Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (18 page)

I arrived at the bunko party being hosted by Mabel Hicks promptly at seven-thirty. We had ended up only having a short time to eat in order for me to get to Mabel's house on time so had decided to pick up a couple of six-inch meatball sandwiches at Subway. We ate them while sitting on the steps of the beautiful Bayfront, along Shoreline Boulevard in Corpus, before returning to Rockport.

I had planned to segue into a discussion about the murder of Cooper Claypool once the bunko party got into full swing. That proved unnecessary, however. Instead, I was eagerly met at the door by Gracie Parker who greeted me with, "Are your ears burning, Rapella? The girls and I were just talking about how they threw your son-in-law in the slammer for brutally executing his best friend."

I really should have anticipated being hit with this upon arrival. Naturally, everyone had heard about it and knew of my family's connection to the victim. A murder in a town this size was front-page news, and usually continued to be for the next fifteen to twenty issues of the newspaper.

I debated about how to respond for a few seconds and decided a straight-forward approach was the best option. I told them about the hot mess my son-in-law had landed himself in, due to his relationship with Claypool and the battering Milo had given his friend the night before his death. I stressed that Rip, a seasoned lawman, and I, believed Milo to be innocent of the crime and had launched our own private investigation to prove it.

I probably should have given more thought to what would happen after I shared the particulars with the bunko club members. Most of the ladies there gossiped incessantly, exaggerating and twisting details as they passed the news on to anyone who'd listen. I was certain that by morning Milo would be infamous for being Rockport's first serial killer, and was soon to be on death row after being caught red-handed harpooning his most recent victim.

Too late now, though
. I thought ruefully. I'd already let the irresistibly juicy cat out of the bag that I should have kept closed.
Might as well make the most of it
.

"Does anyone here know a Julio Sarcova?" I asked the group.

"Isn't he that hothead who organized a protest to take place in front of City Hall tomorrow?" Gracie Parker asked. Several women nodded their heads. I asked Gracie what the man was upset about.

"It's to protest the newly proposed ordinance that would ban smoking in every public building in the city of Rockport, including every establishment that serves food and beverages," she replied. "Also beaches, parks, and anywhere else the public gathers."

"Oh, curses!" I said in disappointment. "This is not going to be an easy rally to attend, but I'll have to do it, I'm afraid."

"And why is that, Rapella? I thought you'd be all for an ordinance like that."

"I am, Gracie. In fact, I couldn't be any more pleased about the proposal. But attending the rally is the only way I'll have any believable excuse to speak to Julio Sarcova. And that's only if I get lucky. Unless any of you gals have a better idea," I added, hoping one of them would come up with an easier way to gain an audience with the man.

"I have the perfect solution," Adelaide Hall, our newest member, exclaimed. "He owns the Brass Button Barber Shop on Cactus Street. Barbers hear about everything that goes on in town from their customers. Sarcova may know something useful regarding another suspect no one else has even considered. Send Rip in for a haircut. You can tag along and engage Sarcova in a conversation while he works on Rip."

"Good idea, Adelaide. Unfortunately, it'd take Sarcova about six seconds to cut Rip's hair. He only has about seventeen hairs left, and he's very attached to every single one of them. In more ways than one."

"What could you possibly want to speak to that belligerent fool about, anyway?" Mabel Hicks asked, as she placed her cocoa and caramel cookies on the refreshment table. I'd have bet she'd already locked the coveted recipe back up in her husband's fireproof gun cabinet.

I explained what I'd learned from the victim's girlfriend earlier in the evening. I told the group I needed an opportunity to feel the man out on just how angry he'd been at Cooper, and how far he might have gone to wreak havoc on the guy. "Besides, I've always enjoyed being part of a zealous mob involved in a rowdy demonstration, even if it's not a cause I'm passionate about. Or in this case, one I'm not even in favor of. Don't you girls agree?"

There was a lively debate following my question, and it was at least half-an-hour before the chit-chat at the various tables returned to the usual topics, like, how could Claire Higgins not see that her new hairdo made her look like a skanky call girl; why the teller at the credit union didn't have that hideous growth removed from her hand; and why did Mona Ray put up with that no-good drunken husband of hers when everyone in town knew he was running around on her with the mayor's cousin. As always, it was a fun and enlightening evening with friends.

And just in case you're wondering, I'm happy to report I won the prize for most losses at the end of the game. The "booby prize" it's called. It's not really a category to brag about unless, as in my case, you win a bobble-head doll depicting George Strait. Strait had a vacation home on Key Allegro Island, just blocks from Regina and Milo's place, which he and Norma had owned for years. He'd been one of Rockport's most notable residents, and it was a safe bet there was not one woman in my bunko club who wouldn't risk their marriage for one evening with George.

* * *

"Second-hand smoke is a joke! Second-hand smoke is a joke!" I chanted along with everyone, including Gracie, Mabel, Adelaide, and four other members of my bunko club who'd decided to join me in my quest to converse with Julio Sarcova. When it came to meting out justice, us bunko-mates were thick as thieves.

Naturally, we had to look as if we were earnestly contesting the new ordinance so as not to blow our cover. The dark-skinned, very slender, Hispanic man in question was leading the chant from his location behind the podium on a makeshift stage someone had haphazardly thrown together.

One thing that hadn't occurred to me was that the people most apt to oppose a smoking ban were smokers. I could barely bellow out the chant about the "ridiculous" premise of second-hand smoke being harmful due to the overabundance of second-hand smoke I was inhaling.

