Deadly Gamble: A Girl and Her Dog Cozy Mystery

My head was jangling in time with the constant ping-ping-ping of the video games. Fresh air was in order. I stepped out into the bright sunlight, squinting as my eyes adjusted. I'd parked down the block. Now I walked the distance briskly, shaking the noises from my ears and the lethargy from my limbs. It had been a long day but it was only about three o'clock. Perhaps I could find out a little more about Jean Detweiller.

  The phone book listed Archie's Diner on Central Avenue, I guessed somewhere around the old Albuquerque High School area. I started west and picked up the next cross street, which took me to Central. Passing the old high school was sad. Both my parents had attended school there but sometime in the early seventies it had fallen on hard times. Now a high chain link fence surrounded the grounds and building. Graffiti scarred the dark brick facade and most of the broken-out windows were boarded up. For years the city had discussed various ways to rekindle life in the place, everything from boutique shops to sleeping quarters for homeless people. But, as yet, nothing had come of any of the political talk. So, she sat there, a sad old lady—dead really, but no one quite had the heart to bury her.

  I passed Archie's before I realized it and had to circle the block. Three-fifteen. Jean shouldn't be at work until four, which would give me a chance to ask a few questions without her presence.

  The building was probably built in the fifties, when crowds of kids in bobby socks and poodle skirts flocked here after school. The front was mostly glass, huge panes of it, separated by aluminum dividers. The glass rose a story and a half, forming a sharp peak at the top. At the back, the roof dropped away sharply in a dramatic scoop, like some inner-city ski jump. The front of the building sat right at the sidewalk, and access to the rear parking lot was gained through a narrow driveway on the eastern perimeter. I pulled in to find one other car in the lot. Two other vehicles, a sagging twenty-year-old Cadillac and a Volkswagen bug with the front fenders missing, were parked near a greasy back door. The employees.

  Inside, the decor was original fifties. A counter ran the length of the place, fronted by chrome and red-vinyl stools. An aisleway just wide enough for a waitress with a loaded food tray separated the stools from a series of booths that lined the windows. An angular chrome jukebox stood in one corner, a yellowed Out-of-Order sign taped to its front. A thin man in a shapeless brown coat sat at one end of the counter, hugging a coffee cup between the palms of his hands. A long tendril of smoke from an ashtray beside him trailed purposefully toward the high ceiling, where it joined a bunch of other smoke, forming its own pollution zone. I took a stool at the opposite end.

  "Yes, ma'am, what can I get for you?" The man must be Archie. He was sixty-something, round all over, about my height, five-six or so. He wore a white t-shirt, white pants, and white apron, all of which were spotted with grease and food stains that looked several days old. His head was shiny on top, rimmed by closely trimmed white hair. His jowly face was clean-shaven. I became aware of his thick index finger tapping on the counter, waiting for my answer.

  "Oh." I had to think a minute. The Coke I'd just finished with Josh had pretty well killed off my appetite. "I'll just have coffee," I told him.

  "How about a piece of pie with that? Homemade this morning. Best in town." When he smiled, he looked much friendlier, like an un-bearded Santa.

  "What kind?" I felt myself weakening. Maybe I could call this dinner.

  "Cherry, peach, or Dutch apple." He waved toward the glassed-in pie case behind him.

  "Dutch apple."

  "Excellent choice." He turned and picked up a small plate. I watched him dish up the largest piece of Dutch apple. "Little scoop of vanilla on that?" he asked.

  "No, thanks. Just the pie."

  He laid a fork beside the hunk of pie and set it down in front of me. While he turned to get my coffee, I asked, "Jean Detweiller works here, doesn't she?"

  "Yeah, she'll be here in . . . oh, fifteen, twenty minutes."

  "How's she doing these days?"

  "You mean after her husband got killed?"

  "Yeah. She pretty broken up?"

  "Jean's a strong woman," he replied. "You know, she didn't miss a day of work."

