Killer Shots Murder Mysteries - Books 1-3 Read online

  “What about it? Plenty of guys carry flasks.”

  “This was a girl’s.”

  “How do you know? Was there a name on it?”

  “No, I just know.”

  I pressed him for an answer. “How?” I put my hands on my hips as the feminazi in me came out.

  “It was silver.”

  “A man could have a silver—”

  He kicked at the mud on the edge of the grass. “It had red rhinestones in the shape of a heart on it, that’s how I know!”

  Oops. He was probably right. But that might have been important information for a cop to keep under wraps. Still, it wasn’t proof that a woman was the bad guy. “Squishy didn’t strike me as the most upright citizen I’d ever seen. Maybe he stole it.”

  “I considered that, especially after I saw the guy’s rap sheet. He’d been picked up for everything from writing hot checks to robbery to forgery. But I think he got that flask from one of those ladies at the party, and she may know something. I intend to find out who that flask belongs to. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

  Obviously, I wasn’t going to change his mind. Who knows? Maybe he was right. As long as he was chasing down the flask owner, I had time to do my own investigation. My ears began to feel numb, but I had one last question for Grady. “By the way, you don’t really think my brother had anything to do with this, do you?”

  He squared off at me. “You mean the car prank or the clown case?”

  “Either.”

  “Look, you seem like a nice person, Wendy. Although, if you tell Sherry I said that, I’ll deny it and call you a liar. But your brother is trouble.”

  “He’s trying to straighten himself out. You need to give him a chance.”

  He pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “It’s hard, you know, because of Sherry’s brother, Cameron.”

  “I know, but everyone deserves a second chance.”

  “Or third or fourth or—”

  “I get it. Just keep an open mind. People can change.”

  He nodded and turned back toward the library.

  I pointed to the stranded car. “Why don’t you get some of the athletes at the high school to come over and carry the car back to the street? They’re probably the ones who put it up there in the first place.”

  “Not a bad idea.” He twirled the toothpick with his tongue. “I had thought about that myself.”

  Sure you had. “One more thing. What makes you think someone knocked the clown unconscious?”

  “Because he had a giant goose egg on the back of his head.”

  Yikes. That was probably from when Freddy knocked him down in the parking lot. Obviously, nobody had told Grady about the fight between Freddy and Grover. Should I tell him? It wouldn’t help Myra any. But what if Freddy was guilty?

  For now, I decided to keep my mouth shut. Just as I turned to go back to my shop, a man with a professional camera walked up next to me, snapping pictures of the car and the library.

  “Never a dull moment in this town. Murder, vandalism...what’s next? A sex scandal?” Before I could answer, he said, “By the way, I’m from the Albuquerque Observer. Do you know where I can find Wendy Fairmont?”

  Chapter 9

  To look at us, you wouldn’t think Karol Maloney and I had much in common. She could pass for an aging Playboy Playmate; I was the girl next door. She was loud and would get up in your face; I was quiet and would talk about you behind your back. But we had formed a bond over the past few months and had become unlikely friends. It seemed neither of us could stand Sheriff Grady’s wife, Sherry.

  So when I needed to hide out from the out-of-town reporter, I ducked into Karol’s Kafé, hoping to find refuge and possibly a cinnamon twist. I sat on a stool at the counter where I could keep my back to the door and my eye out the window.

  “Hey, sweetie, can I get you some coffee?” Karol asked, holding the steaming pot. “You look colder than Jack Frost’s—”

  “Shhh. I’m hiding. There’s a reporter from Albuquerque looking for me. If he comes in here, pretend I’m not me.”

  “Is he good-looking? If so, I’ll pretend to be you.” She grinned and filled a mug. “Is it about that dead clown? That was cold. Poor stiff. Guess the party’s over for him.”

  I scrunched my face. “What are you, a pun machine?”

  She let out a boisterous laugh. “No, those are the jokes that have been flying around here all morning.”

