The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Book 10
by Heather Haven
Chapter One
Sunday
“I always knew I’d see you behind bars one day, Lee.”
Frank Thompson’s black eyes were razor-sharp as they glared at me. I blinked back at my deceased father’s best friend, my godfather, and the Palo Alto chief of police. I could tell Frank’s role at that moment was outraged godfather. His dark skin was mottled by a redness that probably started at his toes and ended at his hairline. Blood pressure up, tolerance level down.
As shocked as I was to see him at one o’clock in the morning at the San Franciso hoosegow in a rage, I was even more shocked by his appearance. Debonair is a word that often goes hand in hand with Frank Thompson. He usually looks like he stepped off the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. Now he looked like a reject from Hee Haw Magazine. Uncombed hair going every which way, stubble on his face, collar of his wrinkled shirt half in and half out of his jacket, and a black pair of slacks with—yikes—brown shoes. The Frank Thompson I knew wouldn’t be caught dead in a ditch wearing that outfit.
“Frank. What are you doing here?” I asked. Too late, the reason occurred to me. He was here because of the spot of trouble I was in. Actually, murder is more than a spot. It’s sort of 101 Dalmatians wearing pink polka dots, riding in a ticker-tape parade. Only not as endearing.
I swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure what was worse, being detained on murder charges or being confronted by Frank’s wrath. He ground his teeth together as he spoke, but somehow managed to enunciate each word perfectly.
“What am I doing here? I am here because I was awakened by a phone call in the middle of the night from Bill Fenner. He was awakened himself by his second-in-command with the news that you were in jail on a possible homicide charge.”
“It’s not what it looks like, Frank.”
“You remember Inspector Bill Fenner?” he said, as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Of course I do.”
Once again, he acted as if I hadn’t said a word. “Deputy chief of investigations of the San Francisco Police? He’s a buddy of mine. And your father’s, who must be spinning in his grave. You may have met Fenner a couple of times throughout the years during another one of your many escapades.”
“Now, Frank.”
“In case you don’t know, Inspector Fenner doesn’t take kindly to being awakened in the middle of the night, any more than I do!”
His voice steadily rose on each succeeding word until it reached a crescendo. Maybe he forgot he was only talking to one person and not giving the sermon on the mount. But I didn’t feel that was something I could mention at the moment.
“This wasn’t my fault.”
“It never is.”
The volume of his voice had lowered but he still ground his teeth together. My dentist has told me to never do that, but I didn’t feel it was the time to mention that, either.
“Honest, Frank!” For emphasis, I grabbed at the bars with scratched and dirt-covered hands, ending with decimated fingernails. Needless to say, although I will say it, the condition of my nails would probably seal my fate with my manicurist, who is never happy with the ten I present her, at the best of times.
Frank continued again as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Resisting arrest—”
“I wasn’t resisting arrest. I was trying to catch a suspect.”
“Fleeing the scene of a crime—”
“I wasn’t fleeing. I was trying to catch—”
“And finally, murder.”
“I didn’t murder anybody. How come nobody thinks of it as an unspeakably horrid accident?”
“Because, according to forensics, the safety lever on the guillotine wasn’t in the position it should have been in. Someone tampered with it.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. Do I look like the kind of person who would behead someone?”
“And yet it has a unique touch for which you are famous.” His voice held a sense of irony but was cold enough to chill a martini, something I could have used just then.
“I don’t know anything about the trick. I don’t know what happened,” I protested. “Come on, Frank. I was just filling in, doing a job—”
“What job?”
“A magician’s assistant for this charity thing I got roped into, although it seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, the Sons and Daughters of Fallen American Heroes.”
“Is that why you look like a Las Vegas showgirl who did battle with a bulldozer and lost?”
My eyes traveled first to the wristwatch that didn’t make it, smashed crystal and all. Then on to the formerly glamorous, sparkly costume that once could be described as part bathing suit and part mirrored disco ball. Now ripped, dirt-stained, with missing or wounded sequins, it shed broken strings of silver beads like a Labradoodle sheds hair in the summer. My eyes ended at shoeless feet in torn fishnet stockings. Dang. I loved those silver stilettos, so easy to slide into, so easy to be left somewhere in a cave-in.
I snapped my head back up to face Frank. The quick movement caused the red ostrich plume, which had bobbed above my head when I started the magic show, to flap to the side of my face. Now kaput and ladened with mud, wisps of feathers got in my eyes and mouth. I tried to blow the maimed plume away from my face, but it waved about listlessly only to land right back where it started. Determined little bugger.
“Oh, this!” I decided maybe the cool approach was the way to go. “This happened when the tunnel caved in. I had to dig my way out. Come on, I was undercover, pretending to be the magician’s assistant. The real assistant disappeared a few days ago. You have to understand—”
“I don’t have to understand anything,” he interrupted. “And don’t be blinking those baby blues at me, all innocent. You are in the women’s holding tank, waiting to appear before Judge Plenca on charges of first-degree murder by decapitation.”
“Not me.” I shook my head for emphasis.
“Yes, you! Never mind. Where’s Lila?” He looked behind me, taking in the holding cell.
“She’s over there talking to Misty Waters, in for soliciting.”
I pointed to a dark corner where my cool blonde mother sat. She was wearing a floor-length black-and-white strapless evening gown, similar to the one worn by Rita Hayworth in the film Pal Joey when she sang the song, “Zip.” Playing the same role of Vera Prentice-Simpson for our local community acting group, the Palo Alto Players, I was glad Mom hadn’t changed into the blue peignoir set for the second number, “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.” It might have been embarrassing running after me in a nightgown, even a French one.
My mother seemed so deep in conversation with Misty Waters that she hadn’t heard us. Or possibly Mom was using selective hearing. That seems to go around a lot. Her companion, Misty, was a fiery redhead who’ll never drown, if you get my meaning. Her costume was purple shorts and a revealing emerald-green, latex tank top. Not nearly as classy as Mom’s, but made a certain statement.
Frank turned to me. “How you managed to involve your mother in all of this—”
“She followed me when I took off after the suspect.”
“And Richard gave chase, too?”
“He followed Mom. And before you ask, Tío’s home recuperating from the flu and Gurn’s in DC.”
“Ah! That explains why they’re not part of this madness.”
“Where is Richard, anyway? Do you know?”
“Your brother’s in the men’s holding tank facing possible accessory charges, same as Lila.”
“Yikes. I’ll bet he’s not happy.”
“You think? The three of you should be locked up.”
“We are locked up.”
