• • •

  Commander Blaine was sitting in the living room when Marlowe and I arrived. The house he shared with Dinah was a short walk from the bookstore in an area called Walnut Acres. The tall old walnut tree in the front yard was a reminder of the grove of them that had been there once.

  He was still dressed in his work clothes. He had made a Mail It uniform for himself of a blue dress shirt and belted khaki pants. I knew he had been at the store from opening to closing, but he appeared neat and fresh. Only his expression seemed a little tense.

  “I’m not so sure the coffee was a good idea. I feel like I’m buzzing on the inside. I’m going to have to figure out another way to stay alert,” he said to Dinah.

  “A walk will help,” his wife said. “And you’ll have a chance to spend time with Marlowe.”

  He looked at the baby with a glowing smile. “It’ll be good practice in case my daughter ever produces any offspring,” he said. He spent a few minutes introducing himself to Marlowe. He had totally softened and started playing peek-a-boo with her. It was funny how with all the changes in everything, the simple game was still a hit and the baby giggled with delight. He got a jacket and his phone and studied how the stroller worked and then left for the walk.

  Dinah let out a sigh. “Remember that thing about being careful what you wish for?” She glanced around the living room. “It didn’t occur to me that having him stay up later would mean he thought we should spend every minute together.” She shook her head with a confused expression. “I don’t know how anybody manages to get married, especially when they’re older. He has his ways. I have mine. Both of us think we’re right.”

  “You’re not regretting it?” I asked.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have messed with something that worked. We had our own places. His daughter didn’t resent me. We didn’t have unreal expectations of each other.” She let out another sigh. “He is a totally good guy, but I don’t know if I’m meant to be married.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said with a laugh. “It’s so much easier when you’re young and believe that everything will just work out.” We both laughed, thinking of the Hookers trying to fix me up. Now that we were talking about the Hooker meeting, Dinah wanted to know all about Lily. We went back into her she-cave and I went to lounge on the chartreuse sofa. “Do you think Commander will ever be ready to have this back in the living room?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “But it’s hardly an issue like our conflicting habits.” She was already making tea and brought over a tin of cookies.

  I reminded her that Lily was married to Miles, who was the one Peter had me investigating. “Or almost had me stop investigating. When he heard about Adele possibly doing a party for them, he wanted to pull the plug. He got upset, thinking I might be investigating what happened to Daisy, and that’s without him knowing the whole story.”

  She wanted to know how I’d handled it and I laughed. “I glossed over it and he was having so much trouble with the crib and wondering about Miles, he forgot about it.”

  “Adele putting on a party,” Dinah said, shaking her head with disbelief. “You know it’s going to fall on you. But at least you have your own purpose for helping her on this one.” Dinah brought the teapot over and poured us each a cup. “So what do you know so far? Let’s see what we can deduce from it.”

  I accepted the invitation. She went and got her laptop. “We have an advantage over the old-time detective. We have Google.”

  I mentioned the name of the movie that Miles had worked on. We were reading about it when Commander returned with Marlowe. The motion of the stroller had lulled her to sleep and he wheeled the stroller into Dinah’s she-cave.

  “How about you?” Dinah asked, looking at her husband with concern.

  “It mostly calmed my coffee jitters, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fall asleep.”

  Dinah left me with the sleeping baby and took Commander into the main part of the house. She returned alone a few minutes later. “I gave him a cup of chamomile tea. I bet he’ll be off to la la land almost at his usual bedtime. He gets an A for effort, but I don’t think he can change his body clock.”

  In the meantime, I had done a search on Back Home on the Range and saw it was available for streaming. “I am not sure what clues might be in it, but it seems worth watching. Having more information is always better,” I said, and Dinah agreed.

  The movie went directly into the first scene without even displaying the title. A stagecoach rumbled over a rocky road. “It really is an old-fashioned western,” Dinah said. The scene cut to a steep hillside with slabs of golden-pinkish stone. Three men on horses watched the stagecoach as it tried to make it up the precipitous incline.

  As expected, they robbed it. They got a sack of mail along with gold. It turned out that the mail bag had documents that were so valuable that the local lawmen plotted to get them back. The modern touch was that one of the sheriffs was a woman instead of working in a dance hall. The good guys won and the credits began to roll. I went to stretch, knocking over my teacup as I did. Dinah rushed to wipe up the liquid before it poured onto the carpet. I looked up just as the last of the credits went by. I grabbed the remote and stopped it. “I wanted to see Miles’s credit,” I said as I went back through them. It took some doing of going back and forward, but I got to the screen that listed him as an executive producer. It looked just like the photograph that I had seen. I was curious if he got a credit as an extra and read through all the rest of the crawl. There were a bunch of supervising producers and I recognized the name of the man that Miles had said was his buddy on the set. The list of credits seemed to go on forever, listing the caterer, greenery handler, public relations firm and even the drivers. Finally, there was a short list of featured extras and Miles’s name was included. As soon as I saw it, I stopped the crawl.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much to deduce from the movie other than what I’d already figured out,” I said. I told Dinah that Miles had been an investor in the movie, which got him the executive producer credit, and that he’d been on the set and got to ride a horse and be a background person. “I already told Peter that I thought that Miles wanted to be more than just a money person and the people who made the movie must have humored him.”