  “Well, it’s not that funny to me. Especially since the sheriff has his sights set on Myra to take the fall.”

  “Myra Mendoza? Sure she has a temper, but she’d never kill anybody. Would she?”

  “Of course not!” I apparently yelled louder than I’d expected because Karol shushed me.

  She leaned in to whisper. “Don’t make a scene. I’m hoping for a big tip from those rich fuddy-duddies over there. That one woman’s purse cost more than my first car.”

  I turned around and saw Leslie Harper and another woman. I whispered back to Karol, “Don’t you know who that is?”

  She shook her head, causing her chest to jiggle.

  “That’s Leslie Harper.”

  Karol’s eyes widened. “Is she married to Preston Harper of the Harper Financial Corporation?”

  “That’s her.”

  “That was their kid’s party, right? I never expected him to be married to someone like her. He’s so yummy and she’s so...classy. Seems like she’s got a stick up her butt. I better go check on them.”

  The hot coffee was doing its magic, and I was finally warm enough to take off my jacket.

  A voice called from another table. “Wendy Fairmont? Is that you?”

  I turned to see Leslie waving at me. So much for hiding. I walked over to the table to say hello.

  Leslie motioned to the other woman. “Wendy, you remember Susan Martinelli from the party.”

  Although I vaguely remembered her face, there were lots of women at the party. “Sure, hi.”

  “Won’t you join us? We’re just waiting for that ridiculous mess across the street to be resolved before we go in for our Friends of the Library board meeting.” Leslie turned up her nose. “I’m sorry about this disgusting table. I asked that waitress to wipe off this sticky gunk and bring us clean flatware.” She held up a spoon. “Who knows if this has even been washed.”

  I ignored the snobby comment. “Actually, that’s the owner, Karol. She’s a friend of mine.”

  Leslie seemed less than impressed. “Hmm. Whatever. Do you have those party pictures ready for me?”

  “Not quite. I still have some more editing to do.” It had only been a day and a half since the party. Did she think she was my only client? Okay, maybe she was, but still, I was an artist, not a drugstore Fotomat operator.

  Karol returned with a rag and wiped down the table. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, Wendy?”

  “Karol, this is Leslie Harper and Susan Martinelli.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Karol leaned over the table, grabbed Leslie’s hand, and shook it vigorously. Karol’s size triple-Ds nearly knocked over a water glass.

  Leslie’s face defied the obvious Botox injections and wrinkled up like top-grain leather. She’d probably have to schedule a full body wrap at the spa after this pedestrian encounter.

  It was all I could do not to giggle.

  Karol released Leslie’s hand and straightened up. “I know your husband, of course, but I believe this is the first time I’ve seen you in here.”

  “Preston comes in here?” Leslie held her head so high I could see up her nose.

  “Oh sure, all the time.” Karol gave her a wide smile.

  There went what little tip she had coming.

  Wendy to the rescue. “Could you get us some more coffee, Karol? And how about some of your low-fat, sugar-free fruit puffs.” I gave her a wink.

  Luckily, she caught my drift. The only thing low-fat and sugar-free in her
e was the water.

  Karol quickly returned with a plate of ooey-gooey goodies. “Enjoy!”

  Both women dug in like bears on fish.

  Susan moaned with delight. “These are delicious. I might have to get some to take home.”

  Leslie shook her head. “Not me. I just threw out the leftover cake and ice cream from that dreadful party.”

  Susan lit up like a light bulb. “Ooh. I wish you had called me. That cake was fabulous! Most of the cakes at these children’s parties taste like cardboard. But yours was divine.”

  “I suppose that’s why Preston insisted I use Gwen Palmer to plan the party instead of Prissy’s Party Place, even though they specialize in children’s events. He just raved about her. But, you can be sure that’s the last time she plans any event I’m associated with. Can you believe she ruined the whole affair by letting a man die there? Poor little Bridgette will probably be scarred for life. I have half a mind to sue her for emotional damage.”

