Beignets and Broomsticks Page 6

  ‘Excuse me?’ I stopped in front of the counter, inhaling the smell of heaven in muffin form.

  ‘It’s the first of the month.’ He held out his open palm. ‘I assume you’d like to give me a check for your rent.’

  ‘It’s in the mail.’ The Gregorys owned the fourplex where I rented my one-bedroom apartment. Truth be told, I hadn’t mailed it yet but vowed to myself that I’d do it the minute I got home. Well, after I fed the cat and did some laundry. Maybe buried my Little Dead Riding Hood costume out on the front lawn in an unmarked grave.

  The property I was renting had originally been shown to me by a real estate agent. If I had known Rob and Trish Gregory owned it, I would have pitched a tent in the hills first rather than give them any of my hard-earned money. ‘Was Nancy Alverson’s Land Rover parked outside last night?’

  ‘What business is that of yours?’ Rob replied.

  ‘It may not be any of my business but I’m sure the police would like to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  I spun around to face the mountain that was Detective Mark Highsmith. ‘Hi, Detective. Am I glad to see you. I was just asking Rob if he remembers seeing Nancy Alverson’s SUV parked outside last night.’ I pointed out the window. ‘That’s it there, the Land Rover.’

  ‘I know that, Ms Miller.’

  ‘But do you know whether or not it was parked at the curb here last night?’ I asked. ‘Because, personally, I don’t remember.’

  Mark opened his mouth to reply, then apparently thought better of it. ‘Can I speak with you for a minute outside, Ms Miller?’

  I frowned. ‘I suppose.’

  He pulled open the door and I followed him as he limped out to the sidewalk. Instead of stopping beside him, I marched over to Nancy Alverson’s vehicle, cupped my hands around my eyes and peeked in the windows.

  ‘What are you doing, Maggie?’

  ‘Looking for clues.’

  ‘She was killed in her apartment, remember?’ The detective sounded tired, and I was sure he was.

  I peered some more into the vehicle. There was camping gear, empty water bottles, wrappers from local food joints, a couple of maps and lots of touristy brochures, bits of clothing like balled-up socks and jackets, a camera and a pair of binoculars. I turned to face him. ‘I don’t think the Land Rover was here when I came to see her last night, Detective.’

  Highsmith stroked his chin. ‘I’ll look into it. Anything else?’ His rumpled brown suit looked as worn out as he sounded.

  I started to say something then shut my mouth. I wanted to ask him about his purported relationship with Nancy Alverson but so far it was only purported, and by Veronica Vargas at that. It was probably nonsense.

  This was not the time to make him angry. I wanted information.

  ‘No. Do you have any suspects yet? Do you know who killed her?’

  Highsmith shook his head. ‘Nope. But don’t worry, we’ll find him.’

  ‘Or her?’

  Highsmith locked me in his sight. ‘Or her.’ He glanced briefly in the rear window of the Land Rover. ‘Do me a favor: be nice to Veronica. She’s having a tough time.’

  ‘I’ll bet. The reporters are going to be all over her.’

  ‘Not if they don’t know that it was her scarf wrapped around the victim’s neck.’

  ‘You haven’t told them?’

  ‘We’re keeping it quiet for now. I’m asking you to do the same thing. If not for the sake of our investigation, then for Veronica’s sake.’

  I snorted. ‘You have got to be kidding? The woman treats me like dirt.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re being too sensitive, Maggie. You aren’t giving her a chance. Veronica is really very sweet.’

  I was pretty sure my eye-roll could have been seen from the dark side of the moon. The man was clearly gaga for VV. I, on the other hand, had no such delusions clouding my judgment. ‘Are we talking about the same person?’

  ‘She’s not as tough as you think she is, Maggie. She only acts that way. She’s a lawyer and a prosecuting attorney. She has to act tough. It’s part of her job.’

  I shook my head side to side. VV was suckering Highsmith and he was suckering me.

  ‘You owe me, Maggie.’ Highsmith thrust his left hand into the pocket of his trousers.

  ‘How do you figure?’

  He looked down and raised his right foot.

  Rats. I did, sort of. But really, it was that cursed Belle Époque espresso machine’s fault, not mine.

