Bad Reputation, A (17 page)

If Bea didn't bring the Honda to the garage until Thursday, then it could've been in the parking lot Wednesday. I sat looking out the dusty window and wondering until Dennis brought me my keys and said I was good to go. I asked him how he knew oil was leaking from the Honda.

“Oh, that's easy,” he said. “It was leaving big old puddles of oil everywhere.”

***

I looked for big old puddles of oil in the parking lot behind the gallery and found them. I asked the owner of the gift shop if she remembered where the Honda was parked. She pointed out the same spot where I found the stains.

Next I went to the Chicken House, a fast food restaurant across from the Wal-Mart store. I'd met Randi Peterson, the young woman behind the counter, when she had been a contestant in the Miss Celosia Pageant, part of my very first successful investigation. Randi's brown curls were secured beneath a Chicken House cap. Her carefully plucked eyebrows always gave her an expression of surprise.

“Hi, Madeline. Welcome to the Chicken House. Would you like to try our Wings 'N' Rings Special today? Five chicken wings and five onion rings plus a drink for three fifty.”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I hope you can help me with something.”

Her brows went up even further. “Are you on a case?”

“Yes. Were you working Wednesday night around six?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I work every night. I'm beginning to believe my mom was right when she said I should've finished high school.”

“Do you know Bea Ricter and Ginger Alverez?”

“I don't know Ginger Alverez, but isn't Bea Ricter a little squatty woman who always looks angry?”

“That describes her pretty well. Was she here that night?”

Randi pursed her lips in thought. “Well, I'm sure I'd remember her because she's kind of rude. And she dresses like she's been digging in the garden all day.”

“Ginger's a little shorter than me with reddish hair, pale skin, and freckles.”

Randi shook her head. “Like I said, I don't know her.” She turned to address a co-worker who passed behind her with a load of fries. “Bea Ricter hasn't been in all week, has she?”

“No, thank goodness,” the other girl said. “Grumpy old cow.”

“Could she have gone through the drive-thru?” I asked.

“I'll see.” Randi went to the drive-thru register and talked for a few minutes with the young man stationed there. When she came back, she said, “Josh was on the window Wednesday night and says she didn't come through there. He knows her, too, because she's never happy with her order and always wants extra ketchup or sauce, or something's not right. She usually comes in to eat, though.”

“Thanks, Randi. That's very helpful.”

“Did she commit a crime?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Does it have something to do with that man that got killed at the art gallery? Everybody's saying his ex-wife did it.”

“I'm trying to find out the truth.”

Now I needed to know why Ginger Alverez had lied.

Chapter Eighteen

Ginger lived in a particularly ugly green brick split-level near the elementary school. She was hanging clothes on a line in her backyard: large jeans I assumed belonged to Mr. Alverez, some child-sized jeans and t-shirts, towels, and dishcloths. She gave me a wary look.

“Oh, hello, Madeline.”

“Got a minute?”

“No, actually, I'm kind of busy.” She took another towel from her laundry basket.

“This won't take long.”

“I don't have time for this. Not everyone likes to answer your questions, you know.”

Hmm, she was mighty defensive. Wonder why? “I don't ask hard questions.”

“Does anyone ever tell you they don't like you snooping around town all the time?”

“Yes, they do, but I've gotten results.”

She kept her eyes on the clothespins as she hung up the towel. “What do you want?”

“The other day, you told me you and Bea had dinner at the Chicken House and then spent the rest of Wednesday evening here at your house playing cards.”

“That's right.”

“Why did you cover for Bea?”

“Cover?” Her hand shook as she reached for another towel. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Bea has quite a reputation at the Chicken House. The folks there say she hasn't been in all week.”

“I guess I meant to say Deely's.”

“I guess she wasn't at your house, at all. She told me the two of you went to the Chicken House around six, but at six o'clock the owner of the gift shop behind the gallery saw Bea's car parked in their parking lot. For some reason, Bea was still at the gallery. Where were you?”

“I—she might have come over later.”

“What's the problem? What does she have on you?”

She started to hang up the towel and then dropped it back into the basket. “Just leave it alone, Madeline.”

“Well, I can't,” I said. “I'm trying to find out who killed Wendall. I don't think you want to stand in the way of a murder investigation, do you? Or are you supposed to take the fall for Bea?”

She stared at me. “Take the fall? I had nothing to do with it! I didn't even know Wendall that well! He was three years ahead of me.”

“And now he's dead. I want to know what happened. Can you help me or not?”

“I don't know how in the world I could help. I had nothing to do with that.”

Something told me this was a lot more serious than dead wood versus ping-pong balls. Then a gust of wind made Mr. Alverez's jeans snap, and I had an idea. I remembered the argument between Ginger and Bea and how Bea had threatened her to be quiet unless she wanted Bea to mention “you know what.” Ginger had shut up pretty quickly. “That wild night Bea mentioned in Pamela's store. Did something happen at the crafts show you don't want your husband to know?”