  Was that the same little Bridgette she had called a spoiled brat just two days ago? And how did the clown’s death ruin the party when all the guests had already left when he was discovered? Rich people...

  “Look over there,” Susan said, wiping lemon cream from her mouth, “a bunch of boys are moving the car.”

  “Finally.” Leslie reched for her designer handbag. “Let’s get out of here.” She didn’t wait for the check, but instead threw a wad of bills onto the table. She glanced at me. “You’ll call me as soon as those pictures are ready.” It was a command, not a question.

  They both stood to leave.

  I remembered something. “Before you go, I was wondering if either of you accidently left something behind at the party.”

  “Like what?” Leslie asked.

  “A silver bottle. You know, like a flask?”

  Leslie’s face turned a ghostly shade of white. I wasn’t sure if I saw guilt or indignation.

  “No, of course not.” She hurried out the door.

  Susan grabbed a napkin to wrap up the last puff then frowned at me. “I can’t believe you asked that,” she scolded. “Everyone knows Leslie has a drinking problem.”

  Chapter 10

  It was a short walk from their candle shop on the square to the Foto Factory, so the Randalls were actually a few minutes early to get their passport pictures taken. I was hoping to upsell them by offering to take a few portraits of them as a couple. It was their fortieth anniversary after all and what better way to remember it than with pictures.

  “We’ve never been overseas.” Charlotte Randall brushed her hair and reapplied lipstick. “This trip will be so exciting.”

  I handed her a tissue to blot her lips. “Overseas? I thought you were going to Mexico.”

  “We are.”

  I decided not to tell her that the trip to the Gulf of Mexico wasn’t exactly considered overseas unless you started from Europe or Asia or Australia. I did, however, have to tell Dave Randall he couldn’t wear a cowboy hat in his passport picture. After the obligatory headshots, I spent forty-five minutes shooting various poses and backgrounds of the couple. Charlotte even let him wear his hat in some of them.

  “I can’t wait to see those,” Charlotte said. “When will you have them ready?”

  “You can pick up the passport pictures tomorrow. I’ll need a few more days for the others.”

  Dave pulled on his jacket and zipped up the front. “Don’t forget now, you said you would give us the friends and family discount.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you.” Little did they know that the “discount” price was what I charged everyone. It’s all about marketing.

  As they headed out the door, I saw a car pull up in front with Albuquerque Observer splashed across the side. I knew I couldn’t avoid this guy forever, so I got ready to face the music.

  “Hi. I’m Ron Keaton from the Observer.” He reached out his hand and I reluctantly shook it. “Didn’t you tell me earlier that you didn’t know Wendy Fairmont?”

  “Yep, that was me. I was trying to avoid you.” We stood in the reception area. I didn’t want to offer him coffee or have him take a seat because I was hoping to make this a short and sweet interview.

  “That’s understandable since Grover Ward’s death occurred on your property.”

  “It’s not my property!” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry. People keep saying that. It’s my parents’ lodge. I was just there shooting that day.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Shooting? You mean, hunting?”

  “No, shooting pictures.” I waved my hands around the room. “I’m a photographer.”

  “Then why were you trying to avoid me?”

  That should be obvious. I shifted my weight anxiously, wishing Nancy or a customer or even the sheriff would drop in. “Can you just ask your questions, please? I’ve got work to do.”

  “Sure.” He took out his notepad. “Where were you when Mr. Ward was murdered?”

  I felt a knot in my gut. “Who says he was murdered?”

  “The sheriff, for one.”

  “Sheriff Grady is a—” I noticed he was writing down my every word. “Let’s just say that he’s exploring every angle. He has a reputation for being fair and thorough.” I lied, of course.

  “That’s not what I hear. Most people around here say he’s somewhat inept.”

  There was no way I was going to fall into that trap. “Do you have any other questions?”

