Black and Blueberry Die (A Fresh-Baked Mystery Book 11) (6 page)

“I have an appointment for a couple of weeks from now,” Phyllis said, “and they have my name and number in case there’s a cancellation between now and then. I talked to the receptionist, and I also met the woman who owns the place.”

“I thought it belonged to a fella named Paul.”

“Pauline. Paul is just for name purposes.” Phyllis went on to describe the conversation, then said, “I got the feeling that Roxanne wasn’t necessarily well-liked, but to be fair, I only talked to the two of them. There were half a dozen other women working there, and I have no idea yet how they felt about her. One thing
did
occur to me, though.”

“What’s that?”

Phyllis thought about the muscles in Aurora’s arms and how the young woman carried herself like an athlete. She said, “I’ve been assuming all along that a man killed Roxanne, I guess because she was beaten to death. It just never occurred to me that a woman could have done it. But I realize now I could be wrong about that. A woman might have been strong enough to have committed that murder.”

“You got anybody in mind?”

“It’s much too soon for that,” Phyllis replied with a shake of her head. “But I certainly think I’m going to have to find out more about how Roxanne got along with the people she worked with. I can think of someone who might be able to tell us, and we were going to have to talk to him anyway.”

“We’re gonna go see Danny,” Sam said.

Phyllis nodded and said, “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

Paying a visit to Danny Jackson in jail was going to take some arranging, and it was too late in the day to worry about that now, so Phyllis and Sam headed back to Weatherford. Along the way, Phyllis called Jimmy D’Angelo’s office, told him what they needed, and he declared that he would get right on it and let them know when he had something set up.

“I never spent much time in beauty shops,” Sam mused as he drove. “Vicky wasn’t the sort who wanted me along. Anyway, I was at school most of the time. You know how there was almost always more to do than you had time for.”

“I certainly do.”

“Of course, I had to take her to have her hair done now and then after...well, after things got bad. She never stopped carin’ about how she looked no matter how rotten she felt.”

Phyllis nodded. Sam’s wife Vicky had passed away several years earlier, after a lengthy struggle against cancer. He spoke of her occasionally, and Phyllis knew him well enough by now to know that her death was still painful for him, although he had come to grips with it. She felt the same way about Kenny, although he had been gone longer than Vicky had. Neither of them brought up their former spouses that often, but they didn’t try to avoid the subject, either. As with most things, it was just natural between them and nothing to be shied away from.

“Whenever I
did
find myself in a beauty shop,” Sam went on, “it could be the ladies were a little more on guard since there was a man in their midst. I got the feelin’, though, that if I hadn’t been there, there wouldn’t have been many holds barred in what they talked about.”

Phyllis laughed and said, “Goodness gracious, no. There’s something about that atmosphere that makes women say things they probably wouldn’t in other surroundings.”

“Gossip, in other words.”

“Of course. But gossip implies that you’re talking about somebody else. I’ve heard women admit things about themselves that would almost make your jaw drop. There aren’t many secrets in a beauty shop, that’s for sure.”

“I reckon a fancy
salon
is the same way.” Sam grinned. “Just a little more genteel.”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Phyllis said.

When they got home, Carolyn was preparing chicken stuffed jalapeño poppers for supper. While Sam went into the backyard to spend some time with Buck, Phyllis started putting together avocado salad to go with them. The two of them had worked together in this kitchen long enough that they knew instinctively how to stay out of each other’s way.

“Did you find out anything?” Carolyn asked.

“Not really, not yet. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to anyone where Roxanne worked except a couple of people.” Phyllis summed up the visit to Paul’s Beauty Salon, as she had for Sam earlier, concluding, “I plan to ask Danny how she got along with everyone else there.”

Carolyn turned to look at her with something approaching horror on her face.

“You’re going to see him?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“In
jail
?”

With a faint smile, Phyllis said, “It won’t be the first time I’ve visited someone in jail, will it? In fact, if you recall, I’ve spent some time behind bars myself.”

“Oh, I remember, all right. That whole thing was ridiculous. What was the district attorney thinking?”

“That I had concealed evidence and obstructed justice. Which I sort of had, I suppose. Not the obstructing justice part, though. I was trying to see that justice was done. That’s true here, too.”

“Yes, but Danny Jackson is a convicted murderer.”

“Convicted, but possibly not guilty.”

“In the eyes of the law, he is. But the main thing that concerns me is you’ll be going over to Fort Worth to see him. Tarrant County isn’t Parker County, Phyllis.”

“Well, no. But Parker County isn’t what it used to be, either. It’s a lot more crowded than it used to be, and Mike says the crime is steadily getting worse. But I’ll have Sam with me, and probably Mr. D’Angelo, too, so I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

“An old man and a fat little lawyer. Yes, I’m sure they’ll be able to handle anything that comes up.”

Phyllis didn’t see any point in continuing this line of discussion, so she changed the subject by saying, “How are you coming along with the recipe you’re going to send in for the magazine contest?”

“It’s getting there,” Carolyn said. “I should have something for you to sample in another day or two.”

“I’m looking forward to it. I don’t suppose you want to give me a hint what it is?”

Carolyn smiled, shook her head, and said, “No, I don’t.”

That made Phyllis laugh, and murderers and jail visits were forgotten for the moment.

••●••

Jimmy D’Angelo called after supper.

“We’re seeing Danny at 10:30 tomorrow morning,” he said. “Just you and me, though. I’m afraid Sam won’t be able to go along. Well, he can come with you, but he’ll have to wait in the jail lobby.”

