have an address or phone number for her?”

“I’ve got it around here somewhere.” She started to rise.

“That’s okay, I’ll get it from you before I leave. And I’ll need to get your fingerprints, too.”

“Oh my. Does that mean I’m a suspect?”

“It’s only for purposes of elimination.”

“If you think it might help.”

“Do you remember what time you left the gallery last night?”

“It was early. I tire faster than I used to. I think it was around eight thirty. Calypso was all pissed off because Armando snubbed her advances again and she asked me for a ride home.”

“The two of you left together?”

“Yes, we came back here for a little wine and conversation.”

“And a little pot?”

Mary Rose’s laughter was like the sound of tinkling bells. “Oh, you are a good detective. I might be old but believe me I’m not dead yet. Just because there’s snow on the roof...why I could tell you about my years in Paris that would make the antics at The Mosaic Gallery look like amateur hour.” Her attention drifted as her mind wandered off to the Left Bank of Paris. Then she snapped back to the present. “But I’m sure you’re not here to bust me over a little medicinal pot, are you dearie?”

“Negative.”

Maggie stroked Sir Chesterfield’s white fur as he slept on her lap. She was liking Mary Rose more by the minute. Mary was straight forward and up front, which was refreshing compared to most of the people she dealt with. She drained the last of her tea from the cup and sat it down on the side table.

“Your perfume, that’s Blue Waltz isn’t it?”

“Why Detective Reardon, you’re way too young to remember Blue Waltz. When I was in grade school I’d save my allowance and buy it at the five and dime. By the time I could afford the expensive stuff I was too hooked on it to trade up. It’s no longer easy to find, but it’s still out there on the internet. How, pray tell, are you familiar with such an old fashioned scent?”

“It’s the perfume my mother wore.”

“I can see in your eyes that you loved her very much. Would it be improper to ask how you lost her so young?”

“My parents were driving back from Phoenix when a haboob kicked up. The sandstorm was blinding, maybe five percent visibility. They were rear ended by a semi-truck. I lost them both that day.”

“How tragic.”

“It was, yes. I was just two months into eighteen, so at least I didn’t end up in the system.” Maggie had stayed in their house, managed the payments by working in a fast food joint, and kept the land-line listed under their names. As irrational as it seemed, she saw it as a way of keeping them close. She changed the subject. “I might need to speak with you again.”

“To pick my brains?” asked Mary Rose with a twinkle.

“That, too,” she said. “But I also enjoy your company.”

“That would be lovely.”

* * * *

Maggie sat in her car, checking her notes, and looking across the street to Viente de Agosto Park. The thermometer was hovering just below 105 degrees and threatening to go higher, so she kept the engine running for the air conditioning as she flipped through her pages. Barbara Atwell had told her she would find two of the regular gallery patrons here. She had no address for them. And she didn’t have much in the line of names for them either. Just Crazy Jake and Mouse.

She jotted down a few more questions she needed to ask the gallery owner then closed her tablet.

Maggie turned off the ignition, exited the car and walked across the street. A scruffy looking man with a beard that looked like it was breeding cockroaches was sitting with a petite woman nearly as disheveled as himself. They sat with a large, lazy dog under the tall statue of Pancho Villa. The man strummed his guitar, the open guitar case on the ground in front of him, silently begging donations. Barbara had furnished a good description. He was definitely Crazy Jake. The two of them looked homeless and lost. As Maggie neared them, she could hear the music. The woman Barbara Atwell had called Mouse was singing an old Joan Baez folk song in a clear and beautiful voice. The occasional passerby would toss a few coins or a bill into the guitar case, never slowing their pace as they walked by. They didn’t stop but they should have. With a gift like that Mouse should have been charging admission.

Maggie reached into her pocket and pulled a five dollar bill from her wallet. They smiled at her as she dropped it into the guitar case. She waited until the song ended before she spoke. As she introduced herself Mouse’s mouth twitched nervously and Jake looked at her with suspicion.

