Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Page 7

“If you don’t mind.”

  “Great.”

  As we ascended the stairs to the second floor, Alexa said, “I heard about Tito’s run-in with Kylie the other day. Poor guy. She can be so—” She held up a palm. “No, I won’t say it.”

  “Bullish,” Bailey offered.

  “No, that’s not the right adjective.” Alexa smiled. “Kylie and I might be lifelong buddies—rivals in fact, competing for the same top grades and the same cute boys—but it’s because we have been competitive that I know all her quirks, and bullish isn’t quite the word. She can be”—she tapped her cheek—“audacious and demanding. But I love her.”

  Alexa stopped outside the door to the studio, punched in a code on the keypad, as she had downstairs, and pushed the door open. A gentle breeze wafted out. “Hope you don’t mind a cool space, Jenna,” she said. “I know hot yoga has taken off, but I like to keep the windows open. Fresh air invigorates the soul.”

  “That’s another of Alexa’s mottoes,” Bailey said.

  As Alexa switched on the overhead lights, she gasped. “What the—”

  Paper, both crumpled and shredded, was scattered everywhere. On the floor. On the machines.

  Alexa let out a wail. “Who’s that?” She dashed toward the reformer workout machine near the far window.

  Bailey and I followed her, dodging the mess.

  “Kylie!” Alexa shrieked. “Oh, no. Help me, Bailey. Jenna. Help.”

  But it was no use. Two lengths of rope with pull handles—fixtures of the tower-style pilates machine—had been wrapped around Kylie’s neck. Her head lolled to one side and her feet dangled above the floor, as if she’d been hung from the gallows. She wasn’t flailing. Not even a pinky spasmed.

  Bailey gagged. I did my best not to. Sad to say, I’d seen my share of dead bodies.

  Alexa reached to unbind Kylie.

  I said, “Alexa, don’t.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t. This is a crime scene.” Without a doubt, Kylie had not become entangled accidentally. Someone had strangled her. The retractable rope system was taut, the raised mat platform positioned to the far end. “The police . . .” I didn’t continue.

  Alexa jammed the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth and wrapped her left arm around her body. Tears pooled in her eyes.

  While I dialed 911 on my cell phone and reported the incident, Bailey clasped Alexa’s shoulder and cooed something. After the emergency operator promised a quick response, I ended the call and surveyed the studio.

  Were the crumbled and shredded papers significant, or had they blown in through the opened window? I bent down to examine one of the crumpled ones, pulling a tissue from my pocket so my prints wouldn’t get on it—not knowing whether the killer’s fingerprints might be. Without unfurling it, I could see it was a newspaper article about Savannah and the beautiful Alice in Wonderland Cake she’d made. Kylie had panned it in a review. Had Savannah killed Kylie? Off with her head?

  I examined other papers. One, a freelance article by a reporter in Santa Cruz, described Tito and Kylie’s feud over who would write the piece about the chicken kebab vendor. A second, posted in the San Jose Mercury News, discussed Midge and the set-to she and Kylie had engaged in. Mandolines—not the musical kind—had been involved. A third article detailed the events that had occurred during the National Newspaper Association convention. A photo of Kylie and Eugene Tinsdale appeared in the upper right corner. Kylie was holding a gold medal.

  I lifted some shredded paper, but before I could study it, Bailey said, “Jenna, look!” She pointed.

  On the mirror on the left side of the studio, someone had written: You should have reformed. The letters were tinged pink and greasy. It wasn’t lipstick. Maybe lip gloss?

  I released the shredded paper and eyed Alexa, who stood fixated on her friend’s corpse. Her lower lip was quivering. “What was Kylie doing here?” she whispered. “We didn’t have a private appointment. We haven’t had one in a few years.”

  “Maybe she came to work out,” Bailey said lamely.

  “She has a reformer at home,” Alexa said. “She doesn’t . . . didn’t . . . need to use these. Sure, she liked coming to group classes to socialize, but to come here on her own? That’s not like her.”

  “How did she get in?” I asked.

  “She knew the code to the studio.” Alexa brushed a tear off her cheek. “Like I said, she used to come to classes. The bigger question is why was she here now?”

  “Perhaps she wanted to talk to you,” I offered.

