Sweet Ginger Poison (13 page)

But Danny didn’t like the idea of using a gun. And
what did it matter now? His employer had gotten the result he wanted. Navy was
dead.

Danny should get paid.

Almando Monet sat in his small, but plush upstairs
office waiting on a client who was late for his appointment. Almando was a
self-made man, and had no patience for those who didn’t understand that time is
money.

Manny, as he liked to be called, looked like a
thirty-year-old Antonio Banderas. He had legally changed his last name ten
years ago to that of his idol, Claude Monet. Manny had rejected the family
grocery business to become an artist—just as the famous French impressionist
painter had done many decades before him.

Even at the age of twenty, Manny’s oil paintings were
magnificent. But nobody was willing to pay hundreds of dollars to a poor
Hispanic kid. He dreamed of the day when the wealthy would commission him to
paint great works of art that would be passed down from one generation to the
next.

Manny had been desperate to get away from his
overbearing father. So, he had written to a distant cousin who operated a small
business in an East Texas town named Coreyville. He boldly asked Cousin Hosea
for a job and a temporary place to live. Manny told him he would work hard and
help pay the rent.

To his surprise, Hosea replied that he would be happy
to give him a job, and that Manny could live with him until he could afford his
own place. He even said he would hang Manny’s paintings on the walls of his
business and sell them to customers.

Manny was so excited he couldn’t sleep. He spent his
last few dollars on a one-way bus ticket to Coreyville.

Hosea’s business was a tiny shoe repair shop, located
on town square. Manny’s job would be to shine each pair of shoes that Hosea
repaired.

What would be Manny’s hourly rate of pay? Zero, his
cousin told him. He would only get paid if a customer decided to tip him in
response to a particularly impressive shoe shine job.

But there was more. Hosea had recently purchased a
shoe shine stand at an auction. He would charge five dollars per shine, which
he would keep. But Manny could pocket any tip money. And assuming he could keep
the chair occupied for much of the day, he could make a living. Of course,
Manny would have to buy his own supplies. Hosea would loan him the money to get
started.

But at least he would have free room and board, right?
Yes, for the first two months. After that, he’d have to fork over money for
half of the rent and groceries. He would live with Hosea in the efficiency
apartment above the shop. There was only one bed. Manny would sleep on the floor.

What about the promised walls for his paintings? Hosea
was a man of his word—and then some. Manny could indeed cover the walls with
his works of art. But the previously undisclosed stipulation was that Hosea
would get fifty percent of the sales price of each painting.

Manny decided to go back to El Paso immediately. But
he couldn’t. First he’d have to earn some money. It would be hard enough to go
home and admit that his father had been right. He just couldn’t bring himself
to call and beg for a bus ticket.

He worked diligently at his shoe shining, figuring the
better the shine, the higher the tip. And it paid off. Before long, the word
had spread all over town. Manny was swamped with customers, while Hosea sat
idle.

Then Manny began to dream. Maybe he could go out on
his own. Then he could keep the five-dollar fee as well as the tips. And if he
sold any paintings, all the money would be his. He would just need to save up
enough to get his own place.

But then Hosea got even greedier. One night after
dinner, he told Manny that he must start giving him fifty percent of his tip
money. That wasn’t fair, said Manny. He had just started paying for half the
rent and food. He would not give up any of his tip money.

They got into a violent argument that ended when Hosea
'fell' down the stairs. Manny grabbed Hosea’s car keys and carried his
unconscious cousin to the car. The hospital was less than one mile away. But
Manny forgot to buckle Hosea’s seat belt. And somehow, as Manny sped around a
corner, the passenger door swung open and Hosea fell out. A police car happened
by at that moment and saw Manny trying to pick up Hosea and put him back in the
car. But he was already dead.

Nobody knew Hosea had been treating his twenty
year-old cousin like a slave. So they had no reason to suspect foul play. Manny
was only known to the men whose shoes he shined. And to them, he was a fine,
hard-working young man.

After the funeral, he took over Hosea’s lease and
eventually renovated the shop—transforming the little dump of a shoe repair
shop into an upscale shoe shine boutique. His oil paintings were on the walls,
but they were no longer for sale. He refused to sell them to anyone for any
price. In his mind, this made them
priceless
.

He did away with the shoe repair business altogether,
and concentrated on building his brand name: Monet’s MasterShine. Before long,
he had more business than he could handle, so he hired two employees and let
them do all the labor. He kept the shoe shine fee at five dollars and paid his
workers minimum wage. But they got to keep all their tips.

The income from the shoe shines paid the rent. But the
real money was in the extras—like the latest must-have electronic gadgets that
men love. They would come in planning to spend a few bucks on the best shoe shine
in town, and walk out fifty dollars poorer, with their shiny shoes and their
new GPS system with built-in metal detector.

But Manny had not been content to sit back and enjoy
the success of his little shop. He sought more lucrative endeavors.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Manny. He stood up.

A man in his mid-twenties walked in and closed the
door. “I’m sorry I’m late, Mr. Monet. I’m Will J—”

“—I know who you are, Will. And call me Manny.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Have a seat.”

They both sat down.

“So, what can I do for you, Will?”

“I understand that you make loans.”

“Yes. Sometimes. But if you need money, why don’t you
just go to a bank?”

“I tried that.”

“Or get a credit card. They’re pretty easy to get
these days.”

