Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery) (20 page)

“Sure, why not? That could be interesting,” Darla agreed. She wasn’t keen on tattoos for herself, but she could appreciate the artistry in some of the more elaborate examples of body art.

“Maybe when we get back home.”

“Well, whatever you do, don’t get a tattoo while you’re down here. You’ll only encourage your mother to want a battleship inked on her chest,” Darla said with a chuckle. “Speaking of Nattie, I’ve been meaning to ask—she seems like a typical Italian mom, right? So why in the heck did she name you Jacqueline, and not something like Isabella or Giovanna? I mean, Jacqueline is a lovely name, but it’s not Italian. It’s French.”

“So was my grandmother,” Jake explained with a smile. “Ma named me after her mother, Jacqueline Prevot. That was my cross to bear in the old neighborhood, being a quarter French. On the bright side, though, I got a double dose of the foodie gene.”

“Right. So how come I’m the one who always has to count calories?” Darla good-naturedly complained.

Jake laughed as she stuck her magazine into her woven red beach bag and then pulled out a matching red sarong. She wrapped and tied the textured cloth around her into a respectable-looking sundress. “All right, let’s go. Sam’s meeting us over at the restaurant in about ten minutes.”

They set off the few yards up the beach to the wooden steps that would take them back up to the parking lot. Darla noticed that, without the benefit of her customary boots, Jake was limping more than usual through the uneven sand. That, in turn, reminded her of Trixie the three-legged rescue cat. They’d need a plan to pick Trixie up on Saturday.

Tossing their gear into the back of the Mini, they made the five-minute trip to the Porto del Sol diner. A ramshackle, tin-roofed wood structure about a block from the water, the restaurant was perched on short stilts. It featured a mural of boats docked beneath a blazing sun that illustrated the diner’s name, though in Darla’s opinion, the artist had had more enthusiasm than talent.

Jake agreed, it seemed.

“Either that’s a brilliantly ironic example of South Florida primitivism,” she said, “or else the owner saved himself some cash by having his kids paint the place for him.”

“I’m betting on the kids, but I kind of like it,” Darla said with a smile. “Maybe I should do something similar at the bookstore.”

Leaving the mural behind, they walked around back and spied Detective Martinez at one of the painted white picnic tables on the deck. Once again, the detective was wearing a sober black pantsuit. This time, however, it was enlivened by a yellow blouse the same sunny hue as the tiny coffee cup on the table before her. Since it was almost noon, the remaining tables on the deck were all occupied, but only Martinez sat with her back to the distant view of the water, sunglasses pushed up on her head while she rapidly typed on her cell phone. She looked up as they approached, however, and gestured them to join her.

“So what’s this about a brawl at Stein’s memorial service?” she asked without preamble.

“It was more of a spirited discussion,” Jake replied as she and Darla took the seats at her table, facing the water.

She pulled out her own phone from the red beach bag. “I only caught a couple of minutes of the action, but it gives you the gist of what was going on.”

Jake pressed play and handed the phone to Martinez. The volume was turned up, so that Darla could hear a murmur of recorded conversation that she guessed was Rosalind. Next followed the sound of tiny shouted voices, as the pro-Ted and anti-Ted factions began to rally. She saw Martinez raise a brow, probably when the one old man had ripped apart the poster and flung it into the pool. The video lasted only a few moments longer after that and then cut off.

Martinez nodded and handed the phone back to Jake. “Mind emailing this to me? We’re looking in another direction on this case, and your video might be useful.”

While Jake typed out the email, Darla asked in surprise, “Another direction? Does that mean Billy Pope isn’t under arrest anymore?”

Before the detective could answer, an excessively tanned waitress in cutoff blue jeans and a denim halter top that barely contained her assets sidled up with menus. Her entire right arm had been tattooed with all manner of flowers and skulls—a sleeve, as Darla had heard it described—and her black hair had a wide streak of turquoise in it.

Darla initially guessed the woman to be in her midforties despite her rebellious appearance . . . and then downgraded it by a decade when she spotted the year emblazoned on her class ring. Obviously, there was at least one major disadvantage to living in a semitropical climate. Still, the waitress’s smile was warm as she asked, “You ladies need a little Cuban coffee to get started with?”

Darla and Jake exchanged glances before Darla nodded. “Since I’ve got that coffee bar going in at the bookstore, I might as well work on expanding my own coffee horizons.”

“Two cups, coming right up,” the woman replied, leaving behind the menus and sauntering back inside.

Jake, meanwhile, picked up where Darla had left off. “So, what’s the word, Sam? Is Pope really off the hook for Stein’s murder?”

The detective reached for her tiny yellow cup and slanted them both a cool look from over her coffee. “That decision hasn’t been made yet.”

“I’ve got to think the motive is pretty thin. You’re not convinced Pope did it, are you?”