  “About what? There’s no text from her on my cell phone asking to meet.” Alexa held out her phone to me and glowered in the direction of the entrance. “When will the police get here? What’s taking them so long?”

  Two short minutes had passed, but I knew from experience that, in a disastrous situation, every minute felt like an hour.

  “Tito,” Alexa whispered.

  “He didn’t do this,” Bailey said.

  “No, I’m not saying he did, but he must have come by, seeing as he didn’t respond to my text about running late. Maybe he caught sight of whoever followed Kylie inside.” Alexa sucked back a sob and inched closer to Kylie. “We shared everything, Kylie and me. Everything. Did you know she . . .”

  I waited for Alexa to finish, but she didn’t, so I said, “Did I know she what?”

  “Kylie said she was quitting her job as a reporter. She said she had big dreams and had persuaded an investor to help her out. From the clues she dropped about what she was planning to do, saying she was going to keep whatever it was in the family, I assumed . . .” Alexa sighed. “I assumed she hoped to bail my father out at the newspaper.”

  “Aw. That would’ve been so nice.” I wrapped an arm around her. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Alexa shuddered.

  • • •

  Chief Cinnamon Pritchett, clad in her official brown uniform, could be intimidating. Gone was the snappy smile. Gone was the teasing and bantering. Grimly, she and her staff reviewed the scene. So far Cinnamon had limited her questioning to Alexa because it was her studio and she understood the equipment, not to mention that she’d spotted the body first. Plus, Alexa had had a long-standing relationship with the victim. Cinnamon had requested that Bailey and I hang to one side until she got around to us.

  Bailey was allowed to call her husband. I was permitted to call my aunt, who told me not to worry. She would make sure everything at the store ran smoothly. Aunt Vera asked how I was doing. I mumbled that I was shaken but holding strong. I asked if Rhett had called. He had and he’d apologized profusely for messing up this morning’s appointment with the wedding planner.

  “Do you want me to touch base with him?” Aunt Vera asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re with the police.”

  Swell. Rhett wouldn’t be pleased that I’d stumbled upon another body.

  Deputy Marlon Appleby drew alongside me. “Was that Vera you were speaking to?”

  I raised my chin to meet his gaze. “Yes.”

  “We had a date scheduled.”

  “Don’t worry. I told her you were on duty. By the way, I heard through the grapevine that your daughter isn’t happy with my aunt.”

  “Who told you that?”

  I filled him in.

  As Appleby listened, he worked his moose-shaped jaw back and forth. “Sasha can be quite protective with the baby. Like her mother was, rest her soul. Don’t worry. She adores your aunt. She’ll warm to the idea.”

  “Maybe she thinks that my aunt, who has never had children, might drop her.”

  Appleby grinned. “Vera held you, didn’t she? You ended up okay.”

  “Some might question your assessment.” I winked. “You might want to set my aunt’s mind at ease.”

  “Will do.”

  The deputy moved to have a word with the coroner, who was still taking pictures of Kylie. At first, the coroner had snapped various angles of
her trapped in the reformer, clicking his tongue repeatedly as he’d moved to another viewpoint. I was pretty sure he’d never seen this method of murder. Now, after instructing two police technicians to remove the body from the contraption, he was photographing Kylie, who was dressed in black leggings and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, lying prone on the floor. The EMTs were standing by the entrance to the studio, ready to slip Kylie’s corpse into a body bag and take her away whenever the coroner gave the signal.

  To the morgue. My stomach lurched at the thought. Toe tags. Embalming fluid.

  Alexa, who was sitting on the raised platform of a nearby reformer, elbows on her knees, head propped up by her fists, was green at the gills. Cinnamon perched beside her, mouth moving, notebook open, and pen poised.

  Bailey slipped alongside me. “I couldn’t reach Tito. I left him a voice mail.” She pointed toward the mess of paper strewn on the floor. “What do you make of that?”

  A ponytailed technician was gathering each piece carefully, looking as if she was trying to keep related pieces together.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure if the killer brought all of it or Kylie did. Some are articles, each related to Kylie in some fashion. The shredded paper was sort of mixed media. Photo paper and regular paper.”

  Bailey motioned to the message on the mirror. “Why did Kylie need to reform?”

