“Mrs. Philpott,” Rosa began, “why did you avoid me downtown when I called out to you? I know you saw me.”
Red patches bloomed on Shirly Phipott’s round cheeks. “I was embarrassed. I knew everyone thought that I’d killed my cousin.”
17
Through his open office door, Rosa could see Miguel sitting at his desk—the receiver of his black telephone cradled between his shoulder and his ear. Not wanting to intrude, Rosa waited for the phone call to end. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but how could she avoid hearing the conversation?
“I can’t come to L.A. right now, Charlene. I’m in the middle of a case.”
Charlene? Oh, dear. Miguel was talking to his girlfriend. Rosa’s chest tightened, and her stomach dropped.
Even though Rosa stepped back into the hallway, Miguel’s voice drifted. “I thought you were coming here? No, I know you’re busy too. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later, and we can compare calendars. Okay. Miss you too. Bye.”
Rosa took a long, slow breath and pushed her shoulders back. She was a professional. She was here out of duty, not for a social call. She tapped purposefully on Miguel’s door then stepped in.
The scowl etched on Miguel’s face smoothed into a smile when he saw her. “Oh, good, you’re here.”
Rosa didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I think we need to focus our attention on Rod Jeffers, and possibly, Raul Mendez.” She sat down in the chair opposite his desk.
“Um . . . okay, and hello to you too.”
Rosa blushed. “I’m sorry, hello.”
Miguel’s dark eyes flashed with amusement then grew serious. “You do realize that Raul is in my band and was onstage the night Florence was killed. He has an excellent alibi.”
“I know. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
“You also realize that Rod Jeffers is a cripple. Although possible, it would have been hard for him to catch up with the somewhat frenetic movements of Florence Adams the night of the murder and surreptitiously slip something in her drink. No one that I’ve interviewed so far even saw him having a conversation with her that night.”
Rosa folded her gloved hands in her lap. “Then we have to figure that out too.”
“You also realize,” Miguel continued without being condescending, “that as far as we know, neither of those two people have any connection to Jason Brewster or anything to do with abstruse poisons.”
“As far as we know.” Rosa held up a gloved finger in the air. Her mind worked hard to bring all the parts together. It was almost like eating a piece of that black taffy so popular in California; it required some thoughtful chewing.
“Yes, as far as we know. We . . .” Miguel stopped and just looked curiously at Rosa with her finger still pointing, frozen in midair. “Okay, sure, here’s the part of the conversation where we can have a pause.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And believe me, I am a big believer in dramatic pauses. But, when you’re ready—I mean, we don’t want to rush it of course—you tell me some of the information that I don’t already possess.”
“Both Raul Mendez and Rod Jeffers have motive,” Rosa said finally. “In fact, they have the same one.”
Miguel sat expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate.
“Well, don’t just sit there,” Rosa said, bounding to her feet. “It’s time to grab the keys from your wall again. The game’s afoot!”
“Really, Rosa? The game’s afoot?”
“It’s what Sherlock Holmes always says when he is closing in on the quarry!” Rosa impatiently waved her arms at him.
He rose from his chair and grabbed the car keys from the wall.
“Okay, I’ll drive, you talk,” Miguel said as they made their way to the back door of the station and out to the parking lot. “You’ll let me know if I should put the siren on, right? I like that part.”
“Not just yet.” Rosa climbed into the passenger seat and gave Miguel the details of the interview with Shirley Philpott. “She knows both men and their connection to the poor lad who died waiting for an iron lung.”
“I didn’t know any of that.” Miguel shook his head. “I mean, I knew Raul had a younger cousin who died from polio, but I had no idea about the part played by the charity, specifically our first victim.”
“Shirley Philpott never felt right to me as the prime suspect in this case,” Rosa remarked.
“Me, neither,” Miguel admitted. “It was hard for me to imagine her killing anyone or anything, much less committing two murders, but I had to follow the evidence.”
This Rosa understood.
After stopping at Rod Jeffers’ apartment but getting no answer at the door, they questioned the landlady, a woman in a full apron with dull brown hair covered by a scarf tied at the back of her slender neck.
“Mr. Jeffers is usually at that fitness gym in town this time of day,” she said, leaning on a broom. “He takes a taxi since he can’t drive on his own with those bum legs.”
Miguel knew the place and parked on Lear Street in the business district of the town in front of a building with a sign that read Jimmy Gym’s Fitness Club.
“Clever name,” Rosa said.
They were greeted by the sound of Chuck Berry’s “Maybelline” blasting over the loudspeakers. Though the room was filled with various fitness equipment, the room was empty at this time of day, with the exception of Rod Jeffers, who was prone on a bench with his crutches lying on the floor beside a gym bag.
Miguel walked over to the desk. “We just need a minute with our friend over there.” The young man looked up from his magazine just long enough to nod and went back to reading.
At first, Mr. Jeffers didn’t notice them. He adjusted his leg braces and, using his arm crutches
