A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 7

  Immediately after it disappeared under the crack, I had regrets. Was it wise to push all of that cash under a door? What if someone else spotted it, or a mouse scurried off with it? There are plenty of mice in the old Nugget building.

  To rectify the situation, I called her cellphone to tell her that the money was waiting for her. Her voicemail message informed me that she was out of town, camping in the desert for the week, which didn’t ease my worries.

  However, what was done was done. I couldn’t very well get the money back through the narrow crack, unless I used a coat hanger and maybe some tape or tongs of some sort (which did cross my mind, I have to admit).

  Marley had also run all of her errands, and wanted to help me track down Ralph. After cruising the town for a while, listening to Hillcrest's only radio station, we settled on parking in front of the restaurant.

  I reasoned that since Ralph now owned The Place, he’d likely turn up for work eventually. Marley reasoned that sitting parked would save some gas money.

  “I’m going to get Ralph talking about Joe, I suppose,” I say. “I want to see what his energy is like. You know, does he get all nervous or upset or anything.”

  “Melanie got pretty nervous or upset when you talked about Joe,” Marley says. “But that doesn’t mean she killed him.”

  “I know,” I say. “But that’s the best way to start... just ease into things. I’ll ask him a couple questions about that day at the restaurant, and just see how he reacts. Then I might try to lead into some questions about Melanie. I’m still trying to figure out how her tickets to Oahu fit in with all of this.”

  “That is what Mayor Haywater hired you for,” Marley reminds me.

  As if I need reminding.

  I’m well aware that I’ll need to call Cliff with an update soon, as I promised. I’m not sure that I’ve gotten anywhere, except for hearing the rumor that his wife was going to ask for a divorce. I sure as heck am not going to drop that little bomb into his lap without concrete evidence. And even if I do get solid evidence, the conversation is not going to be fun.

  I’m dreading it actually.

  “Ooo!” Marley says, after a long sip of her soy chai latte with a quad shot of espresso. “I just got an idea!”

  It’s like the espresso has switched on a lightbulb inside of her head. Her eyes open wide and she starts waving one hand around in that way she does when she’s excited. “We could do a good cop-bad cop thing! You could be the good cop, and I could be the bad cop! It would be like in the movies—you know when one of them is all compassionate and sweet, and then BAM! The other one hits the perp with a question.”

  “First of all,” I say, straightening my glasses. “We’re not cops. I’m a PI, and you work part time as a massage therapist. Secondly, Ralph isn’t a ‘perp’. He’s a suspect.”

  Marley sips her Funky Buddha. She’s not happy with my reality check.

  “I like your enthusiasm, though,” I add. Because I’m curious, I ask, “Do you even know what a perp is?”

  I don’t get to find out her answer, because just then I spot Ralph, walking down the alley towards us.

  “There he is!” I say.

  Ralph is a short man. Usually, whenever I see him, he’s trailing after Mayor Haywater. Up until recently, Ralph helped Cliff manage two businesses and mayoral duties. Now that Ralph owns the town’s busiest restaurant, I wonder if he’ll still function as an assistant to Cliff. I doubt it.

  It’s odd seeing him on his own, without Cliff.

  He’s wearing pressed khakis, a crisp white tee-shirt, and a black blazer, unbuttoned. Aviator glasses and gelled hair finish off his stylish look.

  “I don’t remember Ralph dressing up like this,” I say. “He looks all styled out. Has he always dressed like he’s heading to a photoshoot of GQ magazine? Maybe I just never looked at his clothing before.”

  Marley shakes her head. “You’re right,” she says. “He used to wear frumpy clothes, before he bought the restaurant. I think he went shopping. New job, new wardrobe, I suppose.”

  “He looks pretty pleased with himself,” I say, as Ralph saunters up to the back door of The Place.

  I step out of the van and slam the door close just as Ralph is about to disappear into the restaurant. He turns and looks at me.

  “Ralph!” I call out. “Hi! Could we have a word with you?”

