Fillet of Murder (15 page)

But did she? And wouldn't someone have noticed her leaving the spa?

Talia peeled off her disposable gloves and tossed them into the trash. “Whitnee, I need to make a quick call on my cell. Do you mind if step outside for a few minutes?”

Whitnee shrugged. “Sure, no problem.”

Talia grabbed her jacket and slipped it on. For this call she needed privacy.

She dashed out to her car, which was parked in the town lot. Once settled in the driver's seat, Talia found the number for Always You and punched it in. A singsong female voice answered the line. “Always You, the place for an always beautiful you! How may I help you?” The last note ended on an upward lilt.

“Hi, there, my name is Ms. Sunday.” Technically not a fib, since Talia's middle name was Domenica, which was Italian for Sunday. “I'm Kendra LaPlante's assistant?”

“Of course,” the voice said smoothly, though Talia detected a cool undertone. “What can I do for you?”

“Um, Ms. LaPlante was at the spa Wednesday evening? She's almost positive she left her small cosmetics bag there, because she can't find it anywhere. I'm wondering if anyone might have found it and turned it in?”

“One moment please.”

Talia fidgeted as the woman left her on hold for well over two minutes. Had she been made? Maybe she'd overdone the ditz routine.

“Thank you for waiting,” the voice returned. “Since Ms. LaPlante always enjoys our deluxe spa treatment, I'll put you through to the technician in charge of that department.”

A whole department for it? “Thanks,” Talia said airily, but her heart was pounding. “That would be super.”

After another minute or so, she was put through to a woman whose voice sounded like a twelve-year-old's. “Hello, this is Misty Manners,” the youngster chirped. “May I help you?”

Misty Manners? If that was her real name, Talia would
eat one of her Fiat's wheel covers. Talia repeated her story, embellishing it with a few giggles and a description of the imaginary cosmetics bag. When Misty finally spoke, her voice was hesitant. “I see. Well, I'm afraid no one has turned in a stray cosmetics bag.”

Talia heaved a loud groan. “Oh, bummer, that's too bad. She was
so
sure she left it there. Do you know the exact time her appointment was for?”

“The time?” Misty said warily. “Why do you ask?”

Uh-oh. Talia scrambled for an answer. It wasn't as if she could say: oh, I just wanted to establish her alibi for the time of her ex-husband's murder.

“Oh, you know, um, I'm just . . . trying to retrace her steps that day. Like, if she was there
after
her eye doctor appointment, I might be able to figure out where else she could have left it.” Talia dropped her head on her steering wheel. That didn't even make sense! Misty was sure to see through the ruse.

“Oh, of course.” Misty's girlish voice relaxed. “Let me check for you.”

Talia breathed out a relieved sigh as the sound of fingers flitting over a keyboard filtered through the phone.

“Okay, here we are,” Misty said, “and now I do recall, because I was working that evening. Ms. LaPlante arrived here promptly at six thirty. She had her age-busting facial and eye treatment—that takes about an hour and fifteen—after which I escorted her to the south wing for her full body massage.” After a long hesitation Misty added, “She finished with her mani-pedi, and then . . .”

For a moment, Talia thought she'd lost the connection. Misty seemed to have dissolved into the ozone.

“Sorry, I had to put the phone down for a minute,” Misty
said, her voice a few notches lower. “I thought my boss was waving me over.”

“You were saying she had a mani-pedi?” Talia prompted.

“Yes, that was her last treatment, at eight forty-five. Although . . .”

Another lengthy silence. Blast the girl!

“Um, sorry,” Misty said. “Yes, her mani-pedi was at eight forty-five. I believe she left right after that.”

“Eight forty-five,” Talia repeated. Seemed late for a mani-pedi. “How late are you open?”

“On Wednesdays and Thursdays we stay open till ten, although our last appointment is at nine,” Misty said. “Obviously if a customer's appointment goes a little over the time limit, we remain open as long as we need to. We
never
make a customer feel rushed.”

“Oh goodness, well, that's an excellent policy.” Talia was babbling now, but as Bea always said,
in for a ha'penny, in for a quid
. “So a mani-pedi probably takes about forty-five minutes, right? Do you know what time Ms. LaPlante paid for her . . . services?”

