Truffled to Death (A Chocolate Covered Mystery) (6 page)

A
fter returning way too many phone calls from concerned and gossiping citizens of West Riverdale, we spent almost an hour discussing the “murder quotient” of anyone involved with the professor. Erica had come up with an equation to establish the percentage chance of each suspect actually being the professor’s killer. Knowing Erica, she’d write a paper and police departments across the country would start using it.

I didn’t care about her “MQ” and put vindictive Lavender Rawlings first. According to every cop show I’d ever seen, anyone who tried to cast blame onto other innocent people was probably trying to deflect attention from their own guilt. Given how much she disliked Erica, I doubted she would talk to us directly, unless we came up with some serious motivation.

We agreed that all of the Rivers except Rose were toward the top of our list, even though I couldn’t imagine what they had to gain. They had a ton of money. They seemed very committed to making the donation, and surely, it was embarrassing to have it stolen right under their noses. What could make them risk their social standing for some ancient pottery? The “motive” column was empty for all of them.

We still wrote in what we knew about each one. Adam was ambitious and smart. He was quickly climbing the corporate ladder; maybe he made some enemies on the way up. There was also some lingering anger about a big layoff at one of the River manufacturing plants that had occurred as soon as he’d taken over. Maybe the theft was more about payback than the art.

Gary was a slacker who wanted to slide by in life. Jennie was a confused kid with a drug problem, but not so far gone that she was robbing people.

“I wouldn’t put anything past Vivian,” I said. “She’d knock off her mother to make sure the family reputation stayed intact.”

“But killing the professor would have to outweigh the possible damage of something he could reveal,” Erica said, taking me more seriously than I expected.

“I talked a little to Gary at the party and he definitely has issues with his mother,” I said. “Maybe I can stop by the coffee shop and see if he’ll tell me something that will help.”

The security guard was moved ahead of the Rivers. “Even though he was drugged,” she said, “he could’ve been part of an inside job.”

“What about Carlo Morales and Santiago Diaz?” I asked.

Erica’s face immediately grew concerned.

“What?” I asked when she didn’t answer.

“I think we work on everyone else before we look into these two.”

My stomach flipped a little. “Do you think they’re dangerous?” I remembered the predatory feeling that Santiago gave me, even with that silly ponytail.

She shook her head like she didn’t know. “They could be.”

“Okay,” I readily agreed. “Let’s not get crazy. But write down that Dr. Moody seemed to know that Carlo guy, no matter what he told Lockett.”

I moved the subject back to people who didn’t scare the hell out of me. “We definitely have to put El Diablo there,” I said. “Gary said his mother loved his food, but maybe Aviles was into something she didn’t know. If his store wasn’t doing well, he may have needed the money.”

Erica wrote in her computer. “We should ask Zane to see what he can find on him, and everyone on the list. As long as he does it all on the up-and-up.”

“And maybe we need to take a road trip to Frederick and check out the El Diablo Restaurant,” I said.

Thinking about Juan Aviles’s crab tamales made me realize how hungry I was. “What do you think about eating dinner at the Ear?”

Erica perked up. “Really?” She knew what that meant. The Ear was the best place to hear the town gossip. Too much of it would be about us, but maybe we’d learn something helpful. We didn’t even bother to change before we left.

“I’m sure Jake would love to tell us what he knows,” I said.

The Ear got its nickname back in the sixties when the neon stopped working in the curves of the
Bar
sign of
O’Shaughnessey’s. It was a West Riverdale landmark, welcoming anyone who wanted to have a drink, shoot some pool, or eat the best double-stuffed potato skins in Maryland.

Jake Hale was the owner and regular bartender who could be in a commercial for any product that wanted the image of an easygoing handsome guy going about his business in a flannel shirt and worn jeans.

We walked in, the scent of stale beer and peanuts washing over us. “Walk Like a Man” played on the old-fashioned jukebox. Conversation in the whole place dribbled to a halt before it exploded, as two of Jake’s cousins rushed toward us, both with high ponytails normally seen on toddlers.