  ‘Fine. I won’t tell a soul.’ My hand flew to my mouth. ‘Oh …’

  The detective narrowed his eyes at me. ‘What?’

  ‘I might have mentioned VV’s scarf being the murder weapon to my mom.’

  Highsmith groaned audibly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I added quickly. ‘I’ll tell her that mum’s the word. Promise.’ I held up my hand.

  ‘Fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a job to do. I believe you do, too.’ He pointed to the small crowd of customers entering Maggie’s Beignet Café.

  ‘Right, thanks.’ I slid past him and pulled open the Karma Koffee door.

  ‘Miller!’ The detective growled and took a step toward me.

  ‘What? I’m just going in for a muffin. I’ll be out in a jiff.’ I crossed my heart. ‘Promise.’

  I heard a mighty sigh that could have sent a galleon skipping across the Mediterranean from Tunis to Constantinople as the detective turned and headed for the door in the alcove that led up to Nancy Alverson’s apartment.

  The line was three deep when I got back inside Karma Koffee, and I was forced to wait my turn.

  The counter, like each table, was thick with customers, many with open laptops taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. With Maggie’s Beignet Café being in close proximity to Karma Koffee, I did the same. I suspected Nancy Alverson had also done the same. I hadn’t hooked up Wi-Fi of my own yet, though Aubrey and Kelly had been pestering me to. Such things were a drag on the café’s bottom line.

  The thought of Nancy sitting dead at her desk brought another pang to my heart. Suddenly, I felt like crying. I grabbed a napkin and dabbed the corners of my eyes.

  ‘You OK?’

  I looked up. It was Lee, a Karma Koffee employee. ‘I’ll be OK.’ I dabbed some more. ‘It’s all this Arizona dust.’

  Lee was a quiet, sixtyish churchgoer with fuzzy, short gray hair, a long face, full brows and wide-set eyes. He was something of a loner but a whiz at making coffee drinks. Aubrey knew him well. She used to work at Karma Koffee too but had quit without notice to come work for me – her idea, not mine.

  I couldn’t say which bothered the Gregorys more: the fact that she left Karma Koffee or the fact that she came to work for me. A little of both, I hoped.

  Lee slid a big tray of blueberry scones onto a shelf in the glass-fronted display case. ‘When I’m feeling … dusty … I find there’s nothing like chocolate.’ He handed me a bite-sized biscotti then returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks.’ I sniffled, dropped it on my tongue and chewed. It was fresh-baked and rich with the combined flavors of chocolate and almond.

  Trish handed a customer a cruller and a scone. She passed his cute female companion two large coffees. She wished them a good day, then turned to me. ‘Now what, Ms Miller? Can’t you see we’re busy here?’

  They were indeed. Busier than I was, no doubt. ‘Where did Rob go?’

  Trish planted her hands on her hips. ‘That’s not an answer, that’s another question.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Nancy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Trish said rather sharply. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to run a business here.’

  ‘Did you know her long? Do you know if she has any family in the area?’

  ‘Ms Miller, really. This is not the time or the place.’ Trish looked past me to a fellow in a flannel coat who had cleared his throat quite pointedly behind me. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  I twirled and smil
ed at the stranger. ‘One second?’

  The man looked up from his cellphone. He didn’t look happy.

  ‘Please?’

  Nor did he reply. He simply returned his attention to whatever was so important on his phone screen.

  ‘Thank you.’ I spun back to Trish, knocking over a small chalkboard announcing the day’s special blend. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered, setting it back on its easel as best I could.

  The Gregorys were a handsome couple in their mid-thirties, both tan and fit. Rob has short, wavy brown hair with sun-bleached streaks at the temples of his rectangular face. His eyes are dark gray.

  At the moment, however, Trish was looking rather ugly. ‘Ms Miller, please, order something or leave.’

  ‘Actually,’ I cleared my throat, ‘I was wondering …’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, her patience clearly strained.

  ‘Do you have room for one more student?’ Rob taught yoga part-time at his studio up on the second floor directly above Karma Koffee. Nancy Alverson’s apartment was on the floor above the yoga studio.