  He grins. His grin widens as Marley steps out of the van, too. Maybe he thinks we’re restaurant-owner groupies or something, I don’t know. I do know that I don’t like the sleazy look he’s giving us, and I’m eager to set him straight.

  But before I can introduce the purpose of our visit, he speaks. “Hello, ladies! To what do I owe the pleasure?” He runs one hand through his slick hair and then tilts his glasses down and looks us over.

  I hate to burst his bubble. Then again, he’s kind of giving me the creeps, so maybe it’s not so bad.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I say.

  “Right,” he replies, slowly. His demeanor changes a little bit. “I’ve heard you do that... you’re Penny Banks, right?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And this is my friend, Marley.”

  “How is business?” Ralph asks. “That must be a tough job to hold down in a small town like this. Not much crime in Hillcrest.” He laughs, but it’s a fake laugh.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” I say.

  “She figured out who was stealing the Payday candy bars from the Market,” Marley says.

  Ralph scoffs. “Anyone could have done that,” he says. “I’m guessing it was the checkout woman, who kept gaining weight. What was her name... Marge? She always had chocolate smudges on her cheeks.” He laughs. “Once I saw her actually take a candy bar off the shelf and eat it while she was ringing up my food.”

  Shoot. He’s right. It was Marge. Was it really that obvious?

  “Well, I didn’t see that, and I still figured it out,” I say.

  “What is your point?” asks Ralph.

  Crap. What is my point?

  “Where were you on the day that Joe Gallant was murdered?” Marley asks, in a demanding voice.

  Ralph looks as though he’s just been delivered a right hook to the face. He jerks his head back, and then does a double take, looking from Marley to me.

  “M- Murdered?” he says. “Joe wasn’t murdered. He got stuck.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Marley says. “I asked you where you were.”

  “I—I was here,” he says, with a slight stutter.

  Nice one, Marley.

  Playing good cop, I say, “We just want to ask you a few questions, Ralph. Would that be okay with you?”

  He’s still off balance. I can tell he wants to refuse, but his brain is still scrambled from Marley’s abrupt question and aggressive demeanor.

  “Did you kill Joe Gallant, by stuffing him into the deep freezer?” Marley asks.

  Ralph takes a step back, away from us. “What! I didn’t kill Joe!” he says, too loud. He’s nervous.

  Then again, who wouldn’t be when accused of murder!?

  I feel like we need to reel things in. I guess that’s where the good cop comes in.

  “Ralph,” I say, in a quiet, calm voice. “We’re trying to gather some information about Joe’s death. It would be very helpful if we could run some timelines by you—just to verify what other people have told us. It won’t take long.”

  He still seems undecided about whether he wants to talk to us or not. We can’t force him to, so I keep talking. I am hoping that if I keep his attention, he won’t just disappear through the restaurant doors. “On the day that Joe was found dead in the freezer, you were seen entering the restaurant at eleven in the morning. Is that correct?”

  “Cliff asked me to do some work here,” Ralph says. “He was tied up with the retirement party, but he knew there would be a full house at the restaurant that night.”

  “Because it was his last night as the owner,” I say.

&nbs
p; “Yeah,” Ralph says. “We knew the whole town would be coming in for dinner. Though I don’t know what the big deal is. I haven’t changed anything on the menu.”

  “How is it, owning a restaurant?” I ask. “Do you like it?” As the good cop, I care about Ralph’s feelings. I know Marley will chime in with some hard-core questions soon, so I can afford to putter around with the soft stuff. “It must be nice,” I add. “This is such a popular place.” I decide to really butter him up. “I’ve heard that it’s even better now that you’re the owner.”

  “Really?” Ralph says. “Who said that?”

  “Oh, just people... around town. The word is that the food tastes fresher.”

  “I did replace the bulb in one of our warming lights,” Ralph says. “Now when Glenn puts food up there, it stays a lot hotter. I wonder if that’s what people are tasting.”

  “Must be,” I say. “Is Glenn doing most of the cooking... now that Joe is gone?” I ask.

  “I promoted him to head chef,” Ralph says. “He already knows the menu. It was a natural choice—“

  “For an astute business leader like yourself,” I say.

