Читать книгу The Trouble with Murder - Kathy Krevat - Страница 9

Chapter 2

A fate worse than death.

I couldn’t help but remember Lani’s words when I was attacked by a gang of rabid soccer moms waiting outside the activity center in Twila’s gated community. Twila had given the gate code to everyone, but she’d given only me the key code to the building. I was totally on time, but that wasn’t enough for these over-achievers.

With everyone waiting by my shoulder, I fumbled a few times as I entered it, and finally got it right. Each digit played a musical note and then the door buzzed.

“Sounds like Beethoven’s Fifth,” one of the moms said. “Bump-bump-bump-buzz,” she repeated, blaring out the last note.

I laughed, probably from nerves, and we went inside, ready to set up. It was a good thing I’d taken a nap and picked up an extra-large coffee to prepare for the trade show.

We’d all pitched in to rent the banquet hall, a large round room with windows looking out over the golf course. Somehow because of my experience at farmers’ markets, I’d been put in charge of assigning all the booths—a thankless task—and creating the SPM Scavenger Hunt—another thankless task. Guests who visited each of our booths and got a stamp inked on the form could win a grand prize of a basket full of goodies from all the vendors.

I wasn’t sure how the evening would play out so I’d left Trouble at home. Bronx Innis stopped me as I was unloading boxes. “I need electrical tape!” she said. She had a mobile pet grooming business, and had come up with the idea of a puppy petting booth for the trade show. “There are extension cords running right through my space.”

“I have a roll in my car,” I reassured her. My farmers’ market experience was paying off. “I’ll bring it over.”

Then Daria Valdez grabbed my arm. I fumbled my box and nearly dumped my cans of assorted Meowio Batali food.

“Sorry,” she said, “But my booth can NOT be near Mona’s.” Her face was red with anger. Then she took a deep breath and spoke more calmly. “We have competing products, so it makes more sense to keep us far apart.”

Daria was a BeesWax Party consultant, marketing the overpriced candles Lani and I laughed about, and Mona Hayworth ran Spicy Parties selling massage oils, lingerie, and other “adult” products.

Mona strolled over, and I realized the real problem. In keeping with her risqué goods, she was wearing a black satin robe that was more suited for the Playboy Mansion than a family trade show.

Before Mona could say anything, Gina Pace rushed in front of her. “Why am I all the way in the back?” she asked, flipping her blond ponytail over her shoulder. “I’ll get no traffic at all.” Gina ran, literally, the Mommy and Me exercise classes where moms with babies in joggers dashed all over Sunnyside, losing their pregnancy weight at record speed.

I decided to tackle the easy one first. “You are right beside the raffle ticket box and free refreshments,” I told Gina. “Everyone will walk by.”

“Oh. Okay, fine,” she said, and jogged back toward her booth, knees high, totally ignoring the Daria-Mona drama.

I turned to the woman who looked so much like Sofia Vergara she could be her slightly older stunt double. “Mona, is there something…less revealing you can wear from your product line?” When she slammed her eyebrows together, I added, “You look absolutely gorgeous, but there are bound to be children here, and we don’t want to offend any potential customers.”

Since I was the youngest in the group by far, I had to walk a fine line. I may have just stepped over it.

She pursed her lips as if considering, and then gave us both an elaborate shrug. “I’ll see what I can do.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder and turned around, in the sexy walk of a classic Hollywood movie star. Or Jessica Rabbit.

“I’m sure she won’t be pushing her candles tonight,” I reassured Daria when she was out of earshot. “Not wearing something like that.”

She scowled after her, her dark eyes flashing. “She’ll be pushing—” She cut herself off with a short shake of her head. “I’ll deal.”

I sighed and walked to my own table, while Twila arrived with a large box, and plopped it on the table right beside mine. “Isn’t this exciting?” she said before going back outside for another box. With her freckles and curly red hair cut asymmetrically, she made me think of a 1920’s flapper girl.