  "Really." I forked another bite of the pie. It was wonderful. "Look, a friend of mine has been implicated in that case. I'm looking into it on her behalf."

  Archie wiped the counter, not saying anything.

  "I'm trying to get a feel for what happened. Gary had been out of town, hadn't he?"

  "I think so. Jean didn't always tell me stuff like that. The other girl on her shift, Sarah, might know."

  "The girls stop for a dinner break sometime during their shifts, don't they?"

  "A dinner break and two coffee breaks," he grumbled. "This damn government b.s. They gotta have so many minutes break after so many hours work. Jean's real good about it, though." He made eye contact to be sure I got the point. "There's some'll nit-pick that break shit to the letter of the law. Jean'll work on through if we're busy, and take her break later when things slow down."

  "Does she have a regular time?"

  "Oh, usually sometime between the dinner bunch and the late bunch."

  "When's that?"

  "Well, let's see. The dinner bunch comes in, say, between six and eight. Mostly neighborhood folks, you know. Then we gotta little quiet time until the late bunch comes. Those're the ones that go out to some doin's or other over at the convention center or, like, some concert at Popejoy Hall. This time of year, we get the basketball crowd, too. After them Lobos play, that bunch is ready for pie and coffee. And we still make regular ol' fountain stuff like sodas, sundaes, banana splits."

  I thought about it. Seemed like the ball games and concerts usually ended around ten. So, it was likely that Jean took her dinner break sometime between eight and ten.

  "Do the girls eat their dinner here or do they ever go out?"

  "When they got free food here?" He chuckled. "Well, a course, sometimes they do an errand or something."

  The man at the far end of the counter was standing up so Archie waddled toward that direction.

  I chewed thoughtfully on my pie. Jean might have had motive and opportunity. They lived less than ten minutes away. Could that have been the reason Josh almost freaked when he heard a woman had been arrested, until I told him who it was? Then he almost seemed happy. Maybe he suspected his mother had done it. Jean certainly seemed to benefit the most from Gary's death, and she'd certainly been the happiest since. I wondered if there had been an insurance policy.

  I became aware of movement in front of me.

  "Charlie?" Jean fixed a look on me like, What are you doing here?, but she had the good grace not to voice it.

  "Hi, Jean. I heard about the pie here, and decided to try it. So this is the place you work."

  "Yes. This is the place." She was dying of curiosity, and would probably quiz Archie after I'd left. I hoped I hadn't let my speculations show. "Can I freshen that coffee for you?" she asked.

  "Oh, no thanks. I gotta get going." I pulled money from my wallet and left a tip on the counter. Archie was clearing dishes at the other end where the other customer had been. "Great pie, Archie," I called out. "I'll have to come back again."

  He raised a hand in a little salute and smiled at me. I left with no further explanation to Jean.

  Out in the parking lot, Jean's faded blue Honda was now parked next to Archie's Cadillac. The battered beetle was gone. It must have belonged to some unseen employee lurking in the kitchen. I turned, just as a green pickup truck pulled into the lot. It missed me by no more than two feet. The driver and I were equally startled. She jerked to a stop just as I jumped back a foot or so. I waved her on.

  She pulled into an empty slot next to Jean's car and that was when it occurred to me that she wore the same pink and gray uniform as Jean's. I walked toward the truck just as her door opened.

  "Sarah?"

  "Hey, look, I'm really sorry I almost hit you. I just didn't expect anyone to be walking across th
e lot this time of day. Sorry. Are you okay?" She had an elfin face, so thin that it almost became lost in the mane of blond hair that hung straight down both sides of it.

  "Don't worry, I'm fine." I assured her. "You're Sarah Johnson, aren't you?"

  "Yeah?"

  I positioned myself so I could watch the back door, in case Jean were to peek out. Luckily, no windows faced the parking area.

  "I just wanted to ask you a quick question."