“Not for me.”

“Credit problems?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How much do you need?”

“Uh…it’s a lot.”

“How much?”

“Ten-thousand.”

“That
is
a lot,” said Manny.

“I’m sorry,” said Will, standing up, “this is crazy
for me to be—”

“—sit down, Will. I can do it.”

Will sat down, grinning. “You can? Great.” Suddenly
his smile went away. “What’s the interest rate?”

“Twenty percent.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad. So, twenty percent APR.”

“No. Twenty percent per
month
,” said Manny.

“Whoa.”

“Change your mind? Don’t need the money so bad after
all?”

“No—I really
do
need it.”

“Okay, then," said Manny. "And just so we’re
clear: in thirty days your first payment of one-thousand dollars will be due.”

Will’s eyes got big.

“So, you still want the money?”

“Yes, Sir. Where do I sign?”

“There’s no paperwork. But just so you know,” said
Manny, looking directly into Will’s eyes, “nobody’s ever defaulted on me—and
lived
to tell about it.”

Will’s chin began to quiver.

Manny grinned. “Come back at Noon and I’ll have your
cash.”

**********

Mayor Kassle sat up in his oversized leather chair and
reached for his desk phone.

“Melissa?”

“It’s
Monica
, Sir. Melissa was your
last
secretary.”

“Have you finished typing those letters?”

“Yes, Sir, I have. Are you ready to sign them?”

Duh. “Yes.”

He hung up the phone.

Monica hurried through the door and shut it behind
her. Then she quickly baby-stepped over to the mayor’s desk. The five-inch
heels and ultra-tight skirt precluded a normal stride.

“Here we go,” she said, handing him the two letters.

“Thank you.”

She turned and started walking away.

What a fine butt, he thought. “Wait. Come back.”

She came back to his desk.

He signed the letters and held them out.

She leaned over his desk to take them.

He could see way down her dress. “That dress is too
short and too low-cut.”

Monica stood up and covered her cleavage with her
hands. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“You’re fired.”

“But, Sir, it’s my first day. Please give me another
chance.”

“I’ll need you to finish out the day. Hire me another
secretary.”

“But, Sir. Please.”

“And I’ll pick you up tonight at around seven.”

“But, Sir, I—what?”

“You like seafood?”

“Uh, sure.”

“And feel free to wear that dress.”

“Yes, Sir.” She grinned. “Thank you, Sir.” She took
the letters, spun around, and scurried happily out the door.

The mayor smiled. It was amazing what you could get away
with if you had power. He’d grown up with the advantages of wealth. But add
power to it, and wow. He loved his life.

The intercom on his phone beeped.

“Yes, Melissa—I mean, Monica?”

“The chief is here to see you.”

“Send him in.”

“Good Morning, Mayor.” Chief Foenapper came in and sat
down.

“That’s good, Daniel. Let’s keep it formal. I’ll try
to remember to only call you ‘Chief’ from now on. So, how’s your murder
investigation going, Chief?”

“It’s going fine, Mayor. Our prime suspect is Lacey
Greendale, the young woman I told you about. She works for Ginger Lightley.”

“So, you’ve brought her in for questioning?”

“Not yet. But, as I told you on the phone Saturday
night, when I talked to her at her apartment she seemed very
suspicious—especially when I asked about the panties we found in Navy’s car.”

“So, charge her.”

“I’ve been looking at other possible suspects.”

“You’re just wasting time, Chief. If she looks like a
killer and smells like a killer then she’s probably your killer. You’d better
lock her up before she skips town.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure you do. I wasn’t saying that you didn’t. But
you’re dragging your feet. Let’s get it done.”

“I’ve been doing research on everyone who had the
opportunity to poison him. I particularly wanted to see if any of them had any
prior arrests.”

“And did they?”

“No.”

“What’d I tell you? A waste of time,” said the mayor.

“No prior
arrests
. But I did find something
else. And now I have a second suspect with both motive and opportunity.”

“Who?”

“Addie Barneswaller.”

Ginger’s 2002 Buick LeSabre had less than 20,000 miles
on it. She’d averaged about 50 miles per week over the past six years. At that
rate, she figured the car would last longer than
she
would.

It took ten minutes to drive out to Ellegora Newcomb’s
estate, and another minute or so to make it up the long, winding driveway after
being buzzed in at the security gate.

Ginger thought it was a shame that the family’s riches
had done Navy more harm than good. But some people just can’t handle being
wealthy.

She didn’t know exactly what she hoped to learn by
talking to Navy’s mother. But she was pleasantly surprised that she had been
granted access. The few folks that knew anything about Ellegora had portrayed
her as mysterious and eerily reclusive.

Lacey had not yet been charged with Navy’s
murder—which was good, but puzzling. Had the chief found a better suspect, or
was he just incompetent? Ginger could only guess, since he refused to share any
information with her.

She parked her car, walked to the door and rang the
bell. A full sixty seconds passed. What was taking so long? The servants knew
she was there. One of them had let her through the gate. Finally the door
opened.

“Mrs. Lightley?”

“Yes. And you’re Mrs. Newcomb?”

“Oh, no, Ma’am.”

The servant was probably in her mid-fifties—about the
age of Navy’s mother.

“Please come in, Ma’am.”

Ginger followed her to a small, formal room with a
couch, several chairs, and a fireplace.