“All right, if that’s the way it has to be,” Phyllis said, although she was disappointed by that part of D’Angelo’s news. She always liked having Sam around, and sometimes he noticed things that she didn’t. She had a good memory, though, and would fill him in on everything that was said after the interview with Danny Jackson.

“Just remember, carry as little metal as possible, and no weapons.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t pack heat,” Phyllis said with a laugh.

Metal detectors were everywhere these days. You couldn’t go anywhere near government offices without having to go through one. Sam had had to go back to his pickup and leave his pocketknife there enough times that he had finally stopped carrying it, even though he was disgusted by that development. He’d had a knife in his pocket every day of his life since junior high, he had said, and it just didn’t seem right not carrying one. But he was so accustomed to it that he had completely forgotten about it those times he had tried to take it in somewhere it wasn’t allowed.

“Nobody better gripe when they need a box cut open and I don’t have a pocketknife, though,” he had said. “It’s not my fault.”

After saying goodbye to D’Angelo, Phyllis went into the living room to find Sam and tell him what the attorney had arranged.

“I don’t like it much,” he said with a slight frown. “I’d rather go in there with you. But if they won’t allow more than two visitors at a time, I don’t suppose there’s much we can do about it.”

From the sofa on the other side of the room, Carolyn sniffed and said, “Just hope there’s not a riot.”

“I always do,” Sam said solemnly.

••●••

They were supposed to meet Jimmy D’Angelo at the Tarrant County jail at ten o’clock the next morning. The jail was located on Belknap Street at the northern edge of downtown Fort Worth, on a bluff overlooking the winding course of the Trinity River. Phyllis had never been in the jail before, but she recalled parking not far from here in a vast lot beside the river, then riding the Leonards’ Department Store M&O Subway—the world’s only privately owned subway system—into downtown for shopping excursions.

The subway was gone now, another victim of the constant change that had altered the face of downtown Fort Worth just as it had everywhere else. Though she’d heard rumors that the tunnel still existed, down there in the bluff on which the city sat. That was a creepy enough thought to make shivers go down a person’s back.

Sam remembered the subway, too, and lamented its passing. He said, “Sure was easier to park down there in the Leonards’ parkin’ lot than to fight the traffic up here in town.”

He found an empty meter on a side street that sloped down fairly sharply toward the river and fed enough quarters in it to keep them safely parked there for a couple of hours. The two of them walked up the slanting sidewalk, turned the corner onto Belknap, and headed for the jail a block away.

Most of the men and women going in and out of the tall building were neatly dressed in professional attire. Lawyers, Phyllis thought. The ones in jeans, like her and Sam, were probably here to visit prisoners.

D’Angelo was waiting for them just inside the lobby, holding his briefcase in his right hand and using his left to hold his phone as he talked. He nodded to Phyllis and Sam to indicate that he saw them as he finished up his conversation. Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket and said, “Right on time. There’s been a little delay, though.”

“Something wrong?” Phyllis asked.

“I’m not sure. They’ll let us know when we can talk to Danny. In the meantime, let’s sit down and you can tell me what you’ve found out so far.”

Phyllis shook her head and said, “Nothing that’s going to help very much, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe you’ve found something but just don’t know what it means yet.”

“I don’t think we can count on that.”

The three of them sat down on a plastic bench with Phyllis in the middle. She explained how she had visited Paul’s Beauty Salon the day before.

“Going undercover,” D’Angelo said with a nod. “I like it.”

It didn’t take long for Phyllis to give him the details of the conversation she’d had with Aurora and Pauline Gibbs.

“Sounds like this Aurora girl didn’t get along that well with Roxanne,” the lawyer commented. “Might be something there.”

“Or everything she said might be totally innocent,” Phyllis pointed out. “I’m hoping Danny can tell us more about that, and anything else that went on between Roxanne and the other women who worked there.”

“Even if she didn’t get along with some of them, that won’t be enough to overturn Danny’s conviction or even get him a new trial. We’ll have to have proof of who really killed Roxanne.”

Phyllis had made the same comment to Sam earlier, so she nodded.

“A confession would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll settle for good solid evidence,” D’Angelo said.

They had been sitting there for about forty-five minutes when a uniformed officer came over to them and said, “Mr. D’Angelo? You and your associate can see your client now.”

As Phyllis and D’Angelo stood up, Sam said, “I’ll be waitin’ right here.”

They had to empty their pockets and go through two metal detectors before they reached the interview room where they would talk to Danny Jackson. D’Angelo had had to leave his briefcase and cell phone in a locked basket. He had only a legal pad and a couple of pens. Phyllis was empty-handed.

The room was spartanly furnished with a metal table and two metal chairs on each side of it. All were bolted to the floor. There was a mirror on one wall. Phyllis supposed it was one of those infamous two-way mirrors, although she couldn’t be sure of that. She certainly wasn’t going to wave at it. A surveillance camera was tucked into a corner of the ceiling.

The door from the hallway had a glass panel in it. Probably bullet-proof, she thought. A solid steel door was on the other side of the table. It opened, and a man in an orange jumpsuit, flanked by two uniformed officers, shuffled in. The prisoner had shackles on his ankles and handcuffs on his wrists.

Phyllis caught her breath. The prisoner was tall and broad-shouldered, and the face under the close-cropped brown hair was instantly familiar to her.

Danny Jackson didn’t look exactly like he had the last time she had seen him, too. For one thing, the strain of being tried and convicted of his wife’s murder had left his features drawn and haggard.

For another, his face was scraped and bruised, with dried blood and bandages here and there, and his left eye was swollen and sore-looking.

Somebody—or several somebodies—had handed Danny a beating.