“Are you guys going to investigate this murder too?” one of the cousins asked, holding on to my arm, at the same time the other said, “Did you do it?” earning a fierce scowl from the first.

Jake was plagued with about a million female cousins who all looked alike, and he always had a few working for him.

The second cousin stood in front of Erica. “I’m totally kidding. I’m sure you’ll do a better job than that state police guy, but can you introduce me to him? He’s just my type. Rugged and doesn’t talk much. I bet he’s a tiger in bed.”

Erica recovered faster than I did. “We can’t possibly do a better job than the state police with all of their resources. And I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about the detective’s private life.”

Neither of them realized she hadn’t answered their question about whether or not we were investigating. Or if we’d done it.

“I think that pottery really is cursed, like their grandma Rose said.” The first one moved her shoulders in an exaggerated
shudder as if enjoying the thought. “I bet beetles ate him, like in
The Mummy,
for disturbing the grave.”

“Those were scarabs,” Erica said. “They don’t attack people. And the professor didn’t—” She stopped, maybe realizing there were way too many things wrong with what the cousin had said and she couldn’t fix them all.

The other cousin tossed her hand towel over her shoulder. “I think it was one of them Mayan gods or something. It came back from the dead to protest all that 2012 end of the world stuff.”

“Maya,” Erica corrected.

I sent her an exasperated look, even though I should’ve been used to it by now.

“Which god?” Erica asked politely, as if the girl really knew what she was talking about.

“I don’t know,” she said. “That chicken guy maybe?”

“Chichen Itza?” Erica tried.

The cousin got distracted by a rumpled man coming into the bar from the poolroom and dropped my arm. “Ah, sweetie, you out already?” She completed an elaborate hair flip and went over to console him.

Jake met us at the end of the bar with a Pearl Necklace beer for me and a glass of chardonnay for Erica. “Leave ’em be,” he told cousin number two, who went back to cleaning tables. Jake shook his head. “Don’t mind them. They spend too much time watching reality TV.” He tapped the beer bottle and asked me. “You tried this yet?” Jake knew I was a fan of the local breweries.

“Isn’t it made out of oysters or something?” I asked.

“Just give it a shot,” he said. “Money-back guarantee.”

I took a sip. “This is awesome.” I pointed the glass at
Jake’s T-shirt, which read
Nobody trains to ride the pine.
Of course, he had his trademark open plaid flannel shirt over it. “What does that mean?”

“You know,” he said. “The bench is made of pine. Nobody trains to sit on the bench.” He put some used glasses in a small tub behind the bar. “Trouble seems to be following you girls around lately.”

“Hey!” I said, offended. “It’s been months since we had any trouble. And this has nothing to do with us.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You guys are up there in the betting pool.”

“These people are already gambling on who killed the professor?” I asked.

“These people would gamble on who had to go to the bathroom first if I let them,” Jake said.

Erica smiled. “Who’s ahead of us in the pool?”

“That Lavender woman, Vivian River, and tied for third are those two strangers who made such an impression on the ladies.”

“Why Lavender or Vivian?” Erica asked.

“Well, according to our amateur bookies, Lavender killed him in a fit of jealous rage when she finally confessed her love for him and he laughed at her. And Vivian because she decided she didn’t want to donate all that stuff after all.”

“Really? That’s all they got?” I asked.

“What are our odds?” Erica asked.

He pulled his cell phone out. “Michelle’s odds are three to one that she killed the professor.”

“This sounds like a game of Clue. Miss Scarlet killed Professor Plum in the billiard room with a candlestick,” Erica said lightly.

“More like
Gilligan’s Island
,” I muttered.

“What’re my odds?” Erica asked.

“Four to one.” He looked apologetic. About her odds being worse than mine or mine being better than hers, I wasn’t sure.

“What are our fictional motives?” I asked.