Martinez took a sip of her coffee. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. There’s someone else you’re looking at, right?”

“Maybe.”

The detective finished her coffee but played with the tiny cup a moment, rolling it between her palms as she seemed to consider her next words. Before she could speak again, however, the waitress once again interrupted them as she returned to the table bearing two more demitasse-sized cups.

“Two Cuban coffees,” she cheerfully announced. She set a white cup with green and orange stripes on it before Darla, and a navy blue cup with what looked like a melted red heart on it in front of Jake.

The few ounces of coffee the cup held were dark like espresso with a hint of foaminess. Jake slugged hers down in a couple of gulps. Darla, however, decided that her cup deserved the wine-tasting approach. She took an experimental sniff and caught a whiff of what smelled like burnt socks.

Maybe Cuban coffee wasn’t all she’d heard it to be. Steeling herself, she took a cautious sip, and then promptly changed her mind. The steaming coffee was strong and incredibly sweet, with just enough complexity of flavor that she had no choice but to take another taste.

Seeing her reaction, the waitress smiled.

“First time, huh? The stuff’s addicting, and it’ll get you through the day better than those little bottles of energy drink you buy at the convenience store. Now, can I get you ladies lunch?”

At Martinez’s suggestion, Jake went for the blackened dolphin tacos—which, the waitress clarified, meant dolphin fish a.k.a. mahi mahi, and not Flipper or one of his porpoise friends. Relieved to have that misunderstanding cleared up, Darla decided to order the same thing. Once the waitress was out of earshot again, Jake returned the conversation to the subject at hand.

“Not to go off on a tangent,” she said, “but Darla witnessed something else last night that might have some connection to all this.”

When Jake nodded at her to take it from there, Darla gave the detective a brief explanation of the exchange she’d seen between Mildred and Cindy in the parking garage.

At Jake’s first words, Martinez had pulled out a small notepad. Now, she jotted down a few lines as she listened to Darla’s account.

“Interesting,” she agreed when Darla finished, “but for the moment I’m not sure how it ties into Stein, if at all.”

Jake shrugged. “All right, Sam, it’s pretty obvious that something’s up. Why don’t you use us as a sounding board? We’ve kind of got a vested interest in figuring this thing out, too,” she added, putting a fleeting hand to the back of her head.

Nice touch
, Darla thought in approval. Martinez seemed to register the gesture, though she furrowed her brow a little as she glanced Darla’s way. Noticing her unconvinced look, Jake hurried to reassure the detective.

“Don’t worry about Darla. She’s had more experience with this sort of thing than the average civilian.”

Expression still skeptical, Martinez nodded. “Fine, I’ll take a shot. What do you two know about the Minx Connection?”

SIXTEEN

“THE MINX CONNECTION?”

Darla took another sip of coffee as she attempted to keep a straight face.
That’s
what Stein called his cat breeding business? A little too precious for her tastes.

“It’s what you get when you cross a Sphynx cat with a Manx,” Darla offered, trying not to sound smug. “They’re tailless and have fuzz instead of fur. Ted Stein was trying to promote the Minx as a new breed. And he was pretty ticked off when his cat didn’t win its division at the cat show.”

Jake seemed to be biting back a smile, too. “Yeah, Ma said that Billy Pope claimed it was just some sort of get-rich-quick scheme that Stein came up with, multilevel marketing with pets. But the cats were real enough.”

Martinez shook her head and gave an inelegant snort.

“Good try, ladies, but no cigar. The late Mr. Stein had a scheme going, all right, but it wasn’t only cats.”

When Darla and Jake gave her a puzzled look, Martinez cleared her throat. “He was recruiting, ah, talent over at the local college and then advertising their ‘services’”—she gave that last word air quotes—“online. He provided the empty condo and basically paid them by the hour. We had a warrant to search his place, and we turned up a nice paperwork trail. Could be he was using this cat-breeding business as a cover story in case the IRS or the bank questioned him.”

“Wait,” Darla interrupted. She’d obviously missed something here. “Exactly what kind of business was it you say Ted Stein was running?”

“Prostitution,” Jake explained, her tone now one of disgust. “Ted Stein was nothing more than a pimp in cat breeder’s clothing. Right, Sam?”

“You’re kidding!” Darla choked out as the detective nodded. “Sure, I thought the guy was kind of skeevy, but to be involved in something like that . . .”

“Oh, that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Martinez coolly assured them. “We’re still putting the pieces together, but it’s starting to look like some of that prostitution money was being laundered through your mother’s condo association. And there’s a good chance some of that missing money you told me about was being skimmed from the account at the same time. By the end of the day we should be bringing in the person who we suspect was Stein’s silent partner.”

“Sounds like Stein was an ambitious little perv,” Jake observed. Then she asked the question Darla had been waiting for. “So who’s the silent partner?”

