Rosa grinned back. “However, the Queen likes it. And she is quite sensible. She always wears sensible shoes.”
Miguel chuckled. “I bet if my mother cooked her an enchilada, the Queen of England would never look at steak and kidney pie again. No matter her footwear.”
“That could be true,” Rosa returned, “but she’d still drive on the left side. Even a good enchilada wouldn’t change that.”
Miguel nodded solemnly. “Other things, but not that.”
Rosa had missed their cheeky back-and-forth banter. After all these years, the chemistry between them still flourished. It was reminiscent of the conversations her mother and father often had while discussing the day’s events over a glass of brandy at Hartigan House. As a teenager, Rosa had sometimes listened in on and even participated in those discussions, which often turned comedic. Witticism was a way to offset the seriousness of the cases they were involved in.
Rosa realized suddenly, this was what had been missing with Winston. She felt happy yet profoundly sad.
Locking eyes with Miguel, she said, “Are you sure you want me on this case?”
Miguel’s demeanor changed. He wasn’t joking anymore. “Absolutely.”
9
Rosa thought for a moment and then said, “All right, if you’re sure. It is terribly magnanimous of you to allow an outsider to join you on the case. Many detectives would be threatened by that.”
“I’ve seen too much to be threatened, and life is complicated enough without harboring petty insecurities.” Miguel walked around his desk and lowered himself into his rolling office chair. “Honestly, I think Chief Delvechio was all too happy at the prospect of having you onboard for this case. We’ve had some budget cuts recently, and we’re short on manpower.”
“I see.” Rosa nodded playfully. “So, it’s more of a financial decision than a matter of my competence.”
Miguel grinned. “Well, not as far as I’m concerned, but you’ll have to take that up with the boss. Can you start right now?”
“I suppose I can.” She opened her purse to take out a notepad, but then realized she didn’t have one with her.
“I have extras.” Miguel seemed to know what she was searching for. He reached into his desk and pulled out a new pocket-sized police notebook and handed it to her. “You’ll need your own pen. When it comes to my pens, I am very territorial.”
“No problem.” Rosa proudly held up her favorite black Paper Mate Deluxe ballpoint pen.
“If this was a Rory Calhoun Western movie,” Miguel added with a chuckle, “I’d deputize you and give you a large silver badge.”
“Not necessary. A notepad will do.”
“All right, then.” Miguel pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. “You’re now officially on this case as a special consultant to the Santa Bonita Police Department. Welcome.” He reached for his straw fedora and placed it on his head. “Now, let’s go.”
“What? Wait. Where are we going?” Rosa closed her handbag and got to her feet.
“As nice as it would be to sit and chat over tea and biscuits like I hear you do in London, we have a case to solve. I’m just about to head over to the morgue to talk to Dr. Rayburn. You’ll come?”
“Of course.”
They left the rear exit of the building, and Miguel strode to a police cruiser. With white doors, black rounded hood, large circular headlights, and short black tail fins, it was a sharp contrast to its British white and powder-blue counterpart. Rosa recognized the car as the famous “police package” made by the Ford Motor Company. The cars were the envy of the Metropolitan Police Force who had nothing like them. The American police cruisers boasted specialized, more powerful engines, precise handling suspension, and much larger space in the boot or the “trunk” as the Americans called it—perfect for accommodating the bulky radio equipment.
Rosa slid into the passenger side of the car, and Miguel pulled out of the lot and onto the street.
“I know you have Shirley Philpott in for questioning,” Rosa said, diving right in with a few questions of her own. “So, I assume she’s your prime suspect. On what grounds?”
Miguel turned inland off the main road. A band of impressive mountains framed the horizon, and Rosa remembered how much she’d missed seeing them.
“She was actually released an hour ago,” Miguel replied. “We didn’t have enough to charge her. Yet.”
“Did she tell you what she and her cousin argued about?”
Miguel stopped at a traffic light. “She says Miss Adams was upset because she overhead some charity contributors talking about her role in the charity. That she didn’t do enough to deserve the financial draw she was taking as one of the administrators. Mrs. Philpott claims she was trying to calm her down.”
Miguel paused to let Rosa catch up on writing notes, then continued. “We have an eyewitness who saw Florence Adams walking out onto the wharf, drink in hand, apparently looking somewhat inebriated at roughly fifteen minutes after seven. Shirley Philpott was seen by another witness walking out onto the pier five minutes later. That’s twenty minutes before the body was found, which makes Shirley Philpott the last person to have seen Miss Adams alive.”
They’d reached the local hospital, a one-story, white stucco complex, and Miguel pulled into one of the parking spots. “At that time of day, the sun would be down, and it would’ve been nearly impossible to see the end of the pier from the beach. So, no-one actually saw Miss Adams’ fall.”
“What does Shirley Philpott say about walking out on the wharf?” Rosa asked.
“She says she went out to see how Miss Adams was doing and claims she was drunk and inconsolable, so Shirley came back to the party. However, we’ve got no witnesses who can confirm any part of this event.”
“Most people were enjoying your Sinatra performance during that time.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Miguel said with a subtle smile. “One day, I’ll have to thank Mr. Sinatra for those great songs.”
They exited the police cruiser, and Rosa followed Miguel