Twila was the SoCal Puzzle Lady. Soon she was setting up children’s wooden puzzles of farm animals, organizing jigsaw puzzles by number of pieces, and stacking 3D metal brainteasers, probably according to how crazy someone gets trying to solve them. She even put up a backdrop—a wall-sized crossword puzzle.

“Have you done this before?” I asked her, as she carefully placed an Einstein bust on a table.

“A few times,” she said.

No wonder she knew to avoid table placement responsibility.

“Do you know who was responsible for the gate?” she asked. “It wasn’t propped open, and I can’t remember who volunteered.”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

She shrugged. “I took care of it.”

I started arranging my newest product line, a butcher block full of knives and a set of kitchen utensils with cute cat paw prints engraved on them. They were an expensive investment, but had become a nice addition to my cat food income. I put the knife set on the table behind me, out of reach of curious children.

Sharon Merritt, owner of Chaos Commando, a closet organization company whose brochure photos of perfectly organized closets always made me envious, stopped over. She was probably itching to rearrange my pyramid of Fish Romance to perfectly match the pile of Chicken Sauté. “Is your Square working?” she asked, holding up her cell phone with the white square attachment that most of us were using for credit card sales.

Daria called out, “I was having trouble earlier, but now it’s fine.”

Sharon tried again, frowning at her phone. “There it is! Thank you, dear.” She had a round face with a perpetually worried expression. I’d made the mistake of telling Lani that she looked like a matronly angel troubled about her flock, and that’s all she could talk about for a week when I brought up the group.

“No problem,” Daria replied.

I got back to organizing my booth with a sigh of relief.

Soon we had a decent crowd of friends and neighbors, with almost all the booths getting some trade show action. Many guests held coupons that some of the moms must have sent out ahead of time for special offers. Mona had a line of sheepish looking men at her booth. I couldn’t wait to find out what kind of coupon she’d sent out.

Twila had offered a big discount on a small jigsaw puzzle of a lit-up New York Broadway scene. “Save me one of those,” I told her. “Elliott’ll like it.”

“Sure thing,” she said.

“Hey, in case someone complains later,” I started, and told her about the issue Daria had with Mona.

Twila shook her head. “Yeah, that problem’s brewing for a while.”

“So I handled it okay?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s between them,” she said. “But if it’s going to spill over to the group, we’ll have a meeting to deal with it.” She turned back to prevent a young child from toppling the glowing globe on her table.

The next two hours flew by and before long only a few customers lingered. I’d sold out of several of my flavors and handed out dozens of cards advertising my website.

Twila was about to walk around the activity center to take an informal survey of the event when a group of late-arriving teachers stopped at her booth. “Can you see what everyone thought?” she asked me. “I’ll keep an eye on your booth.” She handed over a clipboard with a sheet of paper and all the SPM members’ names typed up with “Notes” beside them.

I couldn’t imagine that level of organization.

Daria had regained her normal good humor and was ecstatic about her sales. I peeked at the price of a small tea light holder in the shape of an owl. Forty dollars! If she was selling a bunch of those, no wonder she was happy.

Mona was pleased as well, but didn’t give any details. She had what looked like a large genie bottle full of forms with names and addresses of people interested in her parties.

Sharon said she’d handed out business cards and needed to schedule appointments with people interested in closet organization. “Next time we do something like this, you should take registrations and get e-mails from everyone, not just those who stopped by a booth.”

I hadn’t had much interaction with Sharon before, but I’d learned early that she loved to give advice. Maybe because she was the only empty-nester in the group and didn’t have kids at home to advise anymore. Or maybe that’s what made her a great closet organizer—she was good at telling people what to do.

Bronx, the owner of SoCal Spaw, bubbled over with delight. “I met SO many new potential customers!” she said, her southern accent more pronounced in her excitement. “With my trade show coupon, they can get me at the same price as most regular groomers. For the first time anyway.” The puppies she’d brought were all sleeping in two small crates.

“Great strategy.” I admired her flyers with pink and purple cartoon drawings of a dog with a bow in its hair and a smiling cat.

