4. Marius
4
MARIUS
T he only good thing about spending December with Aunt Frances was this. Breakfast.
She lived in a very expensive senior living center. I knew. I paid the bill every month. And it came with catered breakfast and lunch.
“I’m not giving you any,” I warned the cat. “You already ate.”
Moose meowed for some of the sausage patty smothered in gravy.
“You want to turn that OJ into a mimosa?” asked Sadie, who owned the Southern-inspired catering company.
“I have to work. I’m reviewing that contract for your husband’s company,” I reminded her.
Over in the corner, her husband, Parker Svensson—yeah, those Svenssons—was standing around, scowling.
“I told him he didn’t need to come. He refused, what with the murderer loose.” Sadie gave me a pointed look.
“I’m not discussing my clients,” I reminded her.
“Boo. There’s lots more gravy—don’t be shy!”
I dug into the hashbrowns and cheesy scrambled eggs. I’d gone for a run in the snowy morning but probably hadn’t done enough to justify getting a second plate.
“Our first suspect.” A printout of a blurry photo was shoved in front of me right when I was about to take a bite of the fresh steaming biscuit.
“Ms. Dawson—”
“Emmie,” she said determinedly. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
“No, we’re not.”
“We have to investigate the case, and this,” she said, tapping the photo with her fork, “is suspect number one.”
“Who is it?” I tried to hand the photo back to her.
She ignored it in favor of taking a big bite of her breakfast. “I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to investigate.”
“You’re not a detective.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Well, for once, you’re not drinking with breakfast. I’m surprised you didn’t get a mimosa.”
“I didn’t know we could have mimosas.” Emmie looked around.
Sadie came over with a bottle and splashed a generous amount into her glass. It had a strong chemical smell.
“Wait. I thought that was window cleaner,” I said slowly.
Sadie blinked.
Emmie took a sip of her orange juice mixed with kerosene.
“That’s what we sell it as to avoid the alcohol tax, but everyone who’s in the know knows.” Emmie tapped her head.
A few tables away, a senior citizen was using the moonshine to light up one of those spinning candle decorations.
“How the fuck am I here for a month?” I asked myself.
The smell of the alcoholic orange juice wafted over to me.
Revolting.
“So, my case. This suspect was in my shop.”
“Yes, we need to talk about the case,” I interrupted her smoothly.
“We are…”
“No. One, you need to stay away from the crime scene, full stop.”
“But—”
“Two, as your lawyer, I highly recommend you hire a different lawyer.”
“But last night, you said…” The tears started, then she seemed to fight them back.
So she had a backbone after all.
“This is going to be a long case for you,” I explained. “These criminal cases drag on for years. I’m going back to New York City after Christmas. You need someone local.”
“No, I need you as my lawyer. And we’re going to solve the case before Christmas. I can’t have being a murder suspect hanging over my head for the holidays. That will ruin Christmas,” Emmie said determinedly.
“If wishful thinking got innocent pleas, no one would be in jail,” I said flatly.
“But you got me out of prison. You’re a miracle worker.”
“For now,” I repeated. “When Theo”—I bit back the curse I usually added to his name—“has had enough drinks with the DA, he’s going to have a judge sign a warrant for your arrest. Guaranteed.”
“Yeah, but—”
“They’re going to send it out to the county, and they’re going to pin it on you. It’s an election year. The mayor is going to want this case wrapped up. You’re the prime suspect in this. You need someone who knows the judges and can get you a good plea deal.”
“I’m innocent!” she cried.
“Up to a jury to decide.”
“There aren’t any other lawyers. The other lawyer in town is Brooks’s friend Theo. He’s awful .” She spat out the word.
I immediately tensed and fought down the possessive urge to grab her and demand she tell me what he’d done to her.
You don’t care about her. Or him.
The last time I was here, I’d gone into a death spiral, ruminating over how terrible Theo and Brooks had been to me.
I’d even bought a voodoo doll yesterday morning to sooth my inner child.
We are better than this.
“I need my shop open. The cats. My money. Oakley is in my house,” she begged.
“Don’t start throwing her out,” I warned, taking another sip of my coffee. “You don’t want to get a fine for illegal eviction.”
“Brooks probably gave her the house in the will anyway,” she said bitterly. “He ruined everything. I wish I’d never met Brooks.”
Same.
I wiped my mouth. “Hurry up and finish eating,” I ordered. “I’m going to get your shop back.”
The Santa Claws Café was the legal definition of a shit show.
Police and crime scene techs were moseying around, talking nonsense and pretending they were in the holiday special of Law and Order .
“I’ve been at crime scenes for mass murders in New York City that had less police activity than this cupcake shop.” I handed Moose to Emmie and stepped into the café.
“Excuse me.”
They look up at me. One of the cops beamed. “Marius! Look who’s back in town.”
“You literally saw me over Thanksgiving,” I reminded Bobby.
“Good to see a familiar face.” He rocked on his heels.
He and I had joined forces in middle school on more than one occasion. Safety in numbers from Brooks and his thuggish friends and all.
“Ms. Dawson needs the use of her cupcake shop. You all were here all day yesterday. You don’t need to gather any more evidence.”
One of the crime-scene techs swallowed the cupcake he was eating.
“Are you going to pay for that?” I demanded.
“It’s on the house!” Emmie called. “Did you like it? I added cardamom.”
“It’s delicious!” The crime scene tech flashed a thumbs-up.
“Have another.”
“No. They need to vacate the shop. You are all violating Ms. Dawson’s fourth amendment rights.”
“You mean the right not to have the British move into your house?” Officer Girthman frowned.
“No. It’s a taking. Unreasonable search and seizure. You already searched Ms. Dawson’s shop. You can’t also keep it closed indefinitely. Are you charging her?” I demanded. “Well?”
The police bumbled around.
“I guess we have enough evidence. You can open your shop, Emmie,” Winston said, taking down the crime scene tape.
When they finally left, plied with cupcakes I wouldn’t eat, considering they came from Santa’s little murder bakery, Emmie threw herself into my arms.
It was startling, the softness of her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re my hero.”
It took me a minute to gather my wits enough to say, “No, I’m not.”