“Tell you who you can ask, though,” Jimmy said. “Mariposa. That girl loves to bake, but she doesn’t partake. Diet or some nonsense. She was probably the only sober one there. She’ll for sure know if Rog left or not.”
Jimmy gave me Mariposa’s cell number and wished me luck. He offered me a product sample, which I politely refused.
Outside, I dialed Mariposa’s number. The woman who answered had a pleasant voice and a cheerful disposition. After explaining who I was and what I needed, she eagerly supplied me with the information.
“Roger was here all night,” she assured me.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Oh, yes. We had a deep, philosophical discussion about ancient religions. I remember it perfectly.”
“Thanks,” I said and hung up.
Well, there went one of my suspects. Roger Collins couldn’t have killed August Nixon. I had only one suspect left. If I couldn’t prove Mary killed her husband, Portia might just wind up in prison, after all.
Chapter 22To Catch A Killer
TRACKING DOWN MARY Nixon’s cronies wasn’t nearly as easy as finding Jimmy Vargas. Neither of them would answer their cell phones or their front doors. Since I had no idea what they looked like, I couldn’t cruise through town hoping I’d run into them. Despite Astoria being a small city of less than ten thousand, the odds were not in my favor.
Google to the rescue. A quick Internet search revealed not only Darla Manes’s Facebook page (and, therefore, plenty of photos of both her and Lisa Cutty), but also that she owned an events company called The Mane Event. Yeah, punny. She appeared to run said company out of her house, which did me no good, but I also discovered that Lisa owned a beauty salon called A Cut Above. What was with these people and their clever names?
I also learned something else extremely interesting. Something I couldn’t believe the cops hadn’t figured out already. I definitely needed to talk to Lisa...and quick.
A Cut Above was mere blocks from Jimmy’s marijuana dispensary, so I chose to walk instead of drive. Why waste gas? Plus the sun was out, finally, and I figured I’d take advantage of it.
The salon smelled of herbal shampoo and peroxide. The top-forty played over the stereo system, and women of various ages chatted away at a dull roar while sleek-looking stylists did weird things with aluminum foil.
“Do you have an appointment?” A girl with spiky, black hair eyed me from behind the front desk. She was wearing blue glitter eyeshadow. Hadn’t that stuff gone out of vogue in the eighties?
“No. I’m here to see Lisa Cutty.”
The girl frowned and chewed furiously at a wad of pink gum. “She’s sorta in a meeting.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
The girl shrugged as if to say “suit yourself” and stabbed a finger in the general direction of a row of comfy chairs in relaxed neutral shades. In fact, the entire salon was beiges, browns, and creams. A bit rustic but with a slight industrial twist. Very chic.
“Want coffee? Tea? A mimosa?” She recited the list like she was reading off a teleprompter.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
She shrugged again and went back to snapping her gum. I was pretty sure she was playing some kind of game on her phone. Around me, activity continued unabated as women were cut, washed, dyed, dried, and generally spruced up. Which reminded me that it was past time to dye my own hair. I’d caught a few strands of silver peeping out from the chocolate locks just this morning. Frankly, I was far too young to be going gray. Age gracefully, my backside.
After about fifteen minutes, a woman finally appeared from the back room. She was bleach blond, fake-tanned, and sporting far too much gold jewelry. Her white shirt was pristine, which made me suspect voodoo. Seriously, every time I wore white, I ended up with spaghetti sauce or something down the front. She strode over to me with purpose and thrust out her hand.
“Lisa Cutty. You’re here to see me?”
She had a firm grip and shook with vigor. “Viola Roberts. Yes. I’m helping with the Nixon murder investigation.” I kept my voice low, figuring she wouldn’t want a lot of gossip flying around.
“Oh, really?” She didn’t bother to lower her own voice. “How interesting. Are you a private investigator?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it? How he was murdered like that. Not that he didn’t deserve it, mind you—The Louse—but I hate seeing Mary so upset. What can I do?”
“According to Mary, she was with you and your mutual friend Darla Manes on the night August Nixon was murdered, watching a movie at the cinema.”
She crossed her arms and gave me a toothy smile. “That’s correct.”
“Interesting. Then how do you explain this?” I showed her the screen of my smartphone.
Her face blanked. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“This is a picture of you and Darla at karaoke night.”
“So? We go to karaoke a lot. It’s fun. You should try it.” She rubbed her chin. Was that a nervous twitch? Or did she have an itch? I was going with twitch.
“Except this post is time-stamped and dated. Not to mention geotagged, thanks to social media.”
“Again, what of it?”
I gave her a hard look. “This proves that you and Darla weren’t at the movies at all the night August died. You were at karaoke. And Mary Nixon is nowhere to be seen.”
“LISTEN, DETECTIVE, I’m telling you, Mary Nixon does not have an alibi. This photo proves she lied.” I practically had to chase Bat down the hall as his stride picked up pace.
I’d tracked him down to the police station and showed him my evidence. The idiot still hadn’t been convinced.
“That doesn’t mean anything, Viola. So she lied about her alibi. That’s bad, and I’ll check into it, but it doesn’t mean she killed her husband.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. One of the most likely suspects just had her alibi busted to little
