Secrets for Sale Read online

  “Only that it might be a long night. I’m not sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound good for Martha.”

  “Maybe this would be a good time for Martha and Hugo to go on vacation until all this blows over.”

  “She can’t,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because even though you and I know she didn’t do it, technically, she’s still a suspect and isn’t supposed to leave town.”

  I walked through Petra’s office on my way back up the stairs. She shook her head as she typed into her computer and said, “What a crazy mixed-up world this is, huh? The sweetest, most compassionate person in the universe is suspected of killing someone. What next?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SINCE I HAD already started up the stairs numerous times unsuccessfully, this time I tried something different. I slipped off my three-inch heels and ran up the stairs. Two steps from the top, I heard the jingling of the front door opening, and I groaned. Petra must have heard me, because she said, “No worries, Lorry. I’ll get this one.”

  Then I heard, “Oh, hi, Sam. Lorry’s upstairs.”

  “Hi, Petra! Thanks!”

  Sam was my old friend from high school who had moved away to college but had recently moved back with her family. Her son and Aiden were in the same class.

  Standing at the top of the stairs, I smiled as she climbed up. “Hey, Sam!” It was always good to see Sam.

  She stopped on the stairs. “Hey, Lorry. I was in the neighborhood. Do you have time for some coffee?” I must have frowned at the thought, because she said, “Oh? Cousin troubles again?” Then she shrugged and squeezed her lips together in an apologetic smile. “Sorry I don’t have time to go anywhere else. I have to pick up Willow and take her for a doctor’s appointment.”

  I forgot my discomfort for a moment. “Is she okay?”

  Sam knocked on the sidewall of the staircase and said, “Oh, she’s fine, kenahora. It’s a routine appointment.”

  Since I began hanging around with Sam again, I was starting to pick up on the Yiddish words with which she liberally doused her speech. “Kenahora. I thought that was the Jewish equivalent of ‘knock on wood.’ But you knocked on the wall, anyway.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to cover all your bases! So, do you want to go despite the location?”

  “Sure. It’s been an interesting morning—and Kasey was part of the reason. What the hey. Let’s go.” I slipped on my shoes, walked down the stairs, told Bingo to stay under my desk, followed Sam out the door, and braced myself for another clash with Kasey.

  There wasn’t any. There were three other tables with people, and they all had coffee and croissants in front of them. Their water glasses were all full. Kasey was talking on the phone, but brought it over to our table to take our order. She talked non stop into the phone but managed to write down our order. I splurged. I got a croissant, too. It took too much will power to say no when I could see how good they looked.

  “How’s married life?” Sam asked, after Kasey delivered our order still talking on the phone.

  “It hasn’t even been a week yet!” Smiling, I shook my head. “What a change from Eddie! Billy is an absolute dream. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

  “You deserved to get lucky, Lorry.”

  I nodded. “I did, didn’t I?” And we both laughed.

  We had our backs to the table of people next to us, but could hear every word of their conversation. And when my eyes raised at mention of “the town manager,” Sam kept quiet.

  “Yeah,” the man said. “They’re going to oust the current town manager, and the mayor is going to appoint someone new. Maybe even promote Russ Tabor, the town clerk, to manager.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said the woman sitting beside him. “Martha does a great job.”

  “I’ve got it on good authority that it’s true,” the man countered.

  “Whose authority? Russ’s? That’s just wishful thinking.”

  “No, not Russ. Anthony Petrelli, who’s on the High Council, told me.”

  “You mean Anthony ‘true or true?’ Petrelli?” The two women and the man at the table laughed.

  That was one of Petrelli’s favorite lines. I found that out when I bought my previous car—a Taurus—from him last year.

  “What he said was, “Listen, a high council can’t have someone representing the town if they’re accused of murder. Am I right or am I right?”

  They all laughed again at Petrelli’s second favorite line. And I was about to open my mouth and shut down the whole conversation, but luckily—I think—Sam put her hand on my arm to quiet me.