  “We don’t need Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Rhoda is nuts when it comes to high heels,” Dinah said, changing the subject to the conversation during the Hookers meetup.

  “It turns out that I was in the house Rhoda was talking about and saw the staircase where the woman fell. It was the first time I took Marlowe to the mommy group at Taylor Palmer’s house.” I stopped and let everything swirl around in my brain for a moment. “Here’s something Sherlock would latch on to. I thought I saw Taylor at Daisy Cochran’s author event, but when I said something to her about it, she said she wasn’t there. There was a lot of confusion and people milling around, but I really thought it was her.”

  “I know you,” Dinah said. “And if you said it was her, I’d bet on you being right. Why would she want to deny being there?”

  “Taylor might have been curious what Daisy had to say since it was about the world she’s in, but she wanted to be anonymous. When Daisy collapsed, she could have fled like a lot of other people,” I said, remembering how much smaller the crowd was when the police were taking statements.

  We spent a little time after that seeing what we could deduce about Taylor and decided that since she viewed herself as being part of a power couple, it would be embarrassing to admit that she wanted to hear what a has-been columnist had to say.

  “Can’t you tell the cop about Taylor?” Dinah said.

  I shook my head vehemently. “I’m afraid that Rick Carlson would look at it as me trying to distract him and get myself out of the spotlight. And if he did actually pay attention to what I said and talked to Taylor and it came out why he was talking to her—and you know it would—I’d get kicked out of the mommy group and my cover would be blown.”

  “I see your point,” Dinah said, yawning. “And I think it’s time for Sherlock to sleep on it.”

  When Marlowe and I finally left, it seemed like the chamomile tea had worked. The house was quiet and Commander had turned off all the lights. Dinah made a grrr sound and flipped the living room lights back on.

  I was glad that the top of the stroller was the car seat and that it had a handle like a bucket’s. I was able to put the baby in the car and carry her into my house without disturbing her. I set down the seat while I let the dogs out into the yard and went across the house to get Blondie. It appeared Marlowe would be spending another night in the portable crib.

  I looked at the pieces of the new one leaning against my bedroom wall and wondered what would come first, the crib being together or Gabby’s return.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was one of those mornings when I didn’t even have time to make myself a cup of coffee. Peter barged into my bedroom with a handyman in tow that he’d found on an app. The guy was on a schedule and I had to rush to get myself together and vacate the room so he could do his work putting together the crib. The dogs made a ruckus at the arrival of the invader. Even Blondie got out some barks from her chair. Samuel heard the noise and came in half asleep since he’d played a gig the night before. He got in an argument with his brother, saying he would have put the crib together.

  I think Peter took his inability to assemble the crib himself as a blow to his manhood and argued back that Samuel was all talk and that getting it done was all that mattered, not by who.

  Considering the start to my day, it was no wonder that I rushed into the bookstore café without checking out who was in there first. If I’d seen Rick Carlson sitting by the window with a cup of coffee, I would not have gone in. Why offer myself up?

  But I was already at the counter when the homicide detective came up next to me, telling Bob my order was on him. It was a bad sign when he urged me to get something to eat as well.

  “I hate to drink alone,” he said when my order was ready. “Join me.” His manner was all friendly and casual. Even so, I didn’t want to sit with him, but if I made an excuse, it would look like I had something to hide.

  I had been around the block a few times with being questioned and felt pretty certain I could hold my own, and I followed him back to his table while he carried my coffee and a cookie bar.

  His manner didn’t fool me. I knew that anything I said wasn’t off the record and could be used against me.

  He made small talk about how good the coffee was at the café, making it seem that was why he was there. “I know that you and Greenberg had a thing,” he said, moving into something a little heavier than what kind of coffee roast the bookstore used. “He really likes the coffee here, too, but he was afraid it would be awkward if he came with me. For you.”

  “You can tell him I have no problem with him enjoying Bob’s drinks,” I said. I was going to leave it at that, but he was just using it as an opening.

  “Greenberg told me that you are kind of an amateur detective. He said you might have some insight into what happened.” He didn’t have a blank cop face, but instead a relaxed expression. Like Barry, he appeared to be in his fifties, but had a softer build. The clothes were the same as what Barry wore, a nondescript suit that never wrinkled and a dress shirt and tie.

  I knew what he was doing. Flattering me so I would be caught off guard. I wondered if Barry had also told him that I could hold my own. “I’d hardly call myself a detective like you,” I said. Two could play the flattery game. “I’m just like everybody else these days, fascinated by true crime programs. Did you know that the victim was going to do a true crime podcast?”

  “No,” he said, looking suddenly uncomfortable that I’d asked him a question instead of falling for his flattery. “Then you must have known Ms. Cochran pretty well,” he said, trying to recover his upper hand. “I’m sure you deal with all sorts of authors, but Ms. Cochran with her Hollywood connection and this podcast you mentioned was different, wasn’t she? Maybe more of a prima donna than most?”