She answered way too fast. “No, of course not.”

What else could it be? “Bea said everyone would be surprised about you if she spilled the beans. You said you had something on her, but she implied she had the real dirt. What's going on? Why did you let her win that argument?”

She tried to get her voice under control. “It was a dreadful mistake. I'd had too much to drink.”

“You got a little too friendly with someone?”

“I only meant to admire his macramé! Things just got out of control.”

“Bea needed an alibi, or she'd tell your husband.”

Another nod. Another sob. “She said if anyone called, tell them she was at my house all evening. I didn't see any harm in it.” She wiped her eyes on the edge of her t-shirt. “Are you saying she killed Wendall? She couldn't have. Why would she kill him? She was going to have her pictures in the gallery. Even I was going to have my ping-pong birds in the gallery.”

“I don't know why. Unless she was desperate to run the place.”

“Pamela wanted it, too. And what about Larissa? She was there that night and ran away. Or Flora? Where was she? What was she doing that night? And what am I going to do?”

“The first thing you need to do is tell your husband what happened. Then Bea won't have any power over you. Did you see her at all Wednesday night?”

“No.” She brushed the last tears away. “I am not taking any sort of fall for anyone, Madeline.”

“You won't have to,” I said.

***

I didn't recognize the car in my driveway, but I should have known that someone named Big Mike would drive a shiny black Hummer. He and Jerry were sitting on the porch, and he was indeed big, so big he didn't fit in any of the rocking chairs, but sat on the top porch step as if it were a royal throne. When he and Jerry stood to greet me, Jerry barely came up to Big Mike's shoulder. In honor of Big Mike's visit, Jerry had on his gold tie with a pattern of little black and white dice. Big Mike wore an expensive-looking suit, a silk tie, and fancy shoes that must have taken an Everglade of alligators to create.

His voice was a deep rumble. “So this is the woman who finally caught you, eh, Jerry? Such a pleasure to meet you, Madeline.”

When Jerry first mentioned Big Mike, I imagined someone much rougher, more like a gangster, with squinty eyes and a scar. Big Mike's wide face was surprisingly bland, an asset in a con man, I thought, and his brown hair was cut short. He looked like any other successful business man.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”

Jerry pulled up another rocking chair for me, and we all sat down. “Well, I was curious,” Big Mike said. “I hadn't heard the name Pamela Finch in a long time, and if Honor Perkins is mixed up in this, we have a problem.”

If Honor was a problem for someone like Big Mike, our troubles just multiplied.

“What can we do?”

“Jerry and I have been talking about that. What exactly did she tell you about this sapphire ring?”

“She said you and Pamela Finch had once been an item, and you gave Pamela a pink star sapphire ring.”

“That part is true.”

“She said you wanted that ring back, but you didn't want to contact Pamela yourself. She asked Jerry to get the ring so she could return it to you, and you'd forgive all her debts.”

“Here's where her little story falls apart. Honor owes me nothing.”

“And the ring is worth a lot of money,” Jerry said.

Okay, what was Honor's game? “So why didn't Honor pull some sort of scam and get the ring herself?”

“That is the part neither Jerry nor I understand,” Big Mike said. “She must want something else.”

Oh, I had a good idea what she wanted. “Pamela does have the ring, or at least the stone. It's part of a collage she made. I have no plans to steal it, though.”

Big Mike looked thoughtful. “You won't have to.”

Before I could worry about what he meant by that, a timer went off in the kitchen. Jerry hopped up. “That's lunch.”

Big Mike watched him go and then turned his calm gaze to me. “I understand you're a private investigator. Do you find enough work here in Celosia?”

“Strangely enough, I do. Right now, I'm investigating the murder of a wealthy art gallery owner. Pamela Finch is a possible suspect.”

“Pam was a sweet girl. I doubt she'd murder anyone.”

“I've pretty much omitted her as the killer.”

“Good.” His gaze took in the surrounding fields. “Jerry says he's very happy here.”

“I'm hoping he'll settle down.”

“One of the best I ever taught, but there comes a time when one must stop. I imagine you want to start a family.”

“We're in negotiations.”

He chuckled. “He said something like that. You know his family life wasn't the best.”

“That's why he took up with you, right?”

“I'd say so.”

“Did you all live together in some secret underground lair, you and Rick and Honor and the others?”

“More like my town house. And people didn't live there, although occasionally it was a convenient hideout. It was more like a meeting place. I taught everyone a few tricks, we'd eat and visit.” He leaned forward, smiling. “I'm no criminal mastermind, Madeline. I just happen to have certain useful skills.”