  The man slurped up the last of his coffee and stood up. “Well, we better get back to work, or we’ll be ousted.”

  The three of them stood and walked out the door, leaving me silent but seething. After taking a sip of coffee, I chomped down on the croissant.

  “So it’s not true then—about Martha?” Sam leaned forward and whispered.

  “You’ve met Martha,” I said. “Have you ever met a nicer, more compassionate person? Of course she didn’t do it. But this is how my morning’s been going. I’ve had to listen to all this garbage.”

  “Is the council really going to oust her, though?”

  “The whole council, except the mayor, is still under suspicion. The mayor was talking to Billy, Wichita, and me. Billy gave them a partial interview last night and is giving more complete ones today. Everyone is still a suspect at this point.”

  Sam looked at her watch and stood up. “I need to take off, Lorry.” She tilted her head and smiled sadly at me. “Sorry you have to go through this. At least you have Billy!”

  I nodded. “Thank goodness for Billy!”

  Sam nodded, left money on the table, hugged me, picked up what was left of her coffee, and hurried out the door. I took the last bite of my croissant, another sip of coffee, put my money next to Sam’s, stood up, waved to Kasey—who wasn’t watching—and returned to the historical society. I stayed long enough to tell Petra that I was leaving again and sidled out the back door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ANTHONY PETRELLI’S CAR lot was two blocks across and three blocks long. After walking down the alley toward Bridge Street, I turned right and walked down two more blocks. It was on the corner of Bridge Street and Church Street—Church Street so named because that’s where the church was. Duh.

  I had my strategy all planned before I set foot on the lot. If Anthony suspected me of trying to pump information—or evidence—out of him, he would clam up like a, well, like a clam. The best tactic for finding anything out from him was to shut up. It sounds counterintuitive, but Anthony was a talker and liked to talk. So I planned to let him.

  First part of the plan, though, was to figure out what kind of car I wanted to buy. Although I didn’t really want to buy a new car since the car I had was almost new and I loved it, I needed a reason to be on the lot looking. So I decided on a Cadillac. That would get his attention.

  He called his lot Motors and Masterpieces. The motors were the regular cars, both used and new, and the masterpieces were some pristine old classics. Yes, he had 65 Mustangs and 57 T-birds, but his prized possessions were a 1928 Model A and a 1950 Bentley.

  For those of you who don’t know, a Bentley is like a Rolls Royce, but reserved for those with more discerning taste. At least that’s what Aiden says. Neither Billy nor I had any interest in cars, but Aiden had somehow become an aficionado. Don’t hold that against him, though. Aiden is an expert in a lot of different areas, because he reads like a fish. Where did I ever come up with that simile? I have no idea, but as mixed-up as it sounds, it fits perfectly. He’s also extremely competent on the computer, but his first love is books.

  When I walked onto the lot, I had my fingers crossed that Anthony himself and not one of his salesmen would approach me. I knew he still did sales on his own, because when I bought my used Taurus here less than a year ago, he sold it to me. That car was long gone now, though, havin
g met a bad, um, end.

  Anthony’s prices were good, and for a used car lot, it had a reputation of being honest. Some said that was because of the car lot’s proximity to the church, but I didn’t really know. Can someone be honest and still be a killer? Could I come right out and ask him if he killed that man? Probably not a good tactic. Wrapped up as I was in searching for the Cadillac section and in my thoughts, it surprised me when Anthony came out of nowhere.

  “What are you doing here snooping through my car lot?” He said with his hands on his hips. “You have no business here. True or true?” Anthony said that a lot. You’ll probably hear it again before the conversation ends.

  “I’m looking for a car,” I said, without looking at him. I continued toward the rows of Cadillacs I had spotted.

  “You just got a car! And not from me!” He said, following me.

  “If you know that much, then you know I am not the one who decided or bought it. Someone did it for me, and I left all the details up to him.”

