Alibis and Amethysts (2 page)

Sierra took her time chewing a mouthful. “I guess you’re guilty by association,” she
said finally.

“A little over the top, don’t you think? I know you’re in competition with her, but
everyone in business has to deal with that sooner or later. It’s called ‘capitalism.’”

“Change comes hard for some people,” Sierra said without rancor. “Peggy had the only
bakery around here for almost twenty years. To her I’m the usurper of customers, the
black hole of profits. And if I’m the devil incarnate, I guess she sees you as one
of my handmaidens. What I don’t get is why she hasn’t tried to up her game to lure
her customers back or to hold on to the ones she still has. From what I’m told, her
line of baked goods has been exactly the same for two decades. Even she should be
bored to death by now. Speaking of which,” she said, “you’re coming back to my house
after dinner to try my new apricot Linzer tortes.”

“Have you ever considered framing an invitation in the form of a question?” Jaye asked
with a laugh. “For example, ‘Would you like to come over after dinner? I have a fabulous
new dessert I’d like you to try.’”

“I like my way. It makes it harder for the invitee to refuse.”

“I guess I’ll take the rest of my dinner to go,” Jaye said with an exaggerated sigh,
“since you’re apparently going to be force-feeding me dessert.”

***

Jaye followed Sierra into West Sedona, where her friend had plunked down half of her
inheritance from her grandmother on a small, older home that had started to fall apart
the day after she went to closing. As a result, renovating the kitchen and tackling
other cosmetic issues had had to wait until the roof, plumbing and appliances underwent
repairs. After a brief but rowdy meltdown, Sierra had meditated herself into a generally
peaceful acceptance of the situation. Whenever Jaye had tried to practice that art
during times of stress she’d only succeeded in falling asleep. Not half bad as failures
go.

They had one stop to make on the way to Sierra’s house—Dee’s Play and Stay, which
offered day care for dogs as well as boarding. Jaye pulled into the lot and waited
in her car while Sierra went inside. She reappeared a minute later holding the leash
of a prancing, snow-white American Eskimo who answered to the name of Frosty. Sierra
had adopted him from the elderly woman whose house she’d bought. Unable to take the
dog with her to the nursing home, the woman had begged Sierra to keep him or she’d
be forced to leave him at a shelter. Sierra had never owned a dog before, but with
her usual “how hard could it be?” philosophy, she’d agreed. Within a week she was
completely besotted with him. Unfortunately, it took Frosty the better part of a month
to accept his new housemate. He ran away five times, soiled the rugs, couch and linens
with every orifice he had, and even went on a hunger strike, although that had only
lasted for one day.

As soon as they arrived at Sierra’s house, she let Frosty out in the backyard to attend
to doggie matters while she started the coffee. He hadn’t been outside long when he
started barking full throttle as if he’d been ambushed by a band of starving zombies
with a yen for dog stew.

“Could you go see what’s got him in such an uproar?” Sierra asked as she measured
the grounds into the filter. “I’m afraid one day he’s going to corner a snake or a
coyote back there. He doesn’t seem to realize when he’s outmatched.”

“But I certainly do,” Jaye said, stopping with her hand on the doorknob. “Exactly
how many snakes and coyotes have visited since you moved in here?”

“None, or at least none that Frosty or I have seen. If you’re worried, turn on the
outside lights. There’s also a flashlight in the pantry.”

Flashlight in hand, Jaye switched on the lights and headed out the back door. The
elderly woman who’d lived there for three decades before Sierra had let the property
return to its natural state of high desert scrub. When Sierra had still been riding
her home-buying high, she’d talked at length about whipping the land into shape, buying
some ornamental plants and maybe even seeding for grass. But getting her bakery up
and running while she was teaching herself the art of baking had barely left her with
time to breathe.

Since the backyard wasn’t large, it was immediately obvious that Frosty had to be
somewhere else. His barking had taken on a hysterical, high-pitched quality. Jaye
tried calling his name, but when he didn’t appear she followed his barking around
to the left. Whoever had installed the outdoor lighting had clearly not anticipated
a need for it on the side of the house, so she had to rely completely on the old flashlight’s
narrow amber beam. She found Frosty frozen in place in the darkness, still issuing
the doggie equivalent of a call to arms. Jaye couldn’t see any reason for his distress
until she used the flashlight to follow his line of sight. She gave a startled yelp
of surprise when the beam revealed what appeared to be a woman sprawled facedown on
the ground a good twelve feet away.

