Saturday was usually my off day, but I didn't have a thing to do. Manny and I had planned to spend the day together, but he'd called and cancelled last minute due to not feeling well.

       "Are you sick?" I asked around eight in the morning.

       "No, I'm just tired."

       He didn't sound tired, he sounded sad. "Okay. Feel better."

       I didn't push because sometimes people need a break. I would know. But hopefully whether he was actually physically sick or just taking a mental health break, he'd open up to me when he was feeling a little better.

       With nothing else to do I decided that I might as well go into work. I know, I know, I should use my time off for R&R but what can I say? I like my job. I'm lame like that.

       Anyway, it was still summer term so the nearby dorms were mostly empty and the foot traffic this drizzly Saturday morning was mild at best. Jackson was in because he'd been picking up extra shifts since he'd resigned from his second job to prep for his CDL license. We didn't need a chef this late in the day so he alternated between helping pasha behind the counter, bussing tables, and writing down his recipes for whoever the next baker would be in a big blue binder.

       Otherwise, the day was mundane.

       Since school was out most of the clubs weren't renting the upstairs rooms so Johnny had his run of the place. At about two I walked a tray of refreshments up for him because it's important to stay hydrated in this heat...and I was bored and wanted to be nosy.

       He was upstairs in the first room off the stairs. The door was closed—he did that when he painted during open hours to try to block the smell of his paint from drifting downstairs and disrupting paying customers. It worked I think, no one's complained yet but honestly that fancy acrylic paint he used barely even had a smell.

       I walked up the old silver tray loaded up with a glass of strawberry lemonade and some of the leftover pastries and sandwiches that were marked for the trash if no one ate them by the end of the day. I could hear the radio going from the other side of the door. Lou Gramm was waxing poetic 'bout 'A Girl Like You'. He must be listening to the Eagle, the only classic rock station left on the Burenville airwaves.

       "Hey!" I pushed through the door and bounded over to Johnny and his easel with a big smile. "Brought you some snacks."

       He turned to me, wiped his hands on a cloth, and looked at the lemonade with interest. "...Being nosy?"

       "What? No!" I sat the tray on the edge of the table.

       "Evie, I know you." He tossed his rag onto his hard plastic art storage box. It was propped open; most of his supplies were spread out on the table. "You don't do anything without ulterior motives. You especially don't give stuff away for free."

       "That's not true. I give you my time and presence free of charge. That's quite the privilege."

       He crossed his arms over his chest. "Privileges come with fine print all the time."

       "Okay, fine! I want to see the dog." He smiled then stood to the side. The canvas wasn't too big—just 11x14. His under sketch still peeked from behind the fresh layer of paint. Conan was 'smiling', his eyes bright and happy, and his chestnut coat full and shiny. Propped up on the table was a piece of printer paper with Conan's likeness printed in colored ink. The painting was almost an exact copy. I turned back to him, excited. "Conan the Pomeranian looks good."

       "You think?" He wiped at his brow then grabbed the glass of lemonade.

       "Yeah."

       He tilted his head back and took a long drink. His swallows were audible. I guess he really was thirsty. "It's been a while since I've done an animal."

       "Really? I couldn't tell."

        "Yeah?"

       "Yeah. She's gonna love it." I nodded for emphasis. "Was there any doubt?"

       "Well...yeah." He stared down into his lemonade like the secrets of the universe were at the bottom of that cup. "It's been a long time...and I was never as popular as...Grace."

       This must be serious. He never says her name. "Well, popularity means nothing."

       He scoffed. "People say that but it's not true."

       "I suppose if one measured success by gross revenue, then yes, popularity matters."

       "Oh? And what are other kinds of success does one measure?"

       "Um...happiness?" He threw me a skeptical look. I sighed. "Okay, maybe you won't be the next Picasso."

       "Not with commissions like these—"

       "But! If it's what you love to do and you can get paid for it, then I consider the pursuit a success."

       He turned that over in his mind for a minute then smiled. "I do love it." We stared for a moment before he broke eye contact and looked toward his easel. "I should get back to work. She's expecting it to be ready next week."

       I put up my hands in surrender. "Alright, I can take a hint."

       I closed the door behind me and let him finish his work. Hopefully our little pep talk crushed all of his doubts. Maybe he wasn't high art material but he was talented, and there was no reason to let it go to waste.

       Towards the end of the day I went to check on Jackson. He was sitting at a table in the dining room, his head bent down and his pen furiously scribbling over notebook paper.

       "Hey, how's it going?" I looked over his shoulder and saw him writing down his recipe for his chocolate macarons.

       He put down the pen, stood, and stretched out his limps. "Good! Whatever asshole you hire after me will be set."

       Why's he got to be an asshole? "That's good to hear. And you're doing good?"

       He smiled wider than I've ever seen him smile. "Evie, I'm about to get my license, start a job making way more than I've ever made before, and after that I'm moving out of my momma's house. I'm more than good. I'm good, good, cuz."

      "Great—"

       "And!" he continued with a little joyful laugh. "I got a girl who loves me!"

        I tried to smile. It was stiff. "Oh. Okay..."

       "Evie..."

       "I said nothing."

       "You didn't have to." He frowned. "You don't like her."

       "I... well...I mean...she's ai'ight..."

       He cocked his head. "Come on."

       "I don't have to like everyone!"

       "No, you don't. But I remember I didn't like a certain cop and you told me any beef I had with him should be squashed just because you love him or some shit."