  “Who lets someone else choose and buy a new car for them?” He said with disdain.

  I turned toward him for the first time now, allowed him to catch up and spoke right into his face. I had to bend down. He was short. “The kind of person who is wrongly accused of murder and has other thoughts in her head than what kind of car to buy!” Turning back toward the Cadillacs, I walked toward them, still talking. “Although I’m keeping that car, I’m thinking I would like a Cadillac as well. You know, something special for when we go out.”

  It was like he had just noticed where we were headed. And now his business sense took over. “Oh!” He quickened his step to catch up to me. Anthony Petrelli was short, built like a spark plug, had jet black hair and dark eyes. He had a bad haircut. “What kind of Cadillac were you looking for?”

  Now we were headed in the right direction. I don’t mean toward the Cadillacs; I mean conversationally. And now to set him up for a talk-fest. “Something fancy. Billy and I went with Hugo and Martha to Sedona before we got married. Their car was comfortable and beautiful. Something like theirs.”

  His hands returned to his hips. “Martha! What is it with you and her? Kissing cousins or something? She’s a murderer! I know it’s her!”

  He would have gone on talking, but I interrupted him. If he suspected he was doing what I wanted him to do, he would have shut up in an instant. “Anthony, fine. Whatever. Just show me a car like hers. I liked it a lot. It was beautiful and very comfortable to ride in.” If I encouraged him at all, he would suspect what he should suspect—that I was baiting him.

  We walked toward another car, and he continued talking the whole time. “It was her, and I think you know it! Everyone on the council knows it! It’s not just me suspecting her blindly! I’m not an idiot! Another council member saw Christa coming out of the bathroom. No one saw Martha, and that’s where she said she was. And you know what that equals? She did it! Am I right or am I right?”

  I ignored his stupid question and said, “I didn’t realize Russ Tabor was on the council,” as I opened the door of the car and slid my fat butt inside.

  “He may not exactly be on the council, but he’s on the same side, at least. Don’t you get it, Lorry? She has no alibi! It has to be her!”

  Who knew that he knew my name? I guess the whole town knew my name after my crazy outburst at the council meeting the other night. “So I guess the whole council agrees with you?” Before he could answer, I added, “Is this car top of the line? Because I want a top of the line car,” to make sure he didn’t think I was pumping him for information, which was exactly what I was doing.

  “Of course it’s top of the line! You’re a Lockharte, right? True or true!” He shook his head and started in again. “What I don’t understand is why Martha would try to save your job when you don’t even need a job. It makes no sense. Still, she doesn’t have an alibi.” Yawning, he looked around the lot and looked distracted. And I needed him to keep talking.

  “Anthony, can I take it for a spin?” I didn’t want to, but anything to keep him talking.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dozen keys, each one carefully labeled. Luckily, he had this car’s key with him. If he had to go back into the office to retrieve it, he might forget what he was ranting on and on about. He walked around the car, slid in beside me, handed me the key, and I started it up. It sounded like an expensive car—almost silent. Maybe I really would get a Cadillac. Although I had been pretending, it was sounding more and more like a good idea.

  Anthony pointed the way out of the lot, and although he told me to turn right on School Street, where the high school was, I drove straight across the bridge toward Coyote Moon. As I’ve already mentioned, Coyote Moon used to be known as West Rutledge. And where I am now, Rutledge, used to be known as East Rutledge. When they built the Coyote Moon Casino, West Rutledge changed its name to match the casino, so East Rutledge changed its name to plain ole Rutledge.

  Anthony frowned when he saw where I was going, but said nothing. Well, that’s not exactly true. He kept droning on and on about Martha and the murder—which was exactly what I wanted him to do. I interrupted periodically to prove to him that I wasn’t interested. It was all part of my plan, which—patting myself on the back here—was working quite well.

  “And in these days, if you don’t have an alibi, you’re pretty much dead meat.”