My eyes were burning and my throat was irritated. I had at least two burn holes in my new sweater before the demonstration even commenced, from mingling with the dense crowd. I'd have been more upset about the sweater had I not already realized the poor stinky thing would reek so badly by the time I returned to the trailer, I'd probably have to abandon it in the dumpster near the entrance of the RV park. I had a blouse on underneath that hopefully would avoid at least some of the overwhelming stench.

As the crowd repeated the mantra, another chant started up. It seemed to me to be an attempt to drown out the original chant. I noticed the crowd had suddenly swelled in size. Sarcova was chanting "We have the right to light," when an influx of people began to answer with, "We have the right to breathe." They carried signs that read "smokers are a public nuisance" and "don't kill my children with your nasty habit." It was then I understood the new arrivals, clearly in favor of the proposed ordinance, were protesting against the protesters who were opposed to it.

This could get ugly very quickly
, I thought.
We've now created the perfect storm for turning a peaceful protest into a frenzied riot
.

Before I could round up my friends, rocks and shoes began to fly. It quickly escalated into an exchange of anything that could be turned into an airborne weapon. I swear I saw someone's dentures zip right by my left ear. If I wasn't mistaken, it was Gracie Parker's upper plate. I looked for her in the crowd but my searching ceased when I saw Mabel Hicks pull a bulky compact out of her purse and heave it at Julio Sarcova, the focal point of the mayhem. Clearly, Mabel had no clue which side of the dispute she was on. The uprising had a vacuum-like effect; it sucked a person, unwittingly, right into the eye of the storm.

I could hear sirens in the distance closing in on the bedlam on East Market Street. Someone had set fire to the stage and the podium was beginning to smolder as Sarcova beat on it with his jacket. I knew it was a preview of coming attractions with which I had no
burning
desire to be involved.

I knew it would be impossible to extract myself from the mob of rebellious citizens, so I concentrated on trying to avoid being beaned in the head by some unidentified flying object. I was ducking and bobbing while I attempted to remove myself from the chaotic scene. However, I'm ashamed to admit, I was no exception to the aforementioned vacuum effect.

When I was hit in the shoulder by a penny loafer, I felt compelled to throw my tennis shoes back at my assailant. I missed on both throws, but at least I felt a slight bit of vindication. What I failed to notice was where my right twelve-year-old Adidas inadvertently made contact.

Chapter 11

"What's up, buttercup?" Rip inquired jovially when he answered my call. I felt bad, knowing Rip's cheery mood was about to disappear like David Copperfield's lovely assistant.

"Now don't get mad," I began.

"Oh, no!" I heard him say. "Nothing good ever follows those four words."

"I'll explain it all later and why it wasn't my fault. But right now, it's like this, honey. I need you to come bail me out of jail."

"What?" He was obviously floored by my remark. "Good Lord, Rapella! Have you been arrested—again?"

"Yes. But like I said, this time it's not my fault. You see—"

"I know, Rapella. It's never your fault," Rip cut me off with a long-suffering sigh. "Let me guess. You participated in the demonstration at City Hall this afternoon that we heard about on the news last night? I noticed you appeared intent on the details of the protest, which should have raised a red flag with me."

"Yes. But I only—"

"I had a bad feeling when Adelaide Hall picked you up this morning. She's a rabble-rouser if there ever was one. I should have put my foot down right then."

"Put your foot down?" I asked. His remark hit a raw nerve. I didn't like the implication I needed to be told what I could and couldn't do, and would, without question, submissively adhere to my husband's stipulations. In a different situation I might have challenged his overbearing attitude, but I quickly backed down. As I alluded to earlier, in the course of life one has to pick her fights, and I knew this wasn't one that would end well for me.

"Why do you have to insert yourself into every protest, no matter how ludicrous the cause? For instance, the time you got arrested for marching in front of that little clothing shop, carrying a sign demanding the store offer a senior citizen discount. I still can't believe it. Arrested for disturbing the peace in Ten Sleep, Wyoming, a town of less than three-hundred residents." Rip's voice was beginning to rise. "Not to mention, it was elk and moose hunting season. You were lucky the owners even showed up to open the store."

"They should have realized the customer always comes first."

"Seriously, Rapella? Have you lost your grip on reality?"

"Well, I—"

"And why would you even care about the new smoking ordinance?" Rip was practically yelling into the phone.

"It just isn't right that I can't light up a cigarette in—"

"You don't smoke, Rapella!" He bellowed, drawing each word out for an uncomfortable amount of time to make a point. I'm guessing that angry retort hit 110 on the decibel scale. I had to pull the phone away from my head for fear my eardrum might burst. "I should think you'd be dancing in the street about the new smoking ban."

"Yes, I know, but, you see—" It might have been better if I'd mentioned to Rip that Avery had told me the demonstration's leader might be a suspect in her boyfriend's death. I'd kept that one under my hat to share with Rip after I had more concrete evidence that Julio Sarcova might have had had a motive to kill Claypool. And now I had evidence of a motive, unlikely as it might be.

"I've heard you complain about second-hand smoke a thousand times. And, besides, what have I told you about getting involved in protests in the first place?"

"This was different, Rip. It was absolutely necessary in order to—"

"Absolutely necessary?" Rip asked in a cutting tone. "Really? How do you describe—"

This time I interrupted him with a loud, "Stop! Stop, already! How can I speak in my own defense if you never let me get a word in edgewise?"