It took Jaye only a moment to throttle down from her initial shock and shift gears
into action. She moved forward cautiously, half expecting the woman to jump up and
apologize for stopping there to take a nap. But the woman didn’t move. Frosty’s barking
had ebbed to a breathless chuffing now that he’d done his job and summoned the troops,
but he kept his distance, clearly not interested in accompanying Jaye on a closer
inspection.

When Jaye was at the woman’s side, she ran the beam of light down the length of her
body and noticed that her limbs were splayed at odd angles like a rag doll flung aside
by a child who’d moved on to other toys. She considered the possible reasons why a
person might be lying there. There weren’t many. Either the woman was a victim of
foul play or she’d been felled by a stroke, a heart attack, or some other fatal condition.
Or maybe she wasn’t dead at all. Fighting a sudden case of squeamishness, Jaye managed
to hunker down and check for a pulse in her neck. It was only then, with the flashlight
so close to the woman’s head, that she realized her dark hair was thoroughly matted
with blood.

Chapter 2

“Oh, my God!” Sierra screamed, her hand flying to her mouth as if to keep other, more
disturbing words from escaping. When several minutes had passed without Jaye and Frosty
returning, she’d gone outside to see what was keeping them. “Who is that?” she sputtered
through her fingers. “Is she dead?”

Jaye was still hunkered down beside the body. “I don’t know,” she said in response
to both questions, “but I can’t find a pulse and she feels awfully cold.”

“We have to call the police—no, the paramedics just in case she’s still alive—oh,
my God. . . .” Sierra’s voice trailed off, shrill with panic, but she remained as
frozen as Frosty.

Jaye had never seen her friend quite so undone before. “Give me a hand and we’ll roll
her over. Maybe it’ll be easier to check for a pulse if she’s faceup.”

“Okay, all right,” Sierra said, kneeling down next to her. “Wait—are you sure we should
be doing this? The police don’t like anyone touching things at a crime scene.”

“We’re wasting time. What if she’s not dead? You take her hip; I’ve got her shoulder.
Gently now, on the count of three.”

“On three,” Sierra murmured reluctantly. As it happened, the woman was so petite,
and they were so stoked with adrenalin, they nearly rolled her full circle, right
back onto her face again. If there’d been a slope to the property, she might have
rolled right on down to the street.

“Take the flashlight and hold it so I can see what I’m doing,” Jaye said once they’d
stopped her forward momentum. As soon as the light illuminated the woman’s face, both
she and Sierra screamed and sprang to their feet.

“Peggy,” Jaye whispered breathlessly, as if the realization had knocked the wind right
out of her.

***

Within minutes of their call to 911, the first patrol car swung into Sierra’s driveway,
lights whirling, sirens blaring. As soon as the officer realized how dark the side
yard was, he left the gate open and repositioned his car so the headlights provided
some illumination. Jaye, Sierra and Frosty (now on a leash in anticipation of the
approaching chaos) had been waiting far from Peggy’s body in deference to the dog,
who seemed to find her, or perhaps death in general, something to be avoided at all
costs.

“Yeah, she’s gone,” the cop told them matter-of-factly after he’d checked Peggy for
a pulse. He was wearing the official tan uniform with the proper emblems and badges
and he carried the standard-issue gun on his hip, but he looked like a kid to Jaye,
barely old enough to drive. Of course, that wasn’t true—it was just one more distressing
sign that she was in the fourth decade of her life. She immediately felt contrite.
How could she bemoan the process of aging while Peggy lay there completely out of
days?

The officer had stepped away from the body and was cordoning off the area with yellow
crime scene tape when the paramedics arrived. They came through the gate at a run,
carrying emergency gear, and dropped to their knees beside Peggy. They checked her
vital signs with an efficiency born of custom, exchanged a brief glance, then looked
up at the small assemblage and shook their heads in unison. They packed up their equipment
with the same quiet efficiency and were gone before Sedona’s two detectives came through
the gate. Dressed in business suits and ties, they looked appropriately old to Jaye,
who took them to be in their late thirties or early forties. Jaye had never met either
of them before, but Sierra greeted them by name. No surprise, she’d been living in
Sedona for over a year now, and no one made friends more easily than she did. For
as long as Jaye had known her, she’d been a people magnet. She wasn’t a beautiful
woman by most standards, but with her ebullient personality she was clearly irresistible.
Jaye had seen that rosy outlook abandon her the moment she’d realized it was Peggy
lying there on the ground. Finding a dead body on your property would be more than
enough to knock the sunshine out of anyone, but finding your competition dead on your
property raised the ante exponentially. To Sierra’s credit, she took care of introducing
Jaye to the detectives in a calm, if uncharacteristically subdued, fashion.