  “Does everyone else have an alibi?” I asked innocently.

  “The mayor was talking to you, the sheriff, and Wichita. You know that already.”

  “Does this car have that cool thing where you can connect your cell phone to it, so you can do hands-free talking?” More and more counties in Arizona were outlawing driving while talking.

  “Of course it does. All new cars do—at least all the ones that I sell.”

  “Yes, I know the mayor has an alibi. What about the other council members? There were several other people there who might have had motives. How do I move the seat forward?” Although it didn’t need to move forward, I wanted him to forget I had asked about the murder.

  He directed me to the button and then continued. “Christa and Russ accounted for. Mayor accounted for. Elizabeth and Paul Gallagher were—I don’t know where they were! They had alibis, though, and so did everyone else! What are you asking me those questions for? I thought you wanted to buy a car?” His face was getting a little red around the edges.

  Ah oh. I figured I’d better get in the most important question before he went ballistic or something. We stopped at a stop sign, and I looked directly at him.“And what was your alibi, Anthony? Off with one of your little tarts, I expect?” Don’t ask me where I came up with that one. It popped into my head. I’m not even going to claim it.

  “Tarts! Tarts!” he exploded. And his face that was red before now looked like an overripe tomato ready to burst. “I don’t have any tarts! I’m happily married!” He waved his left hand in front of my face and with his other hand pointed to his wedding ring. It was a plain gold band. He opened the door of the car like he was going to get out, but must have realized it was his car, so he closed it again. Crossing his arms across his chest, he said, “Turn this car around now!”

  I turned it around, silently smiling to myself, but playing my part to the end. Then I asked, “Does it come with satellite radio?”

  We had just crossed the bridge back into Rutledge and were still three blocks from the car lot. He ignored my question and shouted, “Pull over and get out of my car! We’re done here!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ANTHONY DROVE AWAY with a start, leaving behind exhaust and dirt flying through the air toward me. I didn’t realize Cadillacs had that much pickup. Maybe I would consider getting one.

  As I walked past High Street on my way toward the alley that led to the back of the historical society, I thought about how my smart alecky ways had messed up my questioning. I never got an answer out of him about an alibi. Tarts? Wherever did I come up with that? I swear, s
ometimes words come out of my mouth, and I don’t even know where they come from. Tarts. Who knows?

  Maybe I did get some valuable information out of him, though. Everyone on the council thought Martha did it, which had to mean one of them did it. I’m not discounting the son, though. His whereabouts during the murder were still unknown. Maybe the murder had nothing to do with the sale at all. Maybe it was a plain old family squabble. I was painfully aware of those. And what about how red Anthony’s face got when I mentioned tarts? Did that mean he was unfaithful to his wife or that he was incensed I would ask such a thing because he wasn’t that kind of guy? Who could tell?

  I was ready to turn down the alley back to the historical society when I realized the Rutledge Super Market was right across the street. Not that I didn’t know it was there, but it was who was in it that made me think again. Brent Lindsay, the owner and a member of the council. So right there and then, I crossed the street, looking both ways and ignoring the crosswalks on either end of the block. How daring of me! How adventurous! Okay, okay, it’s neither one, but until I climb Mount Everest, this is as adventurous and daring as I get.

  Rutledge Super Market hasn’t always been super. When it first started, it was a small store on the corner of Bridge and School Street. Although High Street and School Street were the same street, they were on either side of Bridge Street. Now the market stretched down School Street for two blocks and across Bridge Street for two blocks. It was almost—you know—super.

  The door opened when I stepped on the mat in front of it, inviting me into the bright interior. The most notable characteristic about the Rutledge Super Market were the big “R’s” on the floor. At the beginning and end of each aisle, plus if the aisle split in the middle, there was a big yellow R in the center of an orange circle. And orange lines connected all the R’s to each other. So it was almost like following the yellow brick road as you shopped, except, you know, it was orange.