I liked his smile, but then I was supposed to, wasn't I? All part of his tricks. “Here's my problem, Big Mike. I feel certain Jerry can give up his con man ways, but I don't know what else he can do. He's an excellent musician, but that doesn't pay. He loves kids and is going to be a camp counselor, but that's only for the summer.”

“Let me think on it.”

Jerry called that lunch was ready. We went in to the dining room. Jerry had an array of dishes on the table, including a ham and potato casserole, salad, and a vegetable dish with corn, lima beans, and red peppers. Big Mike sat carefully, but the chair held his weight. He opened his napkin and spread it on his huge lap.

“This looks splendid, Jerry. I have to say I miss your cooking.”

“Thanks. There's peach pie for dessert.”

“One would think you knew I was coming.”

“I thought you might, so I stocked up.”

“Good planning.” Then Big Mike looked at me and winked. I wasn't sure what he meant, but he gave me a satisfied smile. “Please pass the salad.”

During lunch, Big Mike and Jerry entertained each other with stories of past escapades, many beginning with, “Do you remember when…?” and “Oh, that reminds me of the time when…” Jerry told Big Mike about Rick's attempt to cash in on the
Mantis Man
craze here in town, and Big Mike told Jerry about an incredibly detailed con that took a month to set up.

“It was worth it, though. We were able to stop the destruction of a fine old house and put a certain scumbag of a lawyer out of business.”

“That sounds more like police undercover work,” I said.

Big Mike wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I occasionally feel the need to do a good deed. Now, where's that pie?”

Jerry brought out the peach pie and we all had a large slice.

“Make the crust yourself?” Big Mike asked.

“As usual.”

“Very tasty.”

When Big Mike finished his pie, he put his fork down across the plate with a decisive click. “About Honor…”

“She may have left town,” Jerry said. “I hear she had a traumatic experience at her séance last night.”

“Let's assume she's still around. I can get another pink star sapphire and have it sent to you. See what she does with it. I'd be curious to know.”

“Me, too.”

“If that doesn't solve the problem, call me.”

“Do you have any idea who she might have worked with on the D and S at Mac's friend's house?”

“I'll find that out and bring it to Honor's attention. Sounds like the Over the Border Boys. Fairly harmless, but they've been known to turn on each other.”

“Over the Border?” I asked. “Mexican or Canadian?”

“Virginian. They'll do a few jobs in North Carolina and then scoot back home where they think they're safe.” His smile suggested the Border Boys were anything but safe. “They won't give me any problem, I assure you. Now I'd like some more tea, if you have it.”

“Would you like coffee? Wouldn't take a minute.”

“Even better, thank you.”

As soon as Jerry left, Big Mike lowered his voice. “Madeline, I believe I have a solution to your dilemma, and I don't mean Honor Perkins. This excellent lunch brought home to me the fact that Jerry is a fine cook. Has he ever considered opening a restaurant?”

Yes, Jerry did all the cooking. Delicious breakfasts, lunches, treats for the kids, cookies, brownies. Wasn't he always happy to be in the kitchen fixing something?

“Big Mike, you may have something here.”

“I would be happy to look into possible locations, or would you like to use the house?”

When he'd first moved to Celosia, Jerry's then-girlfriend insisted he turn the house into a bed and breakfast, but all the legal issues and restrictions had made Jerry's head spin and he abandoned that project.

“I think a separate place would be better.”

“Sound him out on the idea and see what he says.”

Jerry returned with the coffee. “Something else you can help us with, Big Mike. Ever hear of a con artist named Lizzie Bailey?”

Big Mike put three spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee. “What's her game?”

“Marries rich men, squeezes them dry, and moves on.”

“Black widow?”

“No, at least not until Wendall Clarke's murder. He's the wealthy art gallery owner Mac mentioned. Lizzie's also a suspect.”

“Little redhead? Very attractive? Likes to pretend she's shy?”

“She's a blonde right now and calls herself Flora, but that sounds like her.”

I took a sip of coffee. “So the shyness is all an act? I've had my suspicions.” Especially since I'd seen the colder, calculating side of Flora.

“I would imagine so. No one likes to think a sweet little unassuming lady is a murderer.”

“I don't think she's the murderer, but if she's got this shady past, maybe she knows more than she's telling. Although she really seems heartbroken.”

Big Mike gave a massive shrug. “Maybe she honestly loved him. Sometimes even the most hardened grifter can fall for a mark. Did Clarke know about her past? If he found out and still loved her, that might have turned her around. Worked for Jerry. Not that I would ever call you a mark, my dear Madeline. You are much too clever.”

Like Jerry, Big Mike could lay on the charm. “Thank you.” I recalled what Flora had told me about Wendall assuring her she didn't have to use disguises and tricks. He would take care of her because he could afford to. “Wendall knew. That's why I have a hard time imagining her as the killer.”

“Remember, the best con artists are heartless.”