“Ms. LaPlante has an account with us,” Misty said, her tone now bubbling with suspicion. “We bill her on a monthly basis.”

“Oh right,” Talia said. “I should've remembered that.”

“Shall I call you if the cosmetics bag does turn up?” Misty said stiffly.

“No need. Thanks for your time, though.” Talia disconnected before Misty could ask any more questions.

Darn. Kendra's alibi seemed solid. Still, there was something in Misty's voice, plus all those long silences, that had definitely seemed off-kilter.

Talia hopped out of her car just as Bea was swinging her
old brown Datsun into the parking lot. A puff of relief escaped Talia. Bea was still a free woman. Talia caught up with her, and together they headed back to Lambert's.

“How did it go?” Talia asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Bea shot Talia a grim look, her small feet barreling along the sidewalk. “I had to surrender my passport. That state police chap was a tough bugger. Asked me the same blasted questions, over and over. I tell you, Tal, I thought my head was going to spin clean off my neck.”

Talia slid her arm through Bea's. “I know giving up your passport seems drastic, Bea, but it won't be for long.” She hoped.

They strode past Peggy's Bakery, where the dual aromas of yeast and cinnamon wafted out from the propped-open door. Peggy was smart—she knew how to entice customers! The tantalizing scent suddenly reminded Talia that she was in charge of bringing desserts to the play on Sunday.

“What were you doing in your car?” Bea asked.

“I . . . had a quick personal call I needed to make.”

Bea gave her an odd look but said nothing. They ducked into the alley behind Lambert's and scurried inside through the kitchen door.

“Hey, you're back!” Whitnee said to Bea, looking pleased to see her. She lifted a basket of crispy fries out of the fryer. In the adjacent basket, two fat chunks of battered haddock were sizzling their way to golden perfection.

“Yes, I'm back, and it looks like you're doing one bleeding good job, luv.” Bea squeezed Whitnee's arm affectionately.

Talia hung her jacket and then peeked into the dining area, where two elderly fellows were seated at one of the
tables. She turned back to Whitnee. “Sorry I took so long, but you obviously have things under control.”

Whitnee beamed, and a flush crept into her pale cheeks. “Thanks. I kinda like being on my own here once in a while. It's sort of fun, you know, being in charge. I mean, as long as it doesn't get too crazy.” She inserted paper liners into a pair of serving cones. “Are you, like, okay, Bea?”

Bea slipped on a clean apron, her face unreadable. “I've got problems,” she said in a low voice.

The three worked through the dinner rush in near silence. By quarter to seven, the dining area had emptied out, and the last phone order had been prepared. Judging by the number of customers they'd served, the “two-fer” had been a ringing success.

“Come over here, luvs,” Bea said, motioning Talia and Whitnee over to the table in the alcove at the back of the kitchen. “Before we close up, I need to talk to you both.”

Whitnee looked at Talia, a panicked expression on her face. They each took a seat, and Bea leaned toward them. “The cops think I murdered Phil, and I'm afraid my lawyer and I didn't do much to convince them otherwise.”

“What happened, Bea?” Talia folded her hands over the table. “Can we help in any way?”

Bea shook her head, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Turns out the knife that killed Turnbull had traces of whitefish at the base, near the handle.”

Talia already knew that, and a wave of guilt swept over her for not having divulged it to Bea sooner. “What about fingerprints? The real killer's prints must've been on the knife.” Unless he, or she, was cunning enough to have wiped them off.

“Ah, well, that's a problem, too. There were lots of prints on the knife handle, you see, although some were too smudged to be useful. It's as if the flipping thing was never washed.” Bea's eyes flashed with indignation. “Unfortunately, they couldn't match any of the prints to anyone in the national system, or database, or whatever it is the coppers use.”

“But . . .
your
prints weren't on the knife, right?”

“No,” Bea muttered softly, “and that's exactly the problem. The investigator, that O'Donnell fellow, thinks I wore a pair of disposable gloves to murder Turnbull.”

Talia blew out a long sigh. “Did they show you a picture of the knife?”