  Trish’s long lashes batted at me. Her hair is two shades darker than Rob’s and shoulder length. I’ve never seen her wear earrings, but she does sport a delicate silver navel ring, which shows frequently as she is a fan of small halter tops and billowy skirts when not wearing the Karma Koffee uniform: fern-green polo shirts, matching visors and khakis.

  Both were into yoga and all things New Age. Today, I saw that Trish’s fingernails were painted white and intricately decorated with black spirals.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Rob. I don’t handle the classes – he does.’

  ‘OK. Would you ask him for me, please?’

  She wiped her hands on a damp towel behind the counter. ‘Fine. I’ll have him call you. Anything else?’

  I drew in a deep breath. I knew I was pressing my luck and Trish’s patience but I asked anyway. ‘Do you remember seeing Nancy Alverson’s Land Rover parked on the street here last night?

  For a second there, I really thought there was honest-to-goodness steam coming out Trish Gregory’s ears, but it was only an employee frothing milk at an intricate espresso station six times the size of my own recently acquired machine.

  Trish Gregory pressed her knuckles into the quartz counter and got in my face. ‘Ms Miller,’ she said, her voice as tight as a balloon at the end of its tether.

  ‘Yes?’ I gulped.

  ‘If I give you a muffin, will you go away?’

  I took the muffin but the joke was on Trish, because I was going to leave anyway.

  SEVEN

  I spent the rest of the day doing normal stuff, like trying to earn a living. Aubrey and Kelly were as busted up as I was about Nancy Alverson’s murder. Neither had known her any better than I had but it was still difficult to accept.

  It was hard enough accepting any death, let alone the murder of a frequent customer who lived across the street. That third-floor apartment window would forever be a reminder of what had happened.

  Toward closing, my nephew, Connor, rolled up on his bike. Connor, like his younger brother, Hunter, takes after his dad, Andy. Fourteen years old, Connor already was nearly six foot tall. He had the same fine blond hair as his father, although he kept his a more normal length with bangs that spilled over his forehead. His eyes, like Hunter’s when he wasn’t disguised as an artichoke and you could see them, were blue-gray.

  ‘Hi, Connor.’ I lifted the hinged countertop and met him just inside the door. He tolerated my hug about as well as any fourteen-year-old would. ‘Lemonade and beignets?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘OK. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.’

  Connor set his olive-green backpack on the nearest table, pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Dad mentioned you had some leftover candy, too?’

  I smiled. ‘It’s right here behind the counter.’ I scooped up half-a-dozen pumpkin spice beignets and placed them on a tray. I added two large lemonades and set the candy bars and Cracker Jack box beside the rest.

  I carried everything over to the table, where I was met by a big grin. ‘Thanks!’ Connor grabbed a beignet and bit it in two. ‘These are great, Aunt Maggie!’

  ‘Glad you like them.’ I picked up a warm beignet, rolled it around in some extra powdered sugar on the plate and took a bite. ‘I never get tired of beignets,’ I said, licking my fingers afterwards.

  ‘Me, too.’ Connor polished off a couple more. He picked up the candy bars one by one, added them to a small, zippered pocket of the backpack and set the Cracker Jack box in an exterior mesh pocket. ‘Is this all the leftovers?’ he asked greedily.

  I laughed and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Just between us, your grandmother has the rest. She’s going to leave it in the community room. I’ll bet if you get there quickly enough, you may be able to add to your stash.’

  Connor smiled. ‘Thanks. I might.’ His eyes clung to his lemonade. ‘Aunt Maggie, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure, you can ask me anything. What else are aunts for?’ We each plucked another beignet from the pile.

  ‘I was wondering if you could talk to Mom for me.’

  My brow went up. ‘OK, about what?’

  ‘You see, I’m in ninth grade now. At least, I would be if I was in regular school.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I nodded. ‘I guess you would.’

  ‘And I’m not a kid anymore.’

  ‘No.’ I tried not to grin. ‘No, you’re not.’ I had no idea where this was leading.

  ‘Well, there’s this girl …’

  Bingo!

