The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco (8 page)

To my great relief, Detective Hart reached out and took the paper towel–wrapped canister from me. His fingers brushed mine.

“Fingerprints,” I explained, gesturing toward the paper towel.

“You read too many mysteries,” Chief Uggams cut in with a frown. “Hart, I’ve been telling Amy-Faye—”

“It won’t hurt to test it,” Detective Hart said mildly. “We don’t want anyone saying we weren’t thorough with our investigation.”

“That Bell woman.” The chief worked his jaw back and forth. “Did you see what she had on her blog about the town council meeting? Saying the PTA president and the soccer coach bribed council members to vote in favor of annexing part of the old Duncan farm for a new soccer field. Saying they conspired to undermine the success of Heaven’s youth. Hogwash.”

Maud had discussed the vote with me and told me she had proof that two council members had been promised their kids would make the soccer team if the field purchase was approved. “That money should have gone to new math textbooks,” she’d said. “What are we coming to when the PTA president, of all people, is conspiring to elevate sports over academics? What has happened to our priorities in this country?”

“My wife says I shouldn’t read it, that it upsets my ulcer,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “I can imagine what Maud Bell would have to say about this: ‘Heaven Police Conspire to Bury Truth about Woman’s Death.’” He eyed the canister with disfavor. “I suppose we need to test it. All right, go ahead, Hart. And you”—he faced me squarely—“go back to organizing weddings and leave the policing to the police. You hear me?”

Happy to have achieved my goal, I stood and smiled. “Loud and clear. Thanks, Chief. Thanks, Detective Hart.” I knew he was the one who really deserved my thanks; Chief Uggams had been on the verge of denying my request when Hart walked in.

“I’ll walk you out.”

Surprised, I nodded. He stepped aside politely to let me precede him out the door, and I couldn’t help brushing against him in the narrow doorway. He had a warm, woodsy smell . . . very appealing. Leaving the canister on Mabel’s counter, he walked me out the door and onto the sidewalk. The day was lovely—the unseasonable heat of earlier in the week having receded—and I took a deep breath of the dogwood-blossom-scented air drifting from nearby trees.

“That was good thinking on your part,” he said. “Taking the canister. I doubt there’s anything wrong with the tea in it, but better safe than sorry.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, relieved that he wasn’t going to chew me out for meddling in police business. That seemed to happen more often than not in most of the mysteries I read where PIs or amateur sleuths got involved in murder cases. Not that the police even thought Ivy’s death was murder.

“I was wondering . . .” Detective Hart looked down at me with a smile creasing his lean face. “I was wondering if you’d like to get together sometime. For lunch? I’ve only been in Heaven a month and a half and I don’t know a lot of folks. You seem pretty plugged in—”

“I’ve lived here all my life, well, except for when I was at CU.” My inane comment covered my confusion, I hoped. Was he asking me for a date, or was he merely asking me to be a sort of tour guide to show him around the community? Lunch was neutral territory. A date would be nice, I thought wistfully. It’d been a long darn time
since I’d had a date with someone who wasn’t certifiable, a total loser, or a felon (which, in my defense, I hadn’t known when I’d agreed to have dinner with him).

“Lunch sounds good,” I said when I realized Detective Hart was still waiting for an answer.

“Tomorrow?”

“Sure. The Munchery at twelve thirty?”

“See you there.” He lifted a hand in farewell and reentered the police station. I stared after him for a moment, a goofy smile on my face. A date with the good-looking new detective in town was just what the doctor ordered to help me get over the shock of Doug’s engagement and upcoming marriage. The thought made me remember my meeting with Madison Taylor. Scurrying back to the van, I zoomed the few blocks to my office, parked, and hurried in.

Al greeted me with raised brows and a minatory look. “Your four o’clock’s been here fifteen minutes.”

“Is she in my office?” I strode toward the door.

“Yes, but—”

Pushing open the door, I found myself facing not Madison, but her groom-to-be, my ex-boyfriend, the only man I’d ever loved, Doug Elvaston.

I
stumbled on the threshold and caught myself with a hand on the doorjamb. I hadn’t seen Doug in several months, and he looked as good as ever. Better, maybe. His hair, which had been wheat blond when we were in high school, had darkened a bit but was still thick and long enough to just graze his ears. His face was paler than I was used to—too much time in New York City—but his green eyes were still the same: fringed with pale lashes and full of laughter. He laughed now.

“Same old Amy-Faye,” he said, springing forward with the athletic grace that had won us the state championship when we were seniors. He was tall enough to spot receivers downfield, although I supposed these days his height only made it possible for him to dominate opposing counsel in court. He took my elbow to steady me, even though I was as stable as a starfish, clutching the doorframe like I’d be swept out to sea if I let go. Slowly, I made my fingers unclench.

“It’s good to see you, A-Faye,” he said with the
smile that always made my stomach swoop. “It’s been way too long—what? A month or so, at least?”

Ninety-two days, but who was counting? “About that,” I agreed casually, crossing to my table desk and sitting behind it. Safe. The expanse of wood between me and Doug made it harder for me to lurch at him, grab him by the collar, and beg him to ditch Madison and the wedding and start over with me. “Where’s Madison?” I asked, flipping through a folder with the intensity of someone trying to locate a misplaced winning lottery ticket. “I thought I was meeting with her.”

“You were,” Doug said, seating himself in front of me, “but she had to fly back to Manhattan for an unexpected court date. So”—he spread his arms wide—“you get me instead.”

I wished. I bit my lip. “Well, uh, great. We were supposed to talk about the guest list and invitations.”

“I’ve got it right here.” He drew a page from his jeans pocket—he wore scruffy jeans like nobody’s business—and flattened it on my desk. “Mom and Dad wanted a cast of thousands—you know how they are—but Madison and I want to keep it simple. Only a hundred people. And here you are.” He put a finger on the neatly printed words “Amy-Faye Johnson + 1.” His grin invited me to share his joy in his upcoming wedding.

Plus one. Two of the most pitiful words in the English language. Shorthand for “doesn’t have a husband or boyfriend, even though she’s over thirty and probably owns a dozen cats.” “I’ll be
there, of course,” I said in a businesslike voice, “to make sure things go smoothly, but—”

“No, we want you to come as a guest,” he interrupted. “You’ve got Al—let him do the organizing shtick. You just come and have fun.”

Fun, he said. Have fun. I’d have laughed if it hadn’t been so painful. What could be funner than watching the man you loved swear eternal fidelity to another woman?

“You’re one of my best friends,” he said in a more serious voice. “It’s important to me—and Madison, of course—that you be there.”

“Then I’ll be there.” What else could I say? I forced a smile I hoped didn’t look as stiff as it felt.

“Wonderful! Hey, I haven’t eaten since before I let my father-in-law-to-be trounce me on the golf course this morning. What say we get something to munch while we discuss the invitations? Oh, and Madison also told me to get your ideas about table favors—whatever those are—and to ask you to set up a small golf tournament for the guests who are flying in the Thursday before the wedding. There’ll be sixteen or eighteen of them golfing, she says.” He smiled apologetically. “We’re foisting a lot of work on you. Madison was hoping to do some of it herself, but now that her case has heated up, she just doesn’t have the time. I don’t know how that woman does it. Sometimes I’m amazed she has time to fit me into her schedule.”

“It’s what you pay me for,” I said, rising. “How about the Salty Burro?”

“Great idea. Some nachos and margaritas will
make this wedding-planning stuff practically painless.”

*   *   *

Two hours and two margaritas later, I was in that pleasantly buzzed state where everything is amusing and the impossible seems possible. I couldn’t count how many times in the past Doug and I had sat in one of the high-backed wooden booths at the Salty Burro, alone or with friends, with a pitcher of margaritas between us and a smear of cheese and one lone jalapeño on a large plate testifying to our appetites. This felt familiar. It felt right. We had dealt with the invitations and other wedding-planning items before the nachos arrived and had moved on to discussing first my business, then his dissatisfaction with his law firm. He launched into an imitation of his managing partner, who was originally from Boston.

“‘Billable houahs, Elvahston,’” he mimicked in a wicked Boston accent. “‘Billable houahs are ouah raison d’être. If you so much as think about a case while youah taking a dump, you bill it to the client.’”

I laughed so hard I snorted, and he grinned, pleased with my reaction. “I’ve missed you, Amy-Faye,” he said, leaning across the table to put his hand over mine. “Why don’t we see more of each other?”

His question effectively quenched my laughter. Could he really be so clueless? I thought about how I’d fought to hide my feelings from him, after he initiated the most recent “off” phase of our on-again-off-again relationship, saying that although
he still loved me, he wasn’t “in love” with me anymore, that he wanted to be “just friends.” Maybe it was my fault he didn’t know how I felt. Should I tell him before it was too late, before he married Madison and was out of reach forever? I opened my mouth to tell him I still loved him, would always love him, but what came out was “We’re both busy, I guess. Eventful! takes all my time, and clearly you can’t get away from your job even in the bathroom.”

Signaling for the check, he smiled and said, “Well, we’ve got to make the time.”

I nodded my agreement, knowing it would never happen. He’d marry Madison and she’d be in charge of their social calendar. They’d see more of her friends than his . . . A thought occurred to me, a dreadful thought. “Where are you and Madison going to live?” I asked.

A wry look twisted his features. “That’s still up for debate. Madison’s got a great apartment in Manhattan, and of course that’s where her job is. I’ve got the house here, and I’m a partner in the firm. Madison will undoubtedly make partner at her firm in a couple of years, so it would be hard for her to start over in Heaven or even Denver, although any firm in Colorado would snap her up in a heartbeat. For now, we’ll probably keep both places and see how it works out. My work in New York will probably last another twelve to eighteen months, and then we’ll see.”

He sounded like he was trying to put a cheery spin on a situation he wasn’t very happy about. I thought starting a marriage off on a long-distance
basis, with no shared home, was a recipe for disaster, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. “I’m sure you’ll make it work,” I murmured, putting twenty dollars on the table for my share of the check.

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “Love conquers all, right?”

We walked side by side to the restaurant door and stepped into the soft light of a mountain twilight. I didn’t want him to go. “Maybe we could—” I started to say, not even sure how I was going to finish the sentence. Go bowling? Walk around the lake path? Go back to my place and see what happened when you mixed a few margaritas, old memories, and a bed in the next room?

“Oh, damn,” Doug said, looking at his watch. “I’m late. Mom’s going to skin me alive.” He leaned forward, brushed his lips against my cheek, and added, “It was good to catch up, A-Faye. Sounds like you’re doing great. I wouldn’t trust my wedding to anyone else.” With a grin, he was gone, half jogging to his car.

*   *   *

My phone buzzed and I checked the display. Maud.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked when I answered.

Coming?
I knit my brow. Movie night! The Readaholics were watching
The Maltese Falcon
at Maud’s. I’d totally forgotten. “On my way,” I said. “Start the movie without me.”

“Already did,” she said and hung up without saying good-bye.

Half jogging back to my van—no mean feat in my low-heeled patent pumps—I drove to Maud’s
timbered one-story on the outskirts of town. Her pickup with the boat trailer hitched up was in the yard rather than the long garage-cum-shed, making me think she had a fishing-guide gig lined up for the next day. I gave the doorbell a perfunctory ring and stepped into the small foyer with its pale moss green walls and slate floor. The whole house had the same monochromatic color scheme, and I always felt vaguely as if I’d walked into a grotto when I came over. The air was chilly—Maud kept the AC set low to protect her computers—and I wished I’d remembered to bring a sweater. I hurried into the living room, blurting apologies.

The Readaholics, minus Ivy, sat on the U-shaped charcoal sectional with its too-squashy cushions, facing the huge TV screen. The lights were dimmed, but I could still identify everyone and make my way to a seat without tripping over anything. Maud had her legs crossed under her, bony feet bare, and was leaning toward the TV, elbows on her thighs. Lola had a pillow tucked behind her back. She smiled at me. Brooke half reclined on the chaise and raised a hand when I entered. Kerry sat upright with her feet propped on an ottoman, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. “Finally,” she said.

“Work,” I replied. It wasn’t totally untrue. I’d been discussing the wedding with Doug. Knowing from experience that escaping the couch’s embrace was an awkward battle, I grabbed a throw pillow and sat on the ground between Kerry and Brooke, my back supported by the couch.

Bogie and an actress I didn’t recognize were having a tense conversation on the screen. “Who’s
that?” I asked, helping myself to popcorn when Kerry passed me the bowl.

“Mary Astor,” Kerry answered. “I think she makes a good Brigid.”

The others murmured agreement and we watched the story unwind, inserting brief comments about the actors and the action. The TV’s light flickered over our faces and cast shadows around the room. We were quieter than usual, and I knew why.

“It seems strange not to have Ivy here,” Lola said during a slow moment.

I knew we’d all been thinking it. Ivy was our resident movie buff; she would’ve kept up a stream of commentary, telling us who the minor actors were, what movies the major players had made before or after
Falcon
, and critiquing the director’s choice of shots and backgrounds.

“People are saying it might have been suicide,” Brooke said in a low voice.

Maud muted the TV and slewed to face us. “That’s crap,” she said.

After a moment’s hesitation, I shared what I’d learned from Ham and then told them about taking the tea canister from Ivy’s office to the police department.

Maud stared at me. I knew her brows were up, even though I couldn’t see her face clearly in the dimness. “So you don’t think it was an accident or suicide,” she said. “That only leaves one thing.”

“Murder.” Kerry produced the word grimly.

“No one would want to kill Ivy,” Brooke said, at the same time Maud said, “We should figure out who’d want to kill Ivy.”

“That’s the police’s job, don’t you think?” Lola asked. Her glasses reflected the moving lights from the TV.

“Doesn’t sound to me like they’re doing it, not if they’ve already decided Ivy committed suicide,” Maud said. She blew a disgusted raspberry. “As usual, they’re taking the path of least resistance. Much easier to say that Ivy killed herself than to conduct an investigation that might lead to important city government officials.”

“What are you talking about?” Lola asked.

Maud beetled her brows, then said, “Ivy and Clay Shumer were . . . making the beast with two backs.”

Trust Maud to find the most colorful metaphor.

“I’m pretty sure it was over,” Brooke said.

We all looked at her.

“I saw Fee at Dr. Kloberdanz’s maybe a month ago. She was going in as I was coming out.”

“So?” Kerry said, expressing the confusion we all felt.

“He’s an obstetrician.”

There was a moment of silence while we took that in. “You’re saying Fee Shumer is pregnant,” Lola said.

Brooke shrugged.

“You’re not—?” A bright moment on screen washed Maud’s tanned face with light, and I could see her brows raised suggestively.

“No,” Brooke whispered.

I surreptitiously squeezed her hand, knowing she’d had a positive EPT a month ago that hadn’t been backed up by the doctor’s lab test. She’d been crushed.

“Fee didn’t look pregnant at yoga the other day,” I said. We both attended classes—me, somewhat sporadically—at the yoga studio on the third floor of the building my office was in. “She was still downward dogging with the best of ’em.”

“Yoga’s supposed to be good for pregnant women,” Lola said.

“Well,” Maud announced after a moment’s thought. “That Clay Shumer is pond scum if he was having nooners with Ivy and then getting it on with his wife after dinner. I’d cut off Joe’s private parts with a hacksaw if he did that. Not that he would.” Joe was her partner, a nationally known wildlife photographer who spent months at a time on shoots in places like the Galapágos and Papua New Guinea. I thought he was in Uruguay or Uganda right now—one of those “U” countries. Their long separations seemed to work for them.

Kerry snorted a laugh, and then we fell silent, watching Brigid O’Shaughnessy plead silently with Sam Spade on the screen. She clutched at him and he detached her. It made me wonder how Ivy had taken the breakup with Clay, if there’d been a breakup. Knowing Ivy, she wouldn’t have made it easy on him.

“You know,” I said, “all the backstabbing and double-crossing in this movie is about money, or what they all think is money—that silly falcon statue. What if Ivy’s . . . murder”—it was hard to say the word in connection with someone I knew—“is about money? Her brother inherits her house and all her stuff, I think. At least, that’s what he
says. He’s practically panting to sell the house. And a woman at her office gets her job.”

“Aren’t most people killed for love or money?” Kerry asked.

“Or revenge.” Maud ticked motives off on her fingers. “Money. Love-slash-lust. Revenge. Power.” She waggled four fingers.