Marilyn Pappano - Detective Defender

It was what he did best.

That, and piss off pretty shop owners who had a thing about fidelity.

As he finally circled to the counter, Martine began sliding small plastic bags onto rods extending from a display case. “Don’t you have better things to do this morning than aggravate me? Like, I don’t know, telling Paulina’s parents what happened or, here’s an idea, maybe even finding the person who did it?”

“Her parents live in Alabama. The police over there are making the notification. By the way, her name is Bradley now. Was Bradley.”

Her fingers slowed, the tips tightening briefly around the plastic package that held an astrological charm. “Did she have children?”

“No.” That always seemed a good thing to him with murder victims. Not having kids meant less damage, less grief. But without children, what do they leave behind? his father sometimes asked. Jimmy figured the old man didn’t want the family name dying out. He was the only son his dad had, and neither of his sisters had been willing to hyphenate their married names. Poor Pops was stuck.

Jimmy picked up a worry stone from a dish filled with them, his thumb automatically rubbing the depression in the middle. “When Paulina called you yesterday, what did she say?”

“She wanted to meet me.”

“No chitchat? Hey, long time, how are you?”

She glanced out the window, and Jimmy followed her gaze. The fog had risen high enough to cover a few inches of the glass. It was like being in a dream: the street disappeared from sight; a man walking his dog, both of them legless; a delivery truck driving by, its wheels invisible. There were going to be a lot of trips and falls and battered shins as long as this lasted.

“She said, ‘Tine, it’s Paulina. I need to see you. Meet at the river as quick as you can get there.’ I told her I was busy. I had customers. She said, ‘You have to come now. I really have to talk to you.’ So I went.”

Still rubbing the stone, he walked around to stand near her. “First contact in more than twenty years, and she demands you meet her on a day like yesterday, then tells you that someone’s after her.”

Martine paused a moment before nodding. After hanging the last of the charms, she stuffed one empty box inside the other, moved a few feet to a tall display of candles, guaranteed to bring a person health, riches, love or whatever else his heart desired, and started rearranging them.

“Did she ask you for money?”

“No.”

“For help?”

“No.”

“For advice? Sympathy? Directions? Did she want to say goodbye? Did she leave a message for her parents or her husband?” He watched each tiny shake of her head, then impatiently asked, “Then why the hell did she bother calling you, Martine? Just to say, ‘I think someone wants me dead. Hey, I like your hair that way, and I hear your shop’s doing pretty good. I’ll probably die in the next twenty-four hours, so I won’t be seeing you again. Have a good life’?”

“Stop it!” she demanded. “She’s dead! Show a little respect.”

“I’m not disrespecting her.” It was part of the problem today: everyone wanted respect, even when they were lying, cheating, stealing, killing and telling the rest of the world to screw themselves. Martine didn’t want to be questioned again, she didn’t want any pressure even though she’d been less than forthcoming the first time around. Whatever she was hiding could be nothing. It could be personal, between her and Paulina. Or it could be integral to solving the case. It wasn’t up to her to decide.

Her face was pink, her breathing unsteady, when the rattle at the door announced a newcomer. A woman—early twenties, shiny black hair, pale face, dark makeup, black clothes—stepped inside, gave a shake like a great big dog, scattering rain everywhere, then looked up at them through water-splattered glasses. “The sun’s never gonna shine again,” she said in a doleful voice. She shuffled over, a huge black tote bag hanging from one shoulder, and stopped a few feet away. “I’m Anise.”

Though he could feel hostility radiating from Martine—or maybe because of it—he grinned at the girl. “I’m Jimmy.”

“Don’t talk to him, Anise,” Martine snapped before the girl could open her mouth again. “He’s not welcome around here. In fact, if you could do a few wards to banish him from the premises, I would be most grateful.”

Jimmy shifted his full attention to Anise. “You can banish me? Where, like, I wouldn’t be able to walk in the door?”

“Maybe. I’m just a novice, but I’m pretty sure I can at least make it very uncomfortable for you to be here.” She pushed her glasses higher on her nose.

He made a dismissive noise. “Your boss can do that with nothing more than a look.” Once upon a time, she'd made him very uncomfortable with no more than a look...but in a most desirable way.

The color in Martine’s face deepened. She murmured something—he saw her lips move but heard no words and figured it was a prayer of some kind—then with a deep breath faced him. “You should go now.”

He good-naturedly shook his head. “You should tell me the truth now. All of it.”

“I—”

“Have kept all the good parts to yourself, like why someone wanted Paulina dead, what happened to your friendship, why she came to you. You’re a bad liar, Martine. I know it, and Jack knows it.”

The look she gave him was defiant, with her jaw jutted out and her eyes darker than usual. A muscle quivered in her jaw, and her lips were thinned. He moved a few steps closer and lowered his voice for his last volley. “I intend to find out what you're holding back and why. So I’ll be back, Martine, no matter how many wards Anise casts. I’ll find out the truth, and God help you if anyone else gets hurt in the meantime.”

For a long moment, their gazes locked. There was the usual annoyance and dislike in her eyes that sparked the usual regret in him, but along with them was fear. He hadn’t thought she was even capable of the emotion.

It made him that much more determined to find out what the hell she was hiding.

* * *

Without enough customers to keep two employees busy, much less four, after a few hours, Martine gave up, said goodbye and went out the front door. The stoop to her apartment door was only a few feet away, just one big step when she could actually see it, but with the fog lingering, she went down the shop steps, up the other steps and let herself inside. The staircase was narrow and dimly lit, and she reminded herself for the tenth time to buy a couple of higher-wattage light bulbs for the top and the bottom.

As soon as she got to the top, though, the airy colors and tall windows that usually let in the sun made her forget about the stairs. They were just the gauntlet she had to run to reach the cozy comfort of her home.

Grabbing her laptop, she went into her workroom, curled in a chair next to the window and logged on to a search engine. There she paused. Paulina and Callie were dead. Tallie was in hiding, and Robin had long been lost, according to Paulina. Martine had zero idea how to find them, so she did what she used to do when she was stumped: she called her mother.

Bette Broussard still lived in the house where Martine had grown up, not that she spent a lot of time there. A few years after divorcing Martine’s father, Bette had made herself over into a travel writer, taking advantage of everything the internet had to offer, and had become successful enough that these days, “vacation” meant staying at home for longer than a weekend. She’d finagled her travel-tip columns onto some very prestigious websites, had her own YouTube channel and boasted social media followers in the mid–six figures.