Theo Brock, the taller, lankier of the two men, was already on his way to the weathered
look of a man who’d spent a considerable part of his life outdoors. His tie had been
loosened and the top of his shirt unbuttoned as if the formality of the attire had
been strangling him. Jaye had no trouble picturing him in scruffier duds, wrangling
cattle on the open range, or what was left of it. When he was introduced to Jaye,
he dipped his head to her as if he were accustomed to tipping a Stetson instead. Since
this wasn’t the right time for a “happy to meet you,” Jaye nodded back at him and
managed what she hoped was a solemn smile.

The other detective, Cal Anastos, was more compact, with wide shoulders that strained
the material of his suit jacket and a torso that narrowed sharply at his waist and
probably kept his tailor in business. His shirt was buttoned, and his tie sat snugly
against his neck. By all outward appearances, he hit the gym regularly and appreciated
fine clothing. When he and Jaye were introduced, they nodded politely at each other.

Under normal circumstances, Sierra would have whipped up a carafe of sangria by now.
She always had the ingredients on hand for guests who might drop by unexpectedly.
Since that was out of the question at this awkward get-together, she kept herself
busy chipping the polish off her fingernails.

“Were you close to the deceased?” Anastos asked her with a look of honest concern
that furrowed his brow and put Jaye in mind of a kindly clergyman—a clergyman who
frequented the gym.

“Not really—being the new competition in town and all,” Sierra replied, having apparently
decided there was no point in tiptoeing around the truth. In any case, that shouldn’t
have been news to the detectives, who’d defected to her shop the first week it was
open. In a clever marketing move, Sierra had had a ductwork system installed that
sucked in the aroma of the baking goods and vented it outside to passersby on the
street. Reeled in by the irresistible smells of fresh bread, buttery croissants and
cinnamon-laced goodies, the detectives probably hadn’t given much thought to the fact
that they were traitors to Peggy, who’d kept them in jelly donuts for years.

At that moment another man clad in a suit and tie strode through the gate, carrying
himself with the gravitas that went hand in hand with authority. He stopped beside
the body and spoke to the patrolmen who were standing there. “Give us a minute,” Brock
said abruptly, and he and Anastos walked over to join the miniconference.

“Wayne Stubbins, chief of police,” Sierra whispered before Jaye had a chance to ask.

“I figured. Do you know him too?”

“No,” she said grimly, “but I have a feeling he’s finding out who we are right about
now.” Her words sent an unpleasant ripple through Jaye.

Five minutes later Stubbins was gone and the detectives were back with them. Brock
pulled a pad and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. “We’re going to need to
take your statements regarding how you came upon the deceased and all,” he said.

Jaye shrugged. “I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you. I came outside to see
why Frosty was barking and—”

Brock held up his hand like a crossing guard stopping traffic. “Whoa, whoa, we’ll
get to that in a minute.”

“You can interview Sierra on the back patio,” Brock said to his partner. “Jaye and
I’ll talk in one of the cars.” He spoke as if he were the senior of the two men, and
Anastos didn’t appear to take umbrage at being left out of the decision-making.

Staying at the primary crime scene where Peggy still lay was out of the question.
Not only were Sheriff Banna and the crime scene unit from Flagstaff just minutes out,
but the area had already garnered an audience of sorts. Neighbors, armed with their
smartphones, were climbing on chairs and jungle gyms in the adjoining yards so they
could peer over the adobe walls and follow what was happening. If necessity was the
mother of invention, then curiosity was surely its father.

Brock had stationed one of the uniforms to guard the deceased and keep the looky-loos’
feet on the ground. Easier said than done. Jaye watched as the cop told them to get
down and mind their own business, only to see their heads pop right up again seconds
later. The cop ordered them down, and up they came again. He threatened to arrest
them for interfering with an investigation. Up and down, up and down, like a more
civilized version of Whac-A-Mole.

As Anastos, Sierra and Frosty headed for the cement patio off the den, Brock escorted
Jaye to the patrol car just outside the gate. Before their paths diverged, Sierra
turned to glance at her friend, and in that brief moment Jaye knew they were thinking
exactly the same thing. Just like in all the cop shows, they were being separated
to see whether there were any discrepancies in their stories.