The detective shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t tell you. But let’s just say that, at this point, Billy Pope is probably the least likely person at the Lauderdale Tropics condo association who might have wanted to see Ted Stein dead.”

Before Darla could pounce on that one, the waitress showed up with their fish tacos, along with a greasy white paper bag that she set before Martinez. “Got your usual in there, Sam.”

“Thanks, Farrah,” the detective said, rising from the picnic table and reaching for the sack. “Tell my brother I said hi.”

“Will do. Come over and see the baby sometime, okay?”

“If I can ever manage a day off, I will.”

As Farrah sauntered off, Martinez slid her sunglasses back down onto her nose and gave Darla and Jake a final look. “Sorry, ladies. Gotta run,” she said, indicating the bag. “If you hear any more interesting rumblings down at the condo complex, you know how to get hold of me.”

Jake raised her cell phone and nodded. “We’ve got you covered.”

Darla waited until the detective had disappeared around the corner of the restaurant before saying, “I wonder why she wanted to see your video. She said they were working on an arrest warrant, so it’s not like she was still trying to find a suspect.”

Jake shrugged and reached for a fish taco. “Maybe their case isn’t as airtight as she’d like it to be. Maybe she thought something might show up in the video that could help. Or maybe she just wanted to know what we knew, and this was a good excuse to rope us back in.”

Darla would have replied, except that she’d already taken a large bite from one of her own tacos. Rather than the lettuce, tomato, and cheese that topped a regular Tex-Mex beef taco, these flour tortillas filled with chunks of blackened mahi were stuffed with avocado, mango, and coleslaw. With a side of black beans and rice, Darla was in culinary heaven.

“So who do you think this new suspect is?” she finally asked once she could speak again. “I mean, after seeing how everyone reacted at the memorial service last night, I’d say there’s probably a long list just of condo owners.”

Jake reached for taco number two and shrugged.

“Not our problem, remember?” she said around a mouthful of blackened dolphin. “But what went down at the cat show is. So after I finish eating, I’m going to put in a call to Johnston and see if they’ve made any progress on the assault and catnapping. It would be nice to know that someone has been arrested for putting a kink in our vacation.”

“Kink” seemed a mild way to describe the murder and mayhem that had punctuated their stay in Fort Lauderdale, Darla told herself as she picked up her second taco. Still, Detective Martinez seemed every bit as capable as Jake, while the other two officers had been professional and thorough in their investigations. If any of the week’s crimes could be solved, surely that trio would do it.

They made short work of the remaining food. A few minutes later, Jake pushed away her plate with a satisfied groan and pulled out her phone, along with a business card with the local PD’s logo on it.

“Fingers crossed,” she said as she punched in the numbers.

The call went to voice mail, so Jake left a message asking about any progress on her assault case and the cat theft, rattling off the case number. “Would you call me when you can with an update?” She gave her cell number and then hung up.

Darla, meanwhile, signaled for the check and realized guiltily that she hadn’t saved any of her fish tacos to take back for Hamlet. Though the feline had started out eating only kibble under her care, at some point bringing Hamlet a “kitty bag” had become a ritual for Darla whenever dining out. No doubt there’d be some cat sulking for a while when they returned.

Which meant they’d simply have to come back another time, Darla decided in satisfaction, already eager for a second round. She’d check on the way out to learn if pets were allowed on the deck.

When they returned to the condo, however, Darla found Hamlet crouched on the living room floor happily gnawing on what appeared to be a slice of pepperoni, as Nattie looked on indulgently from the rattan sofa. She was dressed in a black-and-white summer pantsuit, her gaudy black hat safely perched atop the dining table. And on the coffee table before her was the source of Hamlet’s current bounty: a small paper plate heaped with cold cuts and cheese and topped with three pink-iced petit fours.

“Jeez, Ma, did you really raid the buffet table at a memorial service?”

Nattie gave an innocent blink that reminded Darla of Hamlet’s “good kitty” expression. “They had tons of food. It woulda gone to waste if I left it there. Even Mildred agreed. Besides, that rabbi guy took a bigger plate than mine.”

“Ma, if the man was officiating, I’m sure the family asked him to take a nice big plate home as a courtesy. That didn’t mean everyone else was supposed to load up like that.”

Despite her dismayed tone, however, Jake reached for one of the petit fours. When she caught Darla smiling, the PI shrugged.

“Hey, now that the deed is done, no point in letting good food go to waste,” she replied before taking an appreciative bite of the confection.

“Good point,” Darla replied and took one of the petit fours herself. After a taste, she added, “Heck, Nattie, you should have loaded up on more dessert instead of all the healthy stuff. These little cakes are heavenly.”

“Eh, gotta watch my weight,” Nattie answered and patted her small belly bulge. “So how was the beach, girls?”