  He left an opening for me to say something. “I certainly know about prima donnas,” I said. He leaned a little closer in anticipation of what he thought I was going to say. “If you really want to see one in action, I can introduce you to Adele Abrams Humphries. She works here at the bookstore in the children’s department. Do you have kids?” I gestured toward the entrance, and he pulled back into his seat.

  “Ah, no thank you for the introduction,” he said simply, not answering the personal question about his family situation.

  “Have you gotten any test results back for Daisy? You seem to be looking for a motive. Does that mean her death is considered a homicide now?” I asked.

  He ignored my questions. “I understand there was an altercation between you and Ms. Cochran about the drink.”

  I drew a blank at first and then it came back to me that there had been an issue about the smoothie. “I’d hardly call it an altercation. There were two drinks called strawberry something and I had gotten the wrong one.”

  “But a witness said they heard her accuse you of trying to kill her.”

  I’d totally forgotten about that part and suddenly found myself on the defensive. “It was hardly serious. She overreacted. She was just nervous about the crowd.”

  “Nobody likes being treated like that, particularly in front of other people. And it wasn’t the first time, was it? She was difficult all along. Maybe you got tired of all of her demands.” He stopped for a beat before continuing. “You’re surrounded by all these books. I suppose you learn about all kinds of things. Or you could just do a search on a computer. I noticed a book meant for mystery writers in the reference section that was all about poisons. Did you know there was a mention of one that could easily have been hidden in a fruit drink?” He took a moment to sip some of his coffee, which really seemed more about letting what he had just said sink in.

  “Really?” I said. “We do have so many books here. Are you saying that you think Daisy was poisoned for sure? Did you find something in the carpet sample your people took?”

  The set of his mouth looked frustrated. He must have expected to be the one asking the questions, but I kept turning the tables on him. Finally, he picked up his empty cup. When he looked at me, he was back to the blank cop face expression. “Thank you for your help. I hope we can do it again.”

  I got it. He was setting me up to know that he was going to do a Columbo and would keep stopping by with a question or a comment, hoping he could catch me on something. I waited until I saw him get in his Crown Vic and drive away and then I went to the reference section and looked through the books until I found the one I thought he meant. There was a section on cyanide and its almond-like fragrance. I could see why it looked bad for me. Daisy had made a fuss over the wrong drink and she had yelled something about me trying to kill her. I had the most access to her drink. But it had been left on the table. I know I’d left it with the lid on and a straw sticking through it. But CeeCee had mentioned seeing the lid off the cup, so someone could have tampered with it. Still, wouldn’t someone have noticed if someone poured something into the drink?

  I really wanted to focus more on the job that Peter had given me checking Miles out, but since it was obvious that Rick Carlson was going to keep hammering me, I needed to find a way to get the heat off of me. The best way was to find out what really happened with Daisy. Mrs. Shedd and Mr. Royal had told me they hoped that Daisy had died from natural causes. Having a murder committed at an author event wasn’t the kind of notoriety they were looking for to draw people into the store. I was kind of hoping for natural causes too, but it seemed like that boat had sailed.

  I went back to my cubicle to work on the newsletter with a list of upcoming events. Adele had tried to talk me into adding a pitch about her party business. Not only would it have been inappropriate since it wasn’t really part of the bookstore’s business, but until she put on a successful party, it was nothing more than a vague plan. I was adding a write-up about a romance book club that was having a meeting when Mrs. Shedd brought Leslie Bittner to my cubicle. Daisy’s assistant and self-proclaimed podcast producer was holding a box of books.

  “It’s a sad state of affairs when someone dying ups book sales, but it is the truth,” the store owner said. “We’re almost sold out.” Leslie put the box on the counter that surrounded my enclosure and I noticed something different about her. She seemed to hold herself a little higher and her manner was more confident. Mrs. Shedd pulled out a box cutter and opened the top. She pulled out a copy of the book and looked at the black cover with More than Glitter in gold letters. “Molly, we should create a special display for Daisy’s book. Maybe you can say something, like from a recent author event.”

  Leslie left to get another box of books and Mrs. Shedd mentioned that she and Mr. Royal would be gone for several hours. They were off to the Huntington Garden for afternoon tea in the Rose Café. I envied them. Mason had taken me there more than once. It was his style to show up and spirit me off to someplace wonderful. I missed the romantic surprises more than I let on. I missed him more than I let on. After the encounter in the pet store and his cold expression, it was clear that he was over me. But what did I expect after what I had done. I shut down the ruminating and put on a smile, ready to deal with Daisy’s assistant.

  I thought of my encounter with Rick Carlson and his mention of Daisy being a prima donna. His implication was that it was a motive for me to have killed her. Wouldn’t that make Leslie an even more likely suspect? She certainly was aware of Daisy’s drink demand. I’d only dealt with Daisy a short time, the assistant might have been mistreated for much longer. After she delivered the books, I did a Rick Carlson and invited her to have coffee.