  “I expect that’s for the killer to know and the police to find out.” I swallowed hard. “As we both know, Kylie wasn’t well liked around town, but for the killer to write that message, suggesting she deserved the punishment of death? It takes a vicious mind.”

  A petite black woman in her early twenties, sporting intricate blonde ombré Ghana braids, rushed into the studio and gasped. Appleby blocked her advance.

  “That’s Viveca,” Bailey whispered to me. “Alexa’s assistant.”

  “What happened?” Viveca asked, struggling to peer past Appleby, her voice nearly a shriek. “Who’s that lying on the floor? Is it Kylie? Kylie O? She’s dead?” Viveca was dressed in a one-piece navy blue workout suit that looked painted on. Every contour of her perfect abs showed.

  Appleby confirmed the identity. “What is your name?”

  “Viveca Thorn. I’m Alexa’s associate.”

  Associate, I mused. That held more rank than assistant. Was Viveca trying to give herself a boost, or was she nervous?

  “What happened? Please, tell me,” Viveca stammered. “Alexa, I’m here! I’m back!”

  Alexa didn’t acknowledge her.

  “I got a text message from Alexa to pick her up a wrap for lunch,” Viveca continued, “since she was running late. I went across the street.” She held up the bag she was carrying from Latte Luck Café. “The line took forever, so—”

  “Did you know Miss Obendorfer?” Appleby asked.

  “Not personally,” Viveca said, her voice tinny and tight. “I was hired a month ago, and she hasn’t been in. And I’m not a foodie, so I don’t follow her reviews. I’ve heard Alexa talk about her, though, in glowing terms.” Viveca scanned the studio. “Did Tito Martinez do this?”

  “No!” Bailey broke free of me and darted toward Viveca. “No, no, no. Why would you think that?”

  “Tito was here. I saw him leave.” Viveca shot out a hand. “I didn’t think anything about it, but looking back—”

  “Did you see Kylie with him?” Bailey asked.

  “No. I didn’t say that. I—”

  “Were you witness to each person entering this building every single minute?” Bailey demanded. “Of course not,” she snapped. “How could you be? You were standing in line at the café, probably with your back to the door. You don’t know anything.”

  Viveca’s eyes flooded with tears.

  “Mrs. Martinez,” Appleby barked. “Stop. Now.”

  “This woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Bailey persisted.

  “Back away,” Appleby said. “We will get to the bottom of this.”

  I rushed to my pal and braced her shoulders. “Calm down. Viveca is not accusing Tito.”

  “Yes, she is.” Bailey sniffed.

  “Ladies, please.” Appleby eyed Viveca.

  The young woman wiped a pinky beneath her beautiful eyes. Her lips parted, waiting for Appleby to continue.

  “Miss Thorn, I’ll need a statement,” he said.

  Viveca said, “Of course. May I give Alexa her lunch?”

  “No.” Appleby took the bag from her. He moved to a bank of cubicles where students could deposit their personal items and set the bag into one.

  Tito burst into the room. “Bailey, I am here.”

  I gawped. Hadn’t the police set a perimeter yet? First Viveca and now Tito?

  Tito’s hair was askew, and his tie, shirt, and jacket were disheveled. Had he walked through a windstorm to get here? I glanced out the rear window. There wasn’t a hint of a breeze. He started toward Bailey. A twenty-something policeman blocked him.

  “Bailey!” Tito waved.

  Appleby signaled to the policeman to allow Tito to pass.

  Tito hurried toward Bailey and slung an arm around her. “I was about to buy coffee and saw the police cars. The front door of the building was propped open. What is going on?” He caught sight of Kylie lying on the floor. “What happened? Did she have an accident?”

  “No, she was . . . murdered,” Bailey murmured.

  “Mur—” Tito gagged. “But she was—” He stopped himself.

  “Sir,” Appleby said, “please continue. Miss Obendorfer was what?”

  Tito broke apart from Bailey and faced the deputy. “Nothing.”

  “A witness spotted you on the premises earlier,” Appleby went on, not glancing in Viveca’s direction. “Did you see Miss Obendorfer at that time?”

  “Yes, but she was alive when I left,” Tito contended. “Alive. I did not do this.”