  I knew exactly where this was leading. I put my hand over Connor’s. ‘And you would like to ask this girl out on a date?’

  Connor blushed and looked at his plate. ‘We met last night at the school social. Her name is Madison and I was hoping to take her to the movies.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful.’ I frowned. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Mom thinks I should have her over for dinner first.’

  Yikes! Forcing a fourteen-year-old girl to eat Donna’s home-cooked vegetarian cooking? That could be considered a cruel and unusual punishment.

  I had to tread carefully. I was only the aunt. ‘What does your father think?’

  Connor toyed with his fingers. ‘I think he sort of agrees with me. But I don’t think he wants to say that to Mom.’

  Smart man. I couldn’t say that out loud either. I patted my nephew’s hand. ‘I’ll have a talk with her, how’s that?’

  The smile returned to his face. ‘That would be awesome, Aunt Maggie. Thanks.’

  I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes at him. Although he’d said thanks, he still didn’t look happy. ‘Is there more? Something you are not telling me?’

  Connor gulped as he nodded. ‘I was thinking …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Maybe,’ his eyes darted to mine then returned to some unknown point in the distance. ‘Maybe you could talk to Mom about letting me go to public school?’ He glanced quickly into my eyes.

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Public school, huh?’ My fingertips tapped the table nervously. This was a whole lot bigger than her son’s first date. This was her son wanting to cut the strings.

  How would Andy and my sister react to that little bombshell? Why, oh why, must I be the one to open the bay doors and drop the bomb?

  ‘Have you tried talking to your mother and father about this yet?’

  ‘No. It’s kind of hard.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Donna loved homeschooling her boys. I let out a breath. ‘I’ll talk to her. That’s all I can promise.’

  Connor leapt to his feet with a squeal of chair and floor that sent a shiver up my spine. ‘Thanks again, Aunt Maggie!’ He grabbed his backpack and started for the door.

  ‘What about the beignets and the rest of your lemonade?’

  Connor blushed, hurried back to the table, stuffed two pumpkin spice beignets in his mouth like the world’s hungriest squirrel a
nd snatched the paper cup of lemonade. ‘Fthankphew fewee mumph!’

  And he was gone.

  The remainder of the day was relatively eventless. We were all happy and relieved to put an end to it and close up shop.

  I pedaled home, pondering how I was going to approach talking to my kid sister about her oldest boy wanting to go on his first date – one not involving parents and sketchy meals – and attend public school.

  I arrived home with no clear plan. While I would have liked to put the conversation off for as long as possible, I knew that doing so would not be fair to Connor.

  I’d have to talk to Donna and Andy soon.

  I parked my pink Schwinn on the patio. I walked around to the front, turned the key in the lock and was immediately attacked by Little Dead Riding Hood. I screamed and lunged sideways, knocking into the small wooden table beside the door and sending a small potted cactus to the floor.

  Little Dead Riding Hood mrowled at me and a fuzzy orange, white-and-black-striped tail wagged quickly back and forth from the folds of the hideous cloak.

  I laughed and bent down to lift the cloak from Carole Two. I wasn’t quite sure how old Carole Two, my calico cat was but, according to the vet, she was middle-aged, like me.

  I’d sort of inherited the cat and the name. According to the cat’s previous owner, Carole was the name of his deceased wife. Whether he had named the calico Carole Two in her honor or as a slight was open to interpretation.

  I kicked off my shoes at the door and scooped up the cactus mess as best I could, vowing to run the floor sweeper over the dirt later. C2 followed me to the kitchen, where I pulled the big bag of kibble down from atop the refrigerator. Her primary food was some organic stuff that Donna and Andy insisted I buy from them. The dry bits were full of rice, corn, soybeans, kelp, chia seeds and a hundred other natural vegetable ingredients, all of which sounded totally unnatural to me.

  For the cat’s sake and mine, I kept a mixed case of tuna, salmon and chicken canned food hidden where my sister was unlikely to discover them behind the pots and pans inside one of the lower cabinets.

  I refreshed the cat’s water bowl and gave her a scoop of dry and a can of wet. It was probably too much food, but neither of us had a boyfriend so we weren’t worried if we put on a few pounds.