There were so many patrol cars parked every which way in front of Sierra’s house that
they looked like a giant game of cop bumper cars. Brock walked Jaye to the passenger
side of the car near the gate and opened the door for her in an odd parody of a gentleman
on a date. Then he went around to the driver’s side and folded himself in behind the
wheel.

“Did you or anyone else touch or move the body?” he began.

Although she was sorely tempted to say that neither of them had touched the body,
she knew her best chance of matching Sierra’s story was to rely on the absolute truth
and pray that Sierra did as well. She took a deep breath and told Brock how she’d
tried to find Peggy’s pulse and that she and Sierra had turned her onto her back.
She was half expecting Brock to explode over her stupidity, but he remained poker-faced
and silent as he jotted notes on his pad. He spent the next few minutes taking down
what Jaye thought of as “the basics”: Where was she presently residing? How long had
she been living in Sedona? Where had she lived previously? What did she do for a living
and where did she do it? Then he zeroed in on the heart of the matter. “How well did
you know Peggy?”

“We were nodding acquaintances at best,” Jaye replied, determined to keep her answers
as brief as possible without appearing to be coy or uncooperative. Years ago she’d
heard a lawyer in a movie tell his client not to elaborate; saying too much nearly
always turned around to bite you in the ass. She didn’t remember the name of the movie
or the actor who’d made those words so memorable, but it was one of those random tidbits
that had stuck with her over the years.

“Did you and Peggy ever have a disagreement?”

“No.”

“Ever argue?”

“No.” Jaye kept wondering what Sierra was telling Cal. Even though neither of them
had anything to hide, there were enough innocent people behind bars to make her edgy.

“Did you ever hear Sierra express anger toward the deceased? Or frustration over their
business competition?” There was little deviation in Brock’s tone. In fact, Jaye thought
he sounded bored, like he might close his eyes and take a catnap while he waited for
her response. She warned herself that he could be trying to lull her into thinking
she had nothing to worry about, that he was just doing his job by rote and wishing
he were home watching TV and drinking a cold one.

“No,” she said. “Never.”

“Did Sierra seem at all preoccupied lately, as if there was something weighing on
her mind?”

“No.” After what seemed like dozens of such questions, Brock asked her to account
for her whereabouts over the past twenty-four hours. Jaye felt as if she’d just completed
the short answer part of an exam and was now up to the essay portion. Answer, don’t
elaborate, she reminded herself.

“Sleeping took up about six hours,” she said, realizing too late that her words might
have sounded flippant. A frown pinched Brock’s eyebrows together as if he were actively
considering that very possibility, but Jaye sensed that trying to explain herself
would only make things worse. Better to let it go and be more careful in the future
about what she said and how she said it.

“Did you spend those six hours alone?”

Was that a bit of sarcasm she heard in his tone? “Yes, I was alone. My alarm woke
me at seven this morning, and I was at work in my shop from eight until six this evening.”

“Did anyone see you there?”

“Forty or fifty people.” It wouldn’t be much of a business if she didn’t have any
customers. Maybe he was baiting her to see if she’d try to make a joke of this too.

“Anyone you can name or reach by phone?”

“The best I can do for you are credit card receipts. My shop attracts mostly tourists.”

Brock ignored the offer. “What happened between the time you closed up and when you
found Peggy’s body?”

“Sierra and I had dinner at Finnegan’s; then I followed her home to try out her new
recipe for Linzer tortes. On the way here we stopped so she could pick up Frosty at
day care.”

“And how did you come upon the body?”

Jaye dutifully answered the question he’d prevented her from answering five minutes
earlier. He asked how she’d characterize Sierra’s reaction when she saw the body.

“Stunned, horrified . . .” Jaye debated piling on other adjectives. Would that make
it more convincing or suspiciously melodramatic?

Brock didn’t give her a chance to decide. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” He flipped his
notepad closed and, in one deft move, stowed it and the pen back in his jacket as
he whipped out a business card—his own little desk in a pocket. Jaye wondered what
else he had stowed in there.

“You’re free to go now, but give me a call if you remember anything relevant,” he
said, handing her the card. “Oh, one more thing,” he added as if it were an afterthought,
“you need to stick around town until we get this thing sorted out.” He waited until
Jaye left the patrol car before getting out himself and returning to the crime scene.
Jaye remained rooted to the driveway, her thoughts jumping around like the numbered
balls in a lottery spinner. The same thought kept popping to the top: she and Sierra
were officially suspects—or in the more politically correct jargon of the day, “persons
of interest.”