  He flipped back to a previous page of notes. “Why did the housekeeper, Myra Mendoza, lock the freezer?”

  “For the safety of the children at the party.” That was the truth.

  He nodded. “So you’re saying she was afraid that Mr. Ward would do something to them. Is that right?”

  “What? No.” I took a step back.

  “Oh, so you’re saying she knew Mr. Ward and felt comfortable around him.”

  I could feel the heat rising from my neck up to my face. “I’m not saying that at all. You are.”

  “I am what?”

  “Twisting my words. And don’t write that down!”

  He put the pen behind his ear. “Look, Ms. Fairmont, I’m trying to get to the truth. I realize this is a salacious story—sex, murder, violence, innocent children—but people have a right to know if they are safe from their neighbors here in Cascada.”

  I felt weak in the knees and plopped down in a chair. “Sex and violence? Where are you getting your information?”

  “Here and there. Are you denying that the housekeeper and the horse trainer were lovers and that they were involved in a physical altercation shortly before Mr. Ward’s untimely death?”

  Who would have told him that? My mother? Grady? I felt as though whatever I said would get twisted up like a pretzel. “Look. I don’t have anything else to say, and I’d appreciate it if you would leave.”

  “Do you think the party planner may have been involved? Who do you think killed the clown?”

  I threw out my hands. “That’s enough!”

  He snapped his notebook shut. “I see.” He put the pad and pen back in his satchel. “You need to understand something, Ms. Fairmont. If honest voices remain silent, only dishonest ones are heard.”

  I stood up and faced him toe-to-toe. “And it’s your job to distinguish between the two.”

  “Good point.” He took a step. “One more thing; I don’t suppose you have a picture of Mr. Ward, either before or after his demise, do you?”

  “I do, but you won’t be getting it from me.”

  “No problem. One of the people at the party said she’d be happy to give me some snapshots. I just thought you might like one of yours with a photo credit in the Observer. Could be good advertising, you know.”

  I pointed to the door.

  He handed me his business card. “If you think of anything else or change your mind about that photo, give me a call.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” As I watched him drive away, I wonde
red who on earth would have given him a snapshot of Mr. Squishy from the party? And why would he ask if Gwen, the party planner, was involved? Of course, I had my suspicions about who may have wanted to point a finger in her direction.

  I decided to go straight to the source.

  Chapter 11

  Who would have guessed that someone with Ally’s baking skills would take a job selling trashy souvenirs to tourists in a run-down truck stop off the highway. She should be working in a restaurant or in one of the town’s bakeries. Cascada had almost as many bakeries as it had churches.

  The bell on the door jingled when I entered the store. The shelves were piled to the ceiling with every kind of kitschy roadside junk imaginable. From t-shirts to maps to a life-sized coyote, this place had it all. The smell of stale cigarettes and gasoline made my eyes water.

  The only other customer was a man buying motor oil and an “I heart New Mexico” t-shirt.

  I studied the various postcards, admiring some of the photography work.

  Ally didn’t seem to notice me at first. She looked even younger today in her jeans and New Mexico State University sweatshirt than she did on Saturday. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that wasn’t quite centered on the back of her head.

  I walked up to the counter where she sat on a stool in front of a rack of cigarettes and chewing tobacco, reading a magazine.

  “Need something?” she mumbled. Then she glanced up. “Wendy! What brings you all the way out here? Looking for a scorpion encased in plastic or maybe some Creekside Casino playing cards?”

  I chuckled and then realized those were actual items stacked next to the cash register. “Not today. Actually, I came to talk to you.”

  “Oh. If you need to plan an event, you should call Gwen.”

  “Are you sure? Something you said on Saturday made me think otherwise.” I watched her eyes for signs of guilt.

  Her face reddened. “What do you mean?”

  “You said it wouldn’t matter for long that Gwen wasn’t paying you well. Are you planning to quit?”

  She fumbled with the magazine. “I never said that.”