  Alexa hurried to him and hugged him. “Tito, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m sorry I had to cancel our appointment. My car . . .” She smoothed the arms of his shirt and, clearly realizing she was being too demonstrative, stepped backward. “I can barely breathe. The gravity of all of this.”

  “Mr. Martinez,” Appleby said, “did you have an appointment with Miss Tinsdale?”

  “Yes.”

  Cinnamon joined the group. “Tell us about that, Mr. Martinez.”

  Tito’s jaw ticked with tension. “I had a private pilates session scheduled. It’s my regular appointment. I knocked. I waited. Alexa didn’t show.”

  “As I said, I had a flat tire.” Alexa shot a hand toward Tito. “I sent you a text.”

  Tito frowned. “I didn’t get a text from you.”

  “I realize that now,” Alexa said.

  “Anyway, as I was leaving,” Tito continued, “Kylie—Miss Obendorfer—appeared. She let herself in. She knew the code. She said Alexa texted her to meet her here.”

  Alexa shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

  Cinnamon called to the ponytailed technician. “Officer, bring me the deceased’s cell phone.”

  The technician popped to her feet and brought the phone to her boss. Cinnamon scanned the log. “I don’t see a text from Miss Tinsdale.”

  “Kylie lied,” Alexa blurted. “Why would she lie about that?”

  Cinnamon handed the phone back to the technician and eyed Tito.

  “That’s what she said.” Tito pursed his lips.

  “Chief Pritchett,” Alexa said, “Kylie could be quite sly. For all I know, she caused my flat tire so she could come here and confront Tito at the studio, alone. She knew all of my clients’ schedules. She was nosy to the point of being a fanatic about that.”

  “She didn’t confront me,” Tito exclaimed.

  I studied the technician, who was scouring the crumpled and shredded paper. Had Kylie brought the paper? Had she hoped to confront and humiliate each and every one of her targets here? Had one of them killed her?

  “I didn’t stay,” Tito added. “I
wanted nothing to do with her.”

  “Didn’t you like her, Mr. Martinez?” Cinnamon asked.

  “That’s not what I said. She . . . we . . .” Tito sputtered.

  “Where did you go when you left?” Appleby asked.

  “I’m doing a story on a local band.” Tito hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I went to the house that they’re renting, except they weren’t there. I was early. So I waited.”

  Cinnamon flipped a page in her notebook. “What was the address?”

  Tito provided it. On Gardenia Avenue.

  Cinnamon jotted the information. “Did anybody see you there? A mailman? A workman? Someone walking his or her dog?”

  “No.” Tito gazed worriedly at Bailey. “There might have been a gardener. I think I heard someone mowing. I’m not sure.”

  “Did the band members show up?” Cinnamon pressed.

  “No. Turns out they got the day mixed up.” Tito shifted feet. “They thought we were supposed to meet tomorrow.”

  “Tell us about your quarrel with Miss Obendorfer on Thursday, Mr. Martinez,” Appleby said.

  Oh, no. Had the technician seen that particular article and clued in the deputy? I gulped and gazed at Tito. Perspiration was beading above his lip and on his forehead.

  “It was nothing,” Tito said.

  “Nothing,” Bailey echoed.

  “Kylie wanted to cover a story and asked me to back off,” Tito said.

  “Asked” was a stretch, I thought. Had the killer specifically brought the article about the fracas in order to frame Tito?

  “Relax, Mr. Martinez,” Cinnamon said. “We’re simply trying to get all the facts. Tell me about waiting for the band in your car. What did you do? Send email? Reply to text messages? Did you call anybody?”

  A small moan escaped Tito’s lips. “I listened to a meditation tape.”

  “Do you do that often, or only after a confrontation?” Cinnamon’s mouth twitched. She was baiting him.

  “With a new baby, I”—Tito glanced at Bailey—“we need to find all the peace and calm we can. We grab it in minutes, not hours.”

  Cinnamon eyed my pal. “Do you listen to a meditation tape, Mrs. Martinez?”

  “I exercise,” Bailey snapped, unable to hide her annoyance.

  Cinnamon narrowed her gaze. She couldn’t possibly think Tito was guilty of murder, could she? After a long moment, she said, “Why didn’t you let your wife know where you were, Mr. Martinez?”