d5e426eccb138e04dab909926b2752c6

“I don’t know, darling. And I’m sure the police don’t have a clue, either. Otherwise they wouldn’t have barged in on you like that.”

“I don’t understand,” said Garibaldi, shaking his head as he glanced out through the window at the parking lot. “If they wanted to ask me a bunch of questions, why didn’t they make an appointment? Why this cockamamie story about Russian investors?”

“I’ve read up on Miss Poole,” said the man’s mother. “Her uncle is the chief of police, and she fashions herself to be something of an amateur sleuth, assisting the police in their investigations. This was probably her idea. Catch you off guard. Make you say things you’d later regret.”

“What things? I don’t know anything about this murder business.”

“I’ll bet they were wearing a wire,” the woman continued. “And they simply tried to catch you in some incriminating statement.”

“And who were those other two? One looked like Estelle Getty and the other like a prostitute.”

“Vesta Muffin is Odelia Poole’s grandmother. She runs the local neighborhood watch. She’s a total fruitcake.”

“And the other one?” asked Garibaldi. I could see from my hiding place that he was looking a little wistful. Clearly this ‘prostitute’ had struck a chord with him.

“Scarlett Canyon. She’s a nobody. Likes to think she’s God’s gift to men but she’s simply an old Jezebel—a painted tart.”

Next to me, Dooley chuckled lightly.“We better not tell Scarlett. She’s not going to like this,” he whispered.

“Or Gran,” I whispered back.

Whoever Garibaldi’s mom was, she was one tough baby.

“Look, son, you have got to relax.”

“Relax! How can I relax when I’m being hounded by cops, reporters and the local gang of Looney Tunes?” He grabbed for his ponytail. “Have you talked to Uncle Quintin?”

“Yeah, I talked to him last night.”

“And? Is he budging?”

“Nah. Your uncle is a stubborn old fool. But I think this whole thing with the dead girl has got him rattled. I think he might come around to our point of view this time.”

“Well, he’d better. I didn’t spend my entire adult life churning out sugary goo for fun.”

“I’m sure it won’t be long now, darling. Just hang in there, and make sure the Poole woman and that detective stay away from you. We’ve come too far to back down now.”

The conversation over, I shared a look of concern with Dooley. I had a feeling that these were very deep waters we were plumbing. Very deep waters indeed.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” suddenly a voice tootled in our ear.

It was Garibaldi, and he was peeking under the desk, looking straight at us.

Chapter 28

Charlene was standing in line at the General Store, feeling a little down in the dumps. She’d never believed it possible, but her sweet police chief boyfriend had actually called her old and ugly.

‘Time to call it quits,’ the little demon on her left shoulder whispered. ‘He’s obviously a big jerk and you should cut your losses now.’

The little angel on her right shoulder countered this by saying,‘He’s a sweet guy and probably didn’t mean what he said. And besides, isn’t that kind of behavior typical of most men? That they put their foot in their mouth without meaning any harm?’

‘All the more reason to dump his ass,’ said the little demon.

‘But remember how good you are together, Charlene. How kind and loving he’s been.’

‘He called you ugly. Do you really want to stay with a guy who thinks you’re ugly?’

‘Just call him. Talk things through.’

‘Block his calls. Never speak to him again.’

“Aargh,” muttered Charlene, and swept her newly curly tresses over her shoulder.

“What did you say, Madam Mayor?” asked Wilbur Vickery, who was manning the cash register as usual.

“Nothing,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Had a fight with the boyfriend, huh?” said Wilbur.

She’d been in the process of taking out her wallet and paused. “How do you know?”

Wilbur tapped his nose and grinned, showing a row of uneven teeth, decayed from too much smoking and too much snacking on his own store-sold candy.“Wilbur always knows, Madam Mayor. Wilbur makes it his job to know about his favorite customers.”

Charlene, who hated people who talked about themselves in the third person, was in one of those moods where one feels compelled to confide in another human being, even if that human being is Wilbur Vickery, the last man on earth anyone would ever want to confide in.

“My boyfriend called me old,” she said with a deep sigh. “And ugly. Said I wasn’t as pretty as I used to be twenty years ago, and I should simply accept the fact.”

“Alec is a moron,” said Wilbur knowingly. “He doesn’t know how to treat a lovely lady such as yourself.”

Charlene glanced around, and noticed she was all alone in the store. She wasn’t feeling particularly at ease being all alone with Wilbur Vickery, who was grinning even more now, his smile calling up visions of old tombstones—remnants of death and decay.