He pulled a rubber plug out of the bottle of wine resting in ice. “Some people are saying that you guys killed him when he discovered you stole the Mayan stuff.”

I frowned at Erica and she held back from correcting him. “And why did we steal it? In their bizarre view of reality?”

“For the money.” He said it in his
isn’t it obvious?
tone as he topped off Erica’s glass of chardonnay.

“And how would we know how to get rid of stolen Maya antiquities?”

He shrugged. “They didn’t get that far.” At my outraged look, he laughed. “It’s harmless, Michelle. Let the idiots have their fun.”

“Who else is on the list?” Erica asked.

“Well, under the premise that it’s always the ones you least suspect, there’s Iris, Nara and Abby.”

“A waitress, hotel manager and mayor?” I asked. “None of them make sense.”

“What can I say?” he said. “They watch too much
CSI
.”

Erica frowned. “Actually, approximately seventy-seven percent of the time, the murder victim had a personal relationship with their assailant.” She took a sip of her wine. “Who else has better odds than we do?”

“Adam River. Everyone else is a long shot.”

“Why the Rivers? They don’t need the money,” I said.

“Eh, there’s never enough money for folks, especially
rich folks,” he said. “Again, this is not my list or my odds.” He smiled as if to say they were all crazy and he loved them for it. “So, are you guys putting on your Sherlock Holmes hats for this one?”

“Oh no,” I said.

He shook his head, bartender instinct at work. “I knew you couldn’t keep your noses out.”

“That got us in a lot of trouble before,” Erica reminded him.

“Right,” he said. “Heard the police questioned you both.”

“And we have solid alibis,” I insisted.

“Ouch,” he said, pulling out his phone and changing some numbers.

“Did our odds just drop?” Erica asked.

“You bet. Ignore the pun.” He put it away. “Since you’re not investigating, you’ll have no interest in hearing the latest news.”

“What latest news?” I asked.

He frowned as if pretending to be totally serious. “I know you’re not interested. So I won’t bother you with it.”

“Jake,” I said in a serious tone.

He took his time, pouring nuts into small bowls before answering. “The River family fired Deirdre.”

“Their housekeeper?” Erica asked.

He nodded. “Interesting timing, don’t ya think?”

“But hasn’t she been with them, like, forever?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said. “Her whole life. And her mother worked for them her whole life too. It’s their family tradition to work for the Rivers. Did you know that Deirdre was actually born in the house when her mother refused to leave until the silver was polished? And that by then, it was too late.”

Erica sent me a look. “Wow. It would take something
very big to fire someone after that long. I wonder what she did.”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “But Iris at the diner said Deirdre is spitting mad and ready to dish some dirt on the whole River family.”

“Why hasn’t she already?” I asked.

“Maybe waiting for someone to pay her for what she knows. People like the Rivers must have some enemies who’d be willing to cough up a lot of money for secrets to use against them.”

One of his cousins yelled, “Jake! We need ice.”

He sighed. “What can I say? Murder is good for business.”

“Where are you in the pool?” I called after him.

He smiled over his shoulder and didn’t answer.

“Sounds like we gotta find ourselves a housekeeper,” I said to Erica.

She tapped a fingernail on her wineglass, not really listening. She was already putting this into her mental vision of her project plan and analyzing what it could possibly mean. But I bet that at least some of the Rivers’ murder quotients just went up.

One of Jake’s cousins came to the waiter station. “Two Buds,” she told him, and then stopped by our booth. “I know who it is. Wasn’t there some Mayan god named El Chocolate something? And they made chocolate offerings to him?”

A chocolate god? My heart started pounding.

“Ek Chuah?” Erica asked. “Actually, that’s an Internet myth. He was a minor deity, most likely a patron of long-distance merchants. And the Maya drank considerable amounts of chocolate, for every meal actually, but didn’t
make chocolate offerings. They performed bloodletting ceremonies and offered their blood to their ancestors, not to gods.”