“Are you here to bust us?” asked Mouse in a squeaky voice, nervously twisting her matted hair.

Maggie wondered how she could sing so beautifully yet have a speaking voice as annoying as fingernails on a chalk board.

“You must be Jake,” she said to the guitar player. He ignored her. She sat on the ground next to them and crossed her legs, trying to look non-threatening to this pair that obviously had issues with authority.

“Barbara from the gallery told me I could find you here. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the other night.”

“The reception? We never miss the reception. But we didn’t do nothin’ bad,” said Mouse nervously. “It’s okay if I took some food. It’s free, just ask Miss Barbara. She always lets me take some extra cuz I sing for her.”

“You sing beautifully, too,” said Maggie.

“Jake, she thinks I sing pretty. Ain’t that nice Jake, huh?” She smiled like a Cheshire cat, exposing a row of discolored teeth as Jake continued to eye her with suspicion. “It’s okay Jake, she’s a nice lady, I can tell. She says I sing good.”

“Sometimes you’re simple,” he said.

“That ain’t very nice, Jake.”

The dog rose and stretched, then ambled lazily over to the side of the statue. He lifted his leg and pissed on Pancho Villa, reflecting the sentiments of half the citizens of Tucson to this odd gift from Mexico. Like so many other things in this town, Señor Villa was a point of contention, some people hating it, others finding a statue honoring a Mexican outlaw an appropriate addition to the landscape. Maggie thought it made about as much sense as if Chicago were to erect a statue in honor of Al Capone. But she was a cop and had a definite bias against the bad guys. The dog lowered his leg, trotted back and plopped down next to Jake.

“Something terrible happened at the gallery night before last and I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Jake, finally acknowledging her.

“Armando Salazar was murdered. His body was found in the gallery yesterday morning. Did you know Armando?”

Mouse began to cry and her crying turned into high pitched shrieks.

“’Mando is our friend,” she cried. “Oh ’Mando. Jake, what are we going to do without Armando?” Her demeanor edged on frantic as she clutched Jake’s arm and buried her face in his shoulder. “What are we gonna do without our ’Mando?”

“Shhh,” he said. “Just shut up, will you?”

“But Jake....”

“Who would want to kill Armando?” he asked Maggie. “Have you caught him yet?”

“We’re working on it.”

Mouse was still weeping, the dog looking at her with confused, sad eyes.

“Do you remember what time you left the gallery, Jake?”

“I don’t wear a watch, lady. I don’t care much what time it is. Time is nothing more than a trap to make the masses march in time for the man. It’s a concept with no meaning.”

“I know,” said Mouse, her face lighting up at the thought of being useful. “We play our music on the porch and we stay until it closes.”

“And what time was that?”

“I dunno, when it closes, that’s all.”

Maggie checked her notes. “Ten.”

“Yea, ten, that’s it.”

Sitting on one of the rare patches of grass in Tucson, Maggie’s eyes were starting to water and her skin was starting to itch. She was allergic to every kind of grass that grew and the lack of grass in Tucson was a blessing. She knew she’d never survive up in Phoenix where they plant lawns everywhere, the over usage of water be damned. Phoenix looked down on Tucson more than just geographically. They found Tucson backward and uncivilized. Maggie found it practical and down to earth. Water was a precious commodity, not to be wasted on lawns. Tucson was unique. Phoenix was trying to look like any big city anywhere and was succeeding. It lacked Tucson’s character. She scratched her arm, then released a sneeze like a burly truck driver, causing Jake to jump.

“Bless you,” said Mouse.

“What’s the matter with you Mouse? What’dya want to be blessing a cop for?”

“Cuz it’s polite, Jake, and if you haven’t noticed I’m a lady!” She sat up straight and squared her shoulders proudly, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity in her worn rags. “I’m a lady and don’t you forget it.”

Jake patted the dog on the head, ignoring her.

“I’m sorry Jake,” she whined. “I didn’t mean nothin’”

“Sometimes you just talk too much.”