“Actually they showed me the real thing—in a plastic bag, naturally. I'd never seen it before. I've never owned a knife with a handle like that. It was a fancy piece of work, let me tell you. Not something a practical soul like me would ever buy.”

“What about your attorney?” Talia said. “I thought he was supposed to help you.”

“He did help, Tal. He objected to more questions that I can count.” She sat back in her chair and scrubbed a hand over her face. “And the questions I did answer, I answered truthfully, but that O'Donnell bloke just kept badgering me.”

“Bea,” Talia said, “if the knife had been yours and you'd used a disposable glove to murder Phil, then the other prints should match mine or Whitnee's, right? Assuming the police think the knife came from Lambert's.”

“That's exactly right, luv. They couldn't explain the other prints. All of the arcade owners voluntarily submitted to fingerprinting, but none of their prints are on the knife, either. It's the main reason the cops didn't detain me.”

Whitnee looked at Bea with a worried face. “I . . . I don't know much about these things, Bea, but it sounds to me like, you know, the evidence against you is all circumstantial.”

“That's exactly what my lawyer said.” Bea smiled at her. “Maybe I should have you on my legal team. Or maybe what I really need is my own detective. Someone who's not trying to string a rope around my neck.” She gave Talia a wide-eyed look. “Someone like you, Tal. Didn't you tell me a story once about how you tracked down a stolen rabbit?”

“I did?” Talia chewed one side of her lip. She thought back to her school days. “Oh yeah, Rachel's brother's rabbit. Gosh, I'd forgotten all about that. How did you even remember that story?”

“Well, all those years ago, when you first started working here, you had a lot of heavy things on your mind,” Bea said gently. “To distract you, I used to ask about your childhood. You know, what kinds of things you liked to do when you were growing up.”

“And I told you the rabbit story.” Talia frowned.

“I want to hear it,” Whitnee piped in. “I had a rabbit of my own once.”

“It's not much of a story. Rachel's little brother, Noah, had gotten a rabbit for his birthday—his seventh birthday, I think.” Talia recalled how desperately the little boy had wanted that rabbit, how he'd begged his parents to buy one for him.

“A white one?”

“No, it was black and white—a darling little bunny. His folks bought it at a pet store, along with a big cage. They were very particular about their home—didn't let the kids breathe in it—so they made Noah keep it in the garage.”

“Ugh,” Bea said. “With all those exhaust fumes?”

“During the day they left the garage door open, and Noah was forever taking Punky—that's what he named him—out of the cage and plunking him on the lawn to play. In spite of his name, the bunny always stuck close to him—he never tried to go very far.”

“So what happened?” Whitnee said impatiently.

Surprised at the girl's tone, Talia continued. “He'd had the rabbit for several weeks, and then one morning discovered it was gone.”

“Stolen?” Whitnee said.

Talia nodded. “Yup. There was a side door into the garage, and even though it had a twist lock on the doorknob, Noah never remembered to lock it. The poor kid was heartsick when he found that cage door hanging open and his beloved bunny missing.”

Whitnee shivered. “What did he do?”

“Well, Rachel and I—we were nine or ten at the time—helped him make ‘lost bunny' posters. We tacked them up all over the neighborhood and inside every store and restaurant that would let us hang one.”

“Poor little boy,” Whitnee whispered, almost to herself.

Talia shot her a glance and went on. “About a week after Punky went missing, I was in the checkout line at Queenie's with my mom. I noticed a little girl, all by herself, standing in front of us holding a basket filled with carrots and lettuce. Totally weird for a kid, I thought. At that age, all I ever wanted to buy were peanut butter cups and Snickers bars. Anyway, I recognized her—she was a fifth-grader in my school. Her name was Oriana Butterforth. The kids used to poke fun at her name, but I always thought it was exotic and enchanting.”

“Did you follow her?” Whitnee asked.

Talia smiled. “Not quite, but my suspicions had definitely been aroused. As soon as I got home, I looked up her last name in the phone book. Turned out her family lived on Hampton Avenue, only three streets away from our house. I asked Mom if I could ride my bike for a while, and as soon as I'd turned off from our street, I was barreling toward Oriana's.”