Beside them was a stack of black business cards with only the words Lice Club Lady and a phone number in silver font. “Who’s this?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “They just appeared there during the evening.”

I turned the card over. What happens in the Lice Club stays in the Lice Club. “Did you see the back?” I handed it to her.

“Ooh,” she said. “That’s so weird. But, you know, clever.”

I agreed, and put the card in my pocket. Maybe the Lice Club Lady wanted to join our little group. I certainly hoped I wouldn’t need her services. Elliott was out of elementary school but I’d heard even middle schools sometimes had outbreaks.

Next stop was Fawn Escanso’s booth where she was advertising her website design business and her new life coach practice, and requesting donations for her nonprofit that found jobs for kids graduating from the foster youth program. On top of raising four boys. She must never sleep.

Before I could talk to her, I saw Twila waving at me with my phone in her hand. “I heard your cell ringing twice,” she said when I walked back to her. “I tried to answer, but I didn’t catch it in time. Sorry to be nosy, but I could see at least one text from Elliott.”

I took the phone from her and the screen held the beginnings of several texts from my son. When are you going to get home??? Grandpa is coughing like crazy and I’m worried!! Elliott had added a few emojis of someone turning green. I wasn’t sure if he meant my dad or himself. My concern must have shown on my face.

“Everything okay?” Twila asked.

I bit my lip. “Elliott says my dad is coughing hard again.”

“You go ahead home,” she said. “I’m the clean-up committee anyway so I’ll bring your boxes to your house.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said. “This stuff is heavy.”

“Colbie,” she said, her voice all serious. “I went through this when my mom was sick. When a friend offers to help you, they truly want you to say ‘yes.’”

I blinked at her a moment, feeling overwhelmed by emotion. She’d called me out on my secret fear—of ever needing help. And my even more secret wish to have friends who would offer. “Okay. Yes. And thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Now get out of here.” She waved her hands toward the door in a get going gesture.

“Thank you,” I said over my shoulder. I went back to my table and threw my cash box and receipt book into my large shoulder bag and left.

* * * *

By the time I got home, Trouble was waiting at the door and my dad had a glass of whiskey in his hand, his cure-all for almost any illness. He’d stopped coughing, but was cursing at his computer.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, lifting Trouble into my arms and holding her like a baby. She rested a paw on my chin and purred, which had to mean I’m so glad you’re home. I looked over my dad’s shoulder while he sat at his makeshift desk on a corner display table in the living room. He had a small office upstairs but I’d moved his laptop and desk chair down when he got sick.

“This website is screwed up,” he said. “I’m trying to move my money and it’s saying I can’t.”

“Your bank?”

“No,” he said, frustration in his voice. “That investment account I told you about. I decided to get out while I was ahead, but their website is saying I don’t have the right to move it.”

“Do you want me to look at it?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m going to call my guy.”

My stomach tightened at the words my guy. My dad had a distrust of companies and believed they charged more than they should. He’d had “my guy” for everything from the amateur bee removal “expert” who had to come out five times to remove a hive, to the contractor who’d started an add-on to our house and then took off for parts unknown with my dad’s deposit, leaving behind a doorway to nowhere from the laundry room.

“Who is he?” I asked, trying to sound relaxed. But then I added, “Are you sure he’s legit?”

“Of course he’s legit.” He flicked through his phone contact list. “It’s Bert Merritt. He’s married to that closet woman.”

Closet woman? “Sharon?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He put the phone on speaker.

“Bert here,” a man answered.

“Bert!” my dad yelled and gave me a look that said See. And you doubted my guy. “I’m trying to move some money out, and I was having trouble with your website.”

“Trouble?” he said. “No one else has said anything. Probably because no one in their right mind would get out now.” He added a little laugh that was probably meant to soften the insult.

I raised my eyebrows at my dad, but he didn’t notice. “I’d normally ride it out,” my dad said, “but it’s a good time, when I’ve already got so much return.”

“Yeah, but it’s still going up,” Bert said, all smarm. “You’re too smart to get out when it’s about to take off even more.”