  He actually smiles. This is working!

  Marley chimes in. “What did you do, when you entered the restaurant at eleven am on August fourteenth?” she demands.

  Ralph is once again shaken. He looks over at Marley warily as he answers. “I went straight to Cliff’s office.”

  “Did you see Joe, working in the kitchen?” I ask.

  “No,” Ralph says. “I assumed he was there, doing prep work. I heard Glenn come in an hour later. I didn’t go into the kitchen. I was in the office, doing administrative work. I didn’t come out of the office until hours later, when the paramedics arrived and pronounced Joe dead.”

  “You expect us to believe that?” Marley practically shouts, causing Ralph to flinch. She glares at Ralph, as she repeats his words back to him. Every once in a while, at random, she throws in air quotes. “Oh, you assumed Joe was ‘in’ the kitchen, and you heard ‘Glenn’ come in, hm? And you just hid away in your office until hours ‘later’. Yeah right.”

  The air quotes seem totally random. I’m going to have to give her a lesson in using them, if we’re going to do this routine again, because as it is she’s almost making me laugh aloud. I am the nice cop, but I’m not the giggly cop. That would be over the top.

  Ralph is confused. “That’s what I said,” He says, giving Marley a weird look.

  For the first time, Marley is flustered. “Yeah, well...” she says.

  I jump in. “What my friend here is saying is that we’re going to need some proof that you were in Cliff’s office while Joe was freezing to death. Can you tell us about the work that you were doing?”

  His face flushes a little bit. “Why would I remember that?” He asks. “I did office work for Cliff all the time, before I bought this restaurant. A lot of work. I was probably making phone calls. He was expecting inventory to be delivered, and I was the one who had to receive everything and make payments.”

  “Can you verify that for us somehow?” I ask. “Maybe show us some of the receipts from that day, and provide a log of calls that you made so that we can—”

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Ralph says.

  Shoot. He just caught on to the fact that we have absolutely zero authority in this matter.

  I cringe.

  He catches it. “Actually,” he says, “I don’t even have to talk to you. You’re not the police.”

  “Like I said, I’m a private investigator,” I say.

  “And who hired you?” Ralph asks.

  “That’s confidential,” I say. I can sense we’re going to lose him soon. “Ralph, I’ve heard you don’t get along well with Melanie Haywater. Tell us about your relationship with her.”

  This puts him over the edge. “That’s enough,” he says. “I have a restaurant to run. I don’t have time for this.”

  He spins on his heel, and disappears through the restaurant’s back door. Once he’s inside, he slams the door closed.

  It clearly says employees only. We can’t follow him inside. It’s after two, so the restaurant is open. But I have a feeling that even if we went around to the front and entered the restaurant as customers, Ralph would avoid us like the plague.

  I’m thinking over what he’s just told us. “According to Ralph, Glenn was alone in the kitchen with Joe for hours before Cliff came in at two thirty,” I say, thinking aloud.

  “Plenty of time to stuff him in a freezer,” Marley says. “Glenn had the opportunity.”

  “And the motive,” I say. “He might have wanted to become head chef. I bet he got a pay raise.”

  “Means and motive,” Marley says. She’s hung out with me enough to pick up on some PI lingo. We start walking back to the van.

  As we climb in, I say, “I guess we should talk to Glenn, next.”

  “Sounds like it,” Marley agrees. “You make a stellar good cop, by the way.”

  “And you’re a decent bad cop,” I say.

  “Just decent?” she asks.

  “We have to work on your use of air quotes,” I say.

  “Yeah, that didn’t feel right.” She pulls the van out of the alleyway, back onto the main street.

  “Do you believe everything Ralph just said?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. It’s not the answer I want to give, but it’s the truth. I’d much rather say, ‘heck, no,’ or ‘absolutely’, but I have no clear feeling on the matter.

  Is Ralph telling us the truth? I wish I knew.

  Absentmindedly, I reach for the pouch that’s hanging around my neck. I hold onto it as I wish for better instincts. No luck.