       That did happen... "...I really don't see how that's the same."

       "And, the only real reason you don't like her is because she's a single mom who used to strip."

       She was rude as hell, but who's keeping track. "That's not true."

       "It is. I saw your face when she said it." His frown got deeper and more disapproving the more he thought about it. "I'm not asking you to be friends. I'm just asking for the same effort you asked from me."

       Jackson's talking sense again. I hate when he does that. "Fine. I'll be nice. But please ask her to refrain from talking shit about my café. Or at least tell her to do it behind my back like a civilized person would."

       He pointed at me. "See. Civilized. That's some snobby shit."

       I made a show of rolling my eyes. "Okay, I need to go find some work to do."

       He laughed after me. "Find some empathy while you're at it."

       "They need to stop teaching you these words!"

       "Ha! See? Boujie!"

       Seriously! Me? Classist? She started it. I wasn't like that. I don't think...Ugh! Whatever. I have more important things to do with my life than obsess over some rude heifer and her ill-behaved kid.

*************************

       Later after closing I was in my office looking over the books with my shoes kicked off when my cell rang. I looked over but didn't recognize the number. I almost ignored it, assuming it to be spam, but then I remembered I was an adult and I shouldn't get annoyed because people call me after hours.

       I took a deep sigh and answered. "Hello?"

       "Hello," Said a woman's high pitched voice. Or at least I think it was a woman. Sounded like a kid in some places. "This is Emily Higgs. Can I speak with Evelyn Harper?"

       Emily Higgs? That was the name of the woman who wrote that article about Kelli Olson's Leukemia Ball Friday before last. "This is her."

       "You called about representative Kelli Olson?"

       "Yeah. You wrote that article about the art gala last Friday night?"

       Her voice got higher as she got excited. "Yes. What's this about? Are you with some kind of publication?"

       Oh, crap. She thinks I can offer her a job. "Uh, no. I'm a private investigator looking into an event that might have involved Mrs. Olson on Friday."

       "What sort of event?" She asked a little too curiously for my tastes.

       "I'm not at liberty to discuss."

       She paused so long I thought the line cut. "Then I guess I don't know anything relevant to your investigation. Goodbye."

       "Wait a minute!" People don't usually flip the script on me that fast. "Look, there's not much I can say right now."

       "But there's a story brewing?"

       "Maybe."

       She huffed insolently in my ear. "Maybe? Either she's in something or she isn't."

       "She might be. I'm very early in my investigation."

       "How about this? You keep me informed on what you find out, and I do the same with you?"

       Curious. "Why do you care what I'm investigating?"

       She sighed deeply. "I'm tired of writing society and art pages. I have a sixth sense for a good story. If I'm right, it could jump start more career options."

       An ambitious journalist. Not good, but I can work with it. "You already suspect Olson's involved in something."

      "Let's just say I have an inkling she's not as clean as she appears."

       It was risky. I didn't care to bring strangers into my case. What if she was lying and was actually friends with Kelli? What if she reported back everything I said? The problem was, after last night I was mostly at a dead end so anything she knew could revitalize this case assuming she was honest. If not, I could be playing into the hands of a murderer.

       "Alright, fine."

       "So, what's this scandal you're investigating her for?"

       "Murder."

       She guffawed so loud I'm sure Tadd and the guys could hear her all the way next door. "Whoa...I was thinking, like, embezzlement...was it like, she did it or knows who—"

        Two could play hardball. "My turn for a question."

       "Okay shoot."

       "Was she at the gala on Friday?"

       "She was. She came with her husband. Left a bit after it was over."

       "What time did she leave?"

        Her reply was automatic. "Around eleven—wait a minute! I get a question too."

       "Shoot."

       "Are you investigating her for committing the murder?"

       Careful. "Yes. Did you have eyes on her all night?"

       "I did. It was a soft political piece and since she and my boss are friends, he sent me to write up some bullshit about how gracious and generous she is." I could feel her rolling her eyes like a sulky teenager. "Who did she 'maybe' kill?"

       "Some hacker who was blackmailing her." Before she could ask 'for what', I dove into my next question. "Did you ever lose track of her?"

       She paused for a moment. Possibly trying to remember, possibly trying to spin the truth. "Just once around eight forty-five. Turned my back and she was gone. Must have been an hour before I saw her again. Is that the time of death?"

       "No. He died about two AM."

       "Oh, she was long gone by then. The event ended at, like, eleven. Even accounting for cleanup, she had time."

       Interesting. "Listen, I need to go. I'll keep you posted." Or not.

       "Okay," she paused again, probably realizing that I had little inclination to call her back. "I'll be in touch."

       A little ominous, but fruitful.

       So, Kelli Olson was long gone by the time the murder took place. She had the motive and opportunity, but would she really kill someone over some old photos that had leaked years ago? Personally, I wouldn't risk it.

       And what about this journalist? Was she really just trying to get the scoop to jumpstart her career or was she as team Kelli as she claimed her boss was? If she was with Kelli, she did her no favors, so I'm inclined to believe her even though she was a little overenthusiastic.

       I turned all the clues over in my mind, but I wasn't there yet. Something was missing. The laptop, the blackeye, the gala, two fights, and a smoking gun...someone killed him for his secrets, but what secret was worth killing over?

       I wasn't going to get any answers tonight, so I powered down and locked up. It feels like the more I learn the more questions I have but, hey, tomorrow is another day.