  Sarah nodded. She reached up and began twisting her long hair into a thick braid while we talked.

  "Do you remember last Wednesday night, a week ago? It was the night Jean's husband was killed."

  She looked vague. "Well, I remember the next day because we talked about what had happened."

  "Think back. How about the night before?"

  "Let's see, Thursday night was a Lobo game. Ricky, that's my boyfriend, stopped by Wednesday night to see if I wanted to go with him. But, I couldn't. I told him I was working Thursday."

  "What time did Ricky stop by Wednesday night?"

  "Umm, let me think." Her eyes turned upward. "Probably about nine. Things are kinda slow then."

  "Was Jean working while you talked to him?"

  "No, she was on break. I remember because I kept having to interrupt Ricky to do coffee refills." She had finished the braid and reached into her bag for a hair net. Somehow, in one deft move, she scooped up the braid and got the whole thing into the net.

  "Did Jean take her break here or did she leave that night?"

  "Oh, usually we just take our breaks here. Sit down in the back and have something to drink. She'll always have a cigarette."

  "But that night? For sure, was she here?"

  Again, the eyes slanted upward. "No. Now that you mention it, that night she went out. 'Cause usually if one of us gets a visitor the other will watch the customers and take their break later. That night I called for Jean but she wasn't around, so I stayed on and talked to Ricky at the same time."

  "Was she gone long?"

  "Well, it would have been her dinner break. She had a full half hour if she wanted it. Even though the food here is free, sometimes you just want something different, you know?"

  "So, you didn't get to the Lobo game after all."

  "No, Ricky was disappointed, but he said he'd try to get tickets for Saturday night instead." She glanced toward the door, which hadn't budged. "Look, I better get inside."

  "Yeah, thanks."

  "Oh, and sorry about almost hitting you," she said.

  I watched her trot toward the door. I hoped she'd go inside thinking about the narrow miss or about Ricky and the Lobos, and not mention our conversation to Jean. I'd thought about asking her not to say anything, but if they were friends that probably wouldn't have stopped her. I started the Jeep, suddenly anxious to be out of there.

  The late afternoon traffic was gathering intensity already. I drove back to the office, staying on Central, which is typically less congested downtown than the arterial streets that lead away. I checked the answering machine and found one message, from Carla Delvecchio. I played it back twice.

  "Charlie, I need to talk to you this evening." She gave her home number. Something about her tone of voice told me it was urgent, although she didn't say so. I dialed the number but only got her machine in response. I hate answering machine telephone tag so I decided not to leave a message. I'd call her when I got home.

  Rusty leaped with joy, almost knocking me over in his exuberance, when I opened the front door. I fed him and let him out for a romp in the back yard. Elsa Higgins' kitchen light was on so I walked through the cut in the hedge.

  A warm meaty smell, interlaced mysteriously with cinnamon, greeted me when she opened the door.

  "Come in, come in," she said, bustling me across the threshold and closing the door quickly. "I've had this beef stew simmering all day," she said. "Can you stay?" Her blue eyes were eager.

  I felt too guilty to tell her I'd just eaten a big piece of pie so I told her I'd have just a tiny bowl.

  "Good. Now you wash up and I'll just add another setting to the table here."

  You wash up. How many times had she said those words to me in my lifetime? Thousands, I'm sure. Dutifully, I picked up the bar of soap, knowing she'd scold me if I only rinsed. I watched her shuffle about, gathering a bowl and spoon, putting them on the table for me. Her fluffy white head bent low as she checked the place setting and straightened it.

  "How was your visit with Paul and his family?" she asked.

  "The usual. Did they stop by here?"

  "No, not this time." She sounded a little wistful, but I was sure it was only because she'd forgotten how rowdy his kids are.

  "They got in late Friday, and spent all day Saturday with friends. I didn't see them that much myself."

  "Now, you don't go apologizing for them," she said. "I never was as close to Paul as you other kids."