My dad frowned, not liking being told no. “Perhaps, but I still need the money. Not the entire amount of course.”

“Maybe my tech guy has the website down for maintenance.” I heard Bert type in a three-digit key code and a deep buzz that sounded familiar. “I’ll give him a call and you can try again in a few—”

The voice cut out.

“Hello?” My dad waited. Then he swore and redialed. It went straight to message. “He must not have cell service where he is.”

The key code and the buzz. It had sounded just like Beethoven’s Fifth. “I think he’s at the activity center,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“At the trade show I left a little while ago,” I said. “It sounds like the same key code for the door. Maybe he’s helping Sharon pack up.”

“Really?” he asked, as if he didn’t quite believe me. “Did your phone work there?”

“Yep,” I said. “I don’t think anyone had trouble.”

“I want this taken care of tonight,” he said, his jaw set to “stubborn.” Then he redialed. It went straight to voice mail. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Let’s go over there.”

“The activity center?” I asked.

“Yes.” He stood up. “You said you recognized the security code. The Beethoven thing or whatever. I think he’s trying to avoid me.”

“It’s twenty minutes away,” I said. “Even if I’m right, he could be gone when we get there.”

To answer, my dad redialed the number and stared at me, his expression mulish.

Voice mail.

I sighed. “Okay.”

* * * *

After letting Elliott know we’d be back soon and plopping Trouble onto my dad’s chair, I headed back to Twila’s gated community with my dad in the passenger seat.

We sat in awkward silence until he asked in an oh-so-casual voice, “So how’s the business going?” He was staring out the window. Was he trying to show me it was no big deal or that he didn’t want to scare me off with questions?

And why did every serious conversation with him have to be fraught with so many emotional landmines?

“Good,” I replied, hoping he wasn’t going to pipe up with advice. “I’m waiting to hear from Twomey’s. If they’re at all interested in selling my food in their stores, they’ll ask for a business proposal.”

“They’d be idiots not to,” he said gruffly. “But you already work so hard at all hours. How are you going to do even more?”

I took a deep breath, telling myself that he was concerned and not questioning my judgment. “I’ve been saving a little, and if I get the deal, I’ll figure it out. I’m hoping my cook can give me more hours if I need her.”

He was silent a minute as we arrived back at Twila’s community. “Back in the city?”

I pushed the button to open my window as I drove up the keypad sticking out from the wall. I typed in the gate code and it opened with a metallic groan. “I’m not sure yet,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.

“Maybe they have one of those commercial kitchens out this way,” he said. “Might even be cheaper.”

I caught my breath. Was he hinting that he wanted us to stay? “Might be.”

He stayed quiet as we drove the rest of the way to the activity center. The lights were still on inside, but the visitor parking lot was empty except for a lonely golf cart. We both got out of the car. Palm trees rustled above us, driven by a breeze too high for us to feel. A few house lights blinked from across the golf course.

“Looks like they’re all gone,” I said.

“Let’s go make sure,” my dad said.

Did he need money that bad all of a sudden? “What’s the rush on the money?” I asked.

He frowned. “I have a few ideas.”

We walked up the short path, pausing a minute at the glass door. Inside I could see dark footprints heading toward us. “What the heck is that?”

“Just open it and let’s see if Bert’s in the back or something,” my dad said, too impatient to pay attention.

I typed in the code and the door buzzed. Definitely Beethoven.

I opened the door and my dad brushed by me. Then he stopped abruptly. “What is this?”

The footprints came from the back of the banquet room, where my table had been. They were red.

“Is that blood?” Without thinking, I knelt down and touched an imprint. “Oh my God!” I jumped up and took a step. A smell came from the room, something that I recognized at some instinctive level, and my heart started pounding.

“Damnit, Colbie!” he said, grabbing my arm. “Someone could still be in here!”

I pulled away. “And someone could be hurt.” I avoided walking on the footprints, and followed them.

Right to the body of Twila Jenkins.

Her arms were thrown back against the floor as if she was still trying to back away from danger.

A Meowio Batali butcher knife was buried in her chest.