“Nice, Ma. Lots of sand. How was the memorial service?”

“Nice.” Then, when Jake gave her a sharp look, Nattie added, “Lots of people.”

Darla gave her a considering look. In the short time she’d known the old woman, Darla had discovered that Nattie never passed up the chance for a gossip. And what better place to dig up a little dirt than when people had gathered to eulogize one of their own? She would have bet Hamlet’s stash of catnip that Nattie was keeping quiet about something.

Jake was obviously thinking along the same lines, but she took a different tack. Reaching for a couple of cubes of cheddar—
How in the heck does Jake not gain weight with all her snacking?
Darla wondered yet again—Jake assumed a “good kitty” expression of her own.

“Guess what, Ma? We ran into Detective Martinez over at the Porto del Sol diner. Keep this under your hat, but she’s having second thoughts about Billy Pope’s involvement with Ted Stein’s murder.”

Nattie snorted. “Well, it’s about time. I coulda told her from the start that Billy had nothing to do with it. I
did
tell her.”

“Well, looks like you were right. But Sam mentioned something else . . . something called the Minx Connection. Ever hear of it?”

“I think that’s what Ted called his so-called cattery where he bred those poor Minx kittens. What, is the Humane Society after him now, too?”

“I don’t know. It was just something she mentioned,” Jake lied, flashing Darla a look that she interpreted to mean,
Fishing expedition, kid . . . Don’t say anything.

Darla gave her a swift nod of understanding, pretty certain the old woman knew nothing about Ted Stein’s alleged prostitution ring. There was no way Nattie would have kept quiet about something like that if she’d suspected it. And since she was already dismayed over her friend’s situation, no reason to upset her with more unpleasantness.

But that still didn’t explain why Nattie was being evasive about the memorial service.

“Say, girls, are we still going shopping this afternoon?” the old woman mumbled around the petit four she’d popped into her mouth. Standing, she tossed Hamlet a final piece of pepperoni and picked up the plate. “I wanna rest up after that long trip up and back from West Palm—but I’ll be raring to go in an hour or so.”

“Sure, Ma,” Jake answered with a sharp look after the old woman, who’d trotted off to the kitchen with her spoils. “I’m going to take a shower and wash the salt off. I’m sure Darla will want to do the same. So just kick back for a while, why don’t you?”

To Darla, she quietly added, “Do me a favor, kid, and chat her up about the memorial service while I’m in the shower. Something’s going on in that beady little brain of hers, and we probably need to know what it is.”

Darla nodded. Nattie had returned from the kitchen munching on a cube of Swiss this time. Darla sat on the rattan chair and picked up Hamlet’s kitty wand, which he’d apparently dragged out in their absence. Flicking it back and forth for him, she brightly told Nattie, “The Porto del Sol was wonderful. I’m now a convert to fish tacos. How about you?”

“I’m not much for that fancy-pantsy food. Give me a nice lasagna, though, and now yer talking.”

“Well, it looks like the food at the memorial service was pretty darned good. I wonder who catered?”

“Eh, who cares?”

Nattie paused and glanced toward the hallway. The sound of the running shower from the master bath was faintly audible.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Jacqueline,” she went on in a lower tone, “but that memorial service, it was a bust. The only good thing about it was the food.”

“You mean no one flung flowers around?” Darla asked with a smile.

Nattie grinned back. “Hey, it woulda put some life into the service. I about fell asleep listening to all these people talking about what a good guy Ted Stein was. Oh, and get this—Alicia Timpson was there, snuffling into her hankie like he was her late husband or something. You’da thought she’d be more worried about her own father.”

Alicia Timpson, mourning Ted? Yet hadn’t she claimed that she barely knew the man?

While Darla was pondering that, Nattie went on, “I tell you, that Ted, he was a Class-A jerk. It’s all true about him putting liens on people’s condos. Why, he even tried to foreclose on Millie when her pension check got stolen outta her mailbox one month and she was late paying her association fee. Me, I got mine set up so it comes outta the bank automatic, but I caught them one time charging me twice. It took me complaining to Billy to get it fixed.”

“Well, maybe with him gone, that will put an end to the problems,” Darla absently commiserated, even as she continued to muse over the Alicia-Ted connection. “Maybe once everything is settled about his murder, the condo association members can have the books audited once and for all.”

Though if someone else—perhaps the Martini Lady herself!—had been a partner in Ted Stein’s crimes, as Martinez had suggested, then stuff was about to hit the fan.

They chatted a bit about the proposed shopping expedition until Jake returned, dressed now in red capris and a nubby white cotton sweater that came down to her hips. She was blotting her curly hair with a fluffy pink towel.

“Plenty of hot water left,” she said to Darla. “Ma and I will chat while you get your shower, and then we can figure out where we want to go.”