  I grinned out the window. She'd always see us as kids, I supposed.

  Despite the pie an hour ago, I found myself able to put away the entire bowl of stew she had ladled up. I helped her clear the plates, and when she brought out freshly baked cinnamon cookies, I managed to get through a couple of those, too. Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow, I would start counting my calories and exercising.

  I told her about the trip I'd booked to Kauai, realizing belatedly that I could have asked her along. She doesn't get out much and that might have been a thrilling trip for her. But the selfish side of me kept quiet. I really was ready for some time completely by myself.

  We washed the dishes and chatted for another hour before I remembered that I needed to return Carla's call before it got too late.

  The phone rang four times and I knew I was about to get the answering machine, but she finally picked up. She sounded breathless.

  "Did I interrupt anything good?" I asked teasingly.

  "Unfortunately, no. I just stepped into the house. Let me put this grocery bag down." There was a pause, while I heard a series of clunks and some shuffling.

  "There now," she said. "I'm finally sitting down with my feet up. What a day!"

  "Sorry, I wouldn't be calling you at home, but your voice sounded urgent."

  She took a deep breath. "Well, not exactly urgent, but I thought I'd bring you up to date on Stacy's situation. You're involved."

  "What!"

  "Let me backtrack. I talked to the police today. Detective Taylor, I think."

  "Kent Taylor. Ron knows him."

  "Well, don't be too surprised if he shows up at your office tomorrow. Here's the situation. They've been working on Stacy's connection to Detweiller. They know about the watch. And your name's signed on the pawn ticket. When you picked it up."

  "Oh, boy. What does that mean?"

  "Probably only that they'll want to talk to you. Find out how you got involved, what kind of things Stacy told you."

  "Can't I claim privileged client information?"

  She chuckled. "Sorry, no. A private investigator has no more privileges than any other citizen. And since you aren't even a licensed investigator, well, you know where that puts you."

  I told her, as nearly as I remembered it, everything Stacy had told me. "Will that get her in more trouble if I have to tell all that to the police?"

  "I doubt it," she said. "I think they already know most of it. Sounds to me like Stacy was more afraid of her husband than the law anyway."

  "What about the murder charge? How are they connecting her with that?"

  "Well, they still don't have the weapon. They're glossing over that fact but without it they're going to have a real difficult case. They found a nine millimeter casing under some shrubs near the murder scene. There were two shots fired but only one casing found. Either the killer got sloppy, or didn't even try to retrieve them. They're small. On concrete the wind could blow them around. They'll probably cover the scene again just to be sure the other one isn't lying around in a flower bed someplace."
>
  I thought of Jean's burst of yard-work efficiency. What if she'd been cleaning up after herself?

  "They'll probably get a search warrant for Stacy's home next," Carla continued. "They'll be looking for a weapon."

  "Stacy mentioned that Brad owns guns."

  "Well, if one of them happens to be a nine millimeter and if it's recently been fired, I'm sure they'll be just overjoyed to take it in for more testing."

  I was quiet, pondering the implications.

  "I guess that's about all," Carla said. "Just wanted to warn you that they've made your connection with the pawn ticket."

  She said she was beat so we hung up.

  Somehow, I wasn't tired any more. I paced. What would they make of my involvement? If they did find a weapon in Stacy's house, could they try to prove collusion on my part? I'd probably been naive, taking Stacy at face value. She might have counted on our past friendship as a means of providing a backup character reference.

  I brushed my teeth, showered and put on a terrycloth robe. Rusty climbed onto the couch beside me, laying his large red head on my knee, his brown eyes watching me with silent support. I stroked his head absentmindedly. The next time I glanced at the clock it was after eleven. I rechecked the doors, turned off the lights and headed for my room. Rusty settled onto his rug at the foot of my bed. Sleep finally came but it was broken up by unsettled patches of wakefulness. I opened my eyes around five, unable to fake it any longer.

  Chapter 14