01 - Playing with Poison (12 page)

***

Lucky me. After the committal service, Candy insisted on attending the reception. I would have skipped it altogether, but I had promised her my support. I braced myself and drove to the Clarence Country Club.

At least the place was crowded, and I entered the ballroom with high hopes of avoiding another embarrassing encounter with my ex. Or the Sweetzers. Or Jimmy Beak, for that matter. Oh well. If all else failed, I noticed a nice roomy buffet table. I could hide under there if all hell broke loose.

Evan McCloy saw us, or perhaps I should say he saw Candy, and rushed over. With barely a frown in my direction, he whisked her off to join a group of stressed out looking financial types, who I assumed were Stanley’s co-workers.

The spot beneath the buffet table did seem inviting, but I decided to risk it, and instead found an inconspicuous corner from which to people watch. I was assessing each individual who passed by for murderer possibilities when Rye joined me.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I asked.

He handed me a glass of red wine. “You looked like you could use this. Sorry, but there’s no champagne.”

I mumbled a ‘thank you’ and noticed he himself was drinking nothing. I also noticed he was staring at me in that disconcerting, cop-like way.

“What is it this time?” I had to ask. “What lies has Ian been telling you?”

“It wasn’t Ian.”

“Amanda, then.”

Rye shook his head. “I’m thinking it’s you who’s still lying.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve been telling everyone and his brother you invested with Sweetzer.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Yep, Ms. Hewitt. That about sums it up.”

I grimaced. “Someone at The Stone Fountain tattled on me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I asked who, but of course he wouldn’t divulge his source. And as I thought about it, it could have been anyone. I had indeed announced that stupid lie to everyone and his brother.

“I was just trying to get people to open up to me,” I said in my defense. “It would be very helpful to know who Stanley’s clients were.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I took a deep breath and then repeated the question I had asked Rye who knows how many times before. “You still believe me, don’t you? That I didn’t invest with Stanley?”

He waited a solid minute before answering. “I still believe you,” he finally mumbled. “But I doubt Jimmy Beak will.”

“Oh, shit!”

“That about sums it up.”

I whimpered. “You’re thinking someone at the bar actually believed my lies? And they’ll tell Jimmy?”

“Yep.”

“And Jimmy will tell the world.” I whimpered some more, but Rye offered no sympathy whatsoever. Instead, he muttered something about how simple and serene his job as a homicide detective used to be—back in the good old days before he met me.

I interrupted his trip down memory lane and tilted my head toward the crowded room. “Aren’t you worried about being seen with me?” I asked. “You know, consorting with the enemy and all that?”

Rye grinned. “They probably think I’m making an arrest.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“That’s some fancy car you drive, lady. A silver Porsche?”

My car? I asked if he were referring to my ten-year-old Carrera with 140,000 miles on it. “Do you mean that fancy car?”

“It looks nice.” He grinned again. “Adelé, huh?”

I shrugged. “Okay, so I have vanity plates. Is that a crime?”

“At least it’s accurate.”

“Ah, so you get it?”

“I caught on when I saw the license plate.” He said my pen name again, emphasