Triple Shot (8 page)

‘Did Pop-Pop see what happened?’ Tien asked. Like me, she seemed intrigued by this new window into her heritage.

‘I only know what your grandmother told me.’ Luc’s hazel eyes meeting those of his daughter’s. Exact same color, but Tien’s with an Asian lift at the corners. ‘Your grandfather was killed that day by an FBI bullet.’

Chapter Eight

‘But you said Pop-Pop wasn’t
in
the Mafia.’ Tien’s beautiful eyes teared up. ‘Why did they shoot him?’

‘It was an accident, sweetie,’ Luc said. ‘The authorities kicked in the door and guns on both sides started blazing. It could just as easily have been one of the mob lieutenants who fired the round that killed my father.’

Probably hard to tell the good guys from the bad, under those circumstances. And, though I wouldn’t say it aloud, Tien’s father
had
harbored criminals in his restaurant. Knowingly, repeatedly and, from what Luc had said, without anybody putting a gun to his head.

‘But the bullet did come from an FBI gun?’

Luc shrugged. ‘According to my mother, though I’m not sure how reliable she ever was on the subject. She’d only talk about it when she drank homemade wine and had filled up the jelly jar enough times to get morose.’

Jelly jars made into glasses. I remembered a tiny hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant in Milwaukee that had made their own wine and served it in Welch’s Flintstones jelly jars.

‘Did your mother resent the FBI?’ I asked.

‘No.’ Luc alternatingly clenched and relaxed his free hand.’ She resented my father for getting involved with somebody called Little Mo, one of the gangsters killed that day.’

Tien, who had retaken her spot on the arm of his chair, twisted to regard him. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about the Mafia. Are you sure—’

‘Don’t worry, sweetie. I just did some research because I was curious.’ He punched her lightly on the arm. ‘As you should understand.’

‘Like father like daughter, I guess,’ Tien said, then her eyes darkened. ‘But have you told me everything? No more surprises? I won’t find out my great-great-great grandfather was Attila the Hun or something?’

‘Promise,’ Luc said, holding up his free hand. ‘Now is everyone ready for dinner?’

###

It was after nine when we’d finally sat down to eat, Sarah having taken a little snooze as the rest of us put dinner on the table.

‘That was delicious,’ I said to Luc as he passed me my jacket. ‘I think the Chicken Francese will be a perfect addition to our Prepared Food section.’

‘We just have to make sure we don’t overcook it,’ Tien said. ‘Otherwise it will dry out when it’s reheated.’

‘Maybe we should put instructions on it,’ Luc said to his daughter. ‘It really would be best sautéed just enough to crisp up the breading and heat through.’

Sarah, who had her hand on the doorknob, snorted. ‘Sauté it? Please, if you can’t order it fresh – or at least nuke it back to life – nobody’s going to eat it anyway.’

‘That’s you and me, Sarah,’ I said, pushing her ahead of me out the door. ‘Takeout and microwave dinners. Most people in Brookhills have gorgeous gourmet kitchens.’

I waved goodbye to Luc and Tien, who was staying behind to help her dad clean up.

‘Doesn’t mean those people cook in ’em.’

Sarah being a case in point. Lovely house, beautifully appointed kitchen, layer of dust on most appliances.

I said, ‘Are you all right to drive?’

‘Of course. I had just the one vodka and that was three hours ago.’

Not to mention a big meal and nap, though not in that order. We had reached the sidewalk. ‘Were you drinking because of . . .?’

‘Brigid?’ Sarah had her key out and was walking to her yellow 1975 Firebird, yet another item dating from the mid-seventies. ‘No.’

She stopped and turned. ‘Not that I’m letting myself off the hook. Brigid was my responsibility as surely as Sam and Courtney are.’

‘You are those kids’ legal guardian.’

‘I had a legal responsibility to Brigid, too.’ Sarah examined the keys in her hand. ‘Thing was, Maggy, the kid looked and acted more mature than she really was. I guess I just bought into it. Let her make decisions that should have been mine and mine alone. Partly because I was older, but mostly because I was the fully-accredited and licensed boss. I screwed up.’

‘It’s not your fault she’s dead. You didn’t—’

‘You’re right, I didn’t.’ My partner stuck her key in the door of her classic car. ‘I didn’t teach her how to stay safe. I didn’t show her the articles on the broker websites about dangerous situations.’

‘You told her not to show houses alone.’

‘But, like you said, who would she have taken? Who would have called her to make sure she was OK?’

Now Sarah was using my words to make
her
point.

She swung her door open and slid in. ‘I never met any of her friends and she was all alone in the office. I fired everyone else, remember?’

‘You are
not
a bad person,’ I protested.

She turned her key in the ignition. ‘Maybe, but I’m not a good one, either.’ Then Sarah slammed her driver’s door shut, gunned the engine and drove away.

‘You are, too,’ I said to the receding tail lights. Maybe not a
nice
person, but Sarah in her own way was good-hearted. She just . . . well, buried it under a load of defensive crap.

I tweet-tweeted the Escape’s key fob to open my door and got in.

I was worried about my partner. ‘Bipolar disorder’ was jargon for what once was simply and descriptively called ‘manic depression’. Thanks to the meds, Sarah’s manic phase seemed controlled, but I wasn’t sure what accumulation of grief would tip her over into depression.

Pavlik hadn’t liked that Sarah’s employee was found dead, and under Sarah’s building. It wouldn’t take him long to discover the complaint Brigid had lodged with the state against her employer.

And then what?

When Sarah had opened that envelope – Brigid’s corpse practically beneath our feet – she’d been shocked. Blindsided.

And even if Sarah had been aware of the complaint before then, she certainly wouldn’t kill somebody over it and stash the body on her own property.

Ridiculous. I knew it and I’d make sure Pavlik did, too.

I started the Escape, feeling more confident. Of course, I could help my friend. I was capable, I was responsible. I . . .

‘Yoo-hoo, Maggy?’ Tien was in the doorway. ‘You forgot something.’

Frank came bounding toward the car.

Chapter Nine

The next morning I was bouncing around the tiny house like a pinball, but it was just habit. Out of bed and into the bathroom, down the hall to the kitchen to start the coffee, back to take a shower, then half-dressed to the laundry room in hopes of finding a clean Uncommon Grounds T-shirt, quick detour for coffee on the way to the bathroom to redeem a ‘gently worn’ shirt from the hamper, back to the kitchen to fill Frank’s food bowls and my travel mug, a search of the living room for my keys.

And every time I entered a room, Frank left it.

‘I told you I was sorry,’ I said as he pushed himself up from the floor in front of the unlit fireplace and walked stiff-legged into the hallway.

‘Not that you shouldn’t share some of the blame,’ I called after him. ‘If you hadn’t scarfed down all Tien’s meat loaf, you wouldn’t have become so logy that you fell asleep on Luc’s bed.’

I still didn’t see how the plus-sized sheepdog had made it up the circular staircase. Though it might explain Frank’s creakiness – in addition to his crankiness – this morning.

The big galoot probably pulled something.

‘Fine, sulk if you want,’ I said, catching sight of my car keys on the chair by the door. ‘I have to get to work. Someone in this house needs to do more than eat and sleep.’

OK, add pee and poop, though I always remained hopeful that, at least for Frank, these last two would be exterior operations.

Walking out into the cold morning, I thought about how my life had changed from three years ago, when I had a husband and a son, a prestigious job in corporate PR and a big house.

And no pets.

Today I was divorced, with my son away at college and my fledgling shop struggling. My house was small and my sheepdog was large.

Oh, and I talked to him. A lot.

Not that I wasn’t happy, you understand. It was just . . . yeah, ‘different’ captured it well enough.

I had a sudden surge of loneliness and thought about calling Eric at the University of Minnesota. As I turned the key in the Escape, the time flashed 8:09. Nope. Just into his third year, my son had one early class on his schedule and the last thing I wanted to do was make him late for it.

The last couple of years had been tough on Eric, both because of Ted and my divorce and Eric’s own realization that he, himself, was gay. Our son had told me and then his father and, relieved that we loved him and life wasn’t going to come crashing down around him – at least, more than it already had with the divorce – Eric had gone back to the ‘U’.

A huge relief because, though Ted was responsible for Eric’s tuition, my ex and I shared joint custody of a fervent desire to see our son graduate. And be happy.

I drove the short distance to Uncommon Grounds and pulled into the parking lot. Leaving the Escape, I moved around the track side of the building. The area that had been cordoned off yesterday still was, guarded by only one sheriff’s deputy next to the steps.

I said good morning and he nodded back, an Uncommon Grounds to-go cup in his left hand.

‘Can I get you a refill?’

‘No, thank you, ma’am. Amy just brought me this one.’

‘Great,’ I said as I started up the stairs to the platform. ‘Just yell if you need anything.’

I stopped and craned my neck down to see him. ‘Do you happen to know if Sheriff Pavlik will be by today?’

The hint of a grin, quickly stifled. That Pavlik was dating the local Typhoid Mary of untimely deaths was common knowledge, not that the department respected its sheriff any less. I wasn’t quite sure what his troops thought of me.

‘He’s inside, ma’am,’ the deputy replied, nodding toward the door behind the steps. ‘Would you like to speak with him?’

I did, though not necessarily in front of one of his subordinates. ‘No, thanks, I’ll—’

‘Maggy.’ Pavlik emerged from the half-door to the waiting room below. ‘A moment?’

‘Certainly.’ I backtracked down the steps and ducked under the tape, avoiding the deputy’s eyes. It felt uncomfortably close to being summoned to the principal’s office.

Pavlik moved aside to let me enter, then followed me down the two steps to the linoleum floor. In contrast to yesterday when he might have been dressed for court, today Pavlik was relatively casual. Dark-wash jeans and a dress shirt with the cuffs folded up. So simple and yet so, so . . .

I glanced behind me to see if the deputy had stayed close, but the coast was clear. ‘Permission to approach the sheriff, sir?’

The crinkle lines at the corners of his eyes showed the smile his mouth didn’t. ‘Permission denied.’

‘So put me in jail.’ I stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips.

His hand came up to steady me at the waist and with a groan he pulled me into him. ‘I’ve missed you, Maggy.’

‘Me, too.’ Twining my arms around his neck, I hung there for a second and then stepped back. We both knew it wouldn’t do for the county sheriff to be canoodling at a murder scene.

‘We’re going to secure the door and keep the area taped,’ Pavlik said, looking tired, ‘but Harris out there will be taking off once the crime scene guys are done.’

‘That’s fine.’ I shook my head. ‘Poor Brigid. How horrible to take your last breaths in there.’ I tilted my head toward the stuffy little bathroom. ‘And all alone to boot. She was beautiful and young, not much older than Eric. She should have been out having fun, not . . .’

‘Dying? I agree. But from what we’ve determined so far, she wasn’t killed here.’

‘No?’ I struggled to embrace the first arguably good news I’d had without jinxing it.

‘Ms Ferndale was hit in the back of the head.’ Pavlik used his right hand as a teacher’s aide. ‘And wherever that happened, there should have been a good amount of blood.’

‘But there wasn’t,’ I said, glancing toward the bathroom. Since Brigid had been face-up, I couldn’t have seen the wound without moving her body, not only bad crime-scene behavior but just plain yucky. I certainly didn’t recall any blood, though, much less ‘a good amount’.

‘But, Pavlik, if Brigid was killed somewhere else, how did she get here?’

‘Good question.’

‘Could she have been injured, but not realizing how badly? You know, internal bleeding?’

‘The brain or skull, you mean? Not likely. The deceased bled out, but somewhere else.’ He sagged down onto the couch.

‘You look exhausted. Did you get any sleep last night?’

Pavlik ran his hand through his curly hair. ‘Not much. The other two killings were real estate agents working alone. I was leaning toward someone with a grudge.’

‘Some kind of vendetta?’ I sat down next to him, thinking how melodramatic it all sounded for Brookhills.

‘A lot of people have lost their homes, Maggy. They’re angry, and the closest “messenger” around is probably a realtor.’

As in ‘don’t kill the messenger’. Except someone had.

But I knew Pavlik was right about feelings running high. One of our customers had bought a house at foreclosure, only to have it nearly destroyed by the original homeowner. Sad on both counts – the people who lost their home, but also my young customer. He’d finally scraped enough money together to buy a house, only to put thousands more into it to repair the damage.

Everybody loses.

I said, ‘Angry and frustrated, I understand, but . . . killing your real estate agent?’

‘Real estate agents, bankers, the person who’s buying your house out from under you. When you’ve lost everything . . .’

‘. . . you have nothing left to lose,’ I finished for him. ‘You said you
were
leaning toward someone with a grudge. Have you changed your mind?’