“But Jake,” she said. “You never told me what we’re gonna do without Armando.”

“You’ll be fine,” he whispered. “Ain’t I always taken good care of you? Just shush up. People die all the time. Armando ain’t no different.”

“But he was our friend.”

The grass was starting to raise hives around Maggie’s ankles and the conversation was going nowhere fast.

Maggie determined this wasn’t the time to ask for prints. Not with Jake’s paranoia filling the air. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’d really like to talk to both of you some more. Do you have an address where I could see you another time?”

“What, do we look like we don’t have an address? We ain’t street bums.” Jake was on the defensive and itching for some sort of altercation to prove his suspicions about “the man.” The perceived enemy.

And Maggie wasn’t about to take the bait.

“No, I never thought that for a minute. I just thought we might all be more comfortable were we to meet more privately.”

“So you can bring in the gestapo to tear our place apart? I don’t think so,” said Jake.

Mouse lowered her eyes and pouted.

“Just me. I promise,” said Maggie.

“She’s okay Jake,” Mouse whined in his ear.

Maggie could see the paranoia dancing in Jake’s eyes. She’d seen it a hundred times in as many faces. Looking at him, she fully understood why everyone referred to him as Crazy Jake. She’d had to hold back a few times from calling him that herself. And Mouse? The woman thought Jake was her protector but it was obvious to Maggie that things were really the other way around.

Maggie handed Mouse her card.

“And do you have a number where I can reach you?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t believe in telephones,” Jake said. “They put little things in them so they can listen in and spy on you.”

“And they record everything you say,” said Mouse. “Jake told me so.”

“Then I’d say it’s perfectly understandable that you don’t have one,” Maggie said to Jake, then added, “One can’t be too careful.”

This conversation was going downhill faster than a junk bond.

“I’d appreciate if both of you would think about the reception the other night, see if you remember anything that might help us catch the person who murdered Armando Salazar. My number’s on the card.”

“Wow,” said Mouse. “You mean I’d be like a deputy or something?”

“Absolutely.”

Mouse shoved the business card into her purse and looked at Maggie, eyes wide. “If I helped find ’Mando’s killer I’d be really special, huh?”

“The way you sing I’d say you’re already pretty special.”

Mouse beamed.

“Could I have your address?” Maggie asked her.

“No,” said Jake. “Unless you want to arrest us for something, where we live ain’t none of your business. I know my rights and you can’t mess with them.”

“I don’t know if it has a number,” said Mouse.

“Shut up,” said Jake, exasperated.

Ignoring him, Mouse continued. “If you go down Convent Street, we live over there. It’s the only bright yellow garage door on the whole street. It’s as bright as sunshine or maybe somebody’s pet canary. It’s only a garage, but I like it there. I made it pretty, didn’t I Jake?”

“Damn it Mouse. Why didn’t you just draw the pig a friggin’ map?”

“Don’t be so rude, Jake. She’s being really nice to us.”

“Pigs just pretend they’re nice when they want something. Didn’t I teach you nothin’ at all?”

Crazy Jake was like a throwback to the hippie days. Did people even call cops pigs anymore? She’d been called a lot of things but couldn’t remember ever having been called a pig. Oh well, there was a first time for everything. Ignoring his insult Maggie rose to her feet, brushed the grass off her slacks, and walked toward her car.

“Good bye nice lady,” Mouse called out. “Don’t mind Jake, he’s just having a bad day.”

Maggie turned and waved. Her arms itched and the sunlight beating down on them didn’t help. She could hardly wait to get into the car and turn the air conditioner on full blast.

From behind her she could hear Crazy Jake railing on Mouse.

“I swear woman, sometimes you just don’t know when to keep your trap shut.”

“Aw, c’mon Jake. Let’s play some music. It’ll make you feel better.”

Guitar riffs and beautiful singing drifted through the thick, hot air as Maggie slid behind the wheel.