  Marley sees me holding the pouch. “Have you figured out your secret key ingredient?” she asks, as she steers the van down the main street.

  “Nope,” I say. “How about you?”

  She thinks for a minute. “Well, last night I poured a glass of chardonnay, and I kind of wondered—what if chardonnay is my secret ingredient? I’ve heard that I’m friendlier after I’ve had a glass.”

  “I don't know if friendlier really has anything to do with the power spell.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Marley says. “What about cinnamon... do you think that could be it? I really like putting cinnamon on everything I eat. Even waffles.”

  “Does it make you feel powerful?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “I think you have to keep waiting. I feel like when we really find the secret key ingredient, we’re going to know.”

  “Bummer,” Marley says. “I was really hoping mine would be one of those. Do you have a Book of Shadows? The spell instructions say that we have to write down what we figure out in our Book of Shadows. I don’t have one.”

  “Me either.” I say.

  “Maybe the pharmacy has some blank journals,” Marley says. We’ve reached the turn to Blackbear apartments, and Marley slows the van down, stopping traffic behind us.

  “Should I drop you home?” she asks.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say. “I promised myself I’d go to the grocery store today. Maybe I’ll sneak in a trip before Chris gets home from work. We’re supposed to hang out tonight.”

  Marley steers the van down the road to my apartment.

  “Maybe your secret key ingredient is Chris,” she suggests.

  “I doubt it,” I say. “I was wearing my necklace today while he was training me with the handcuffs. When the chief pulled up and I was practically naked, I definitely didn’t feel powerful. Mortified would be a better word for what I felt. Now, if we were looking for a secret ingredient to an embarrassment spell, Chris would be my ticket.”

  Marley laughs.

  Before getting out of the van, I reach across the console and give her a hug. “Thanks,” I say.

  “We didn’t make much progress,” Marley says, as we pull apart.

  “These things take time,” I say. “We’re getti
ng closer; slowly but surely.” I hop out and slam the door closed.

  As Marley pulls off, I give her a wave. Then, when she’s gone, I turn and begin walking towards my apartment. As I pass by Unit B, I look for signs of life. According to Cora, someone signed a lease to live there. I wonder who?

  Once I’m on the staircase that leads to my apartment, my mind returns to the case.

  I was trying to sound optimistic for Marley, but really I’m feeling anything but. The interview with Ralph did little but add to my confusion.

  Instead of answers, I have more questions. What seemed to be simply a case about a mysterious plane ticket is becoming more and more complex. Not only that, but I feel like with every step I take, I’m getting farther from the issue of Melanie’s travel itinerary.

  At least I can hope that at any moment, I’ll be gifted with some sort of magical superpowers, due to the satchel of ingredients around my neck. I place my palm around the little pouch and give it a squeeze as I climb my stairs. I feel the lump of ingredients shift within the old curtain material.

  This is the kind of necklace I might expect a woman in an insane asylum to wear.

  But I’m not crazy.

  Am I?

  Chapter Eight

  I bend over and push half a gallon of soy milk into the fridge, next to a carton of vanilla soy coffee creamer and a six pack of beer.

  I’d like to say that I have to scooch aside copious fruits and vegetables to make way for the soy milk, but I don’t. My fridge remains typically sparse, despite the trip to the Hillcrest Market that I just took.

  That’s not entirely due to my lack of skill in the kitchen, or my lack of imagination when it comes to preparing meals. It’s more due to the fact that I can only fit so much in the milk crate that is strapped to the back of my bike.

  If I’d been driving a car, sure, I would have loaded up the trunk with stalks of celery and buckets of healthy, leafy greens.

  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

  I straighten up and put the nearly empty paper bag on the countertop. There’s one more thing inside of it: a blank composition book, that I bought at the market.

  It’s nothing fancy, but I think it will be just fine as my Book of Shadows for right now. I pull it out of the bag and place it reverently on the countertop, pleased with myself for purchasing it. I have to move aside a bunch of bananas to flip open the book. Though my fridge certainly isn't packed with fruits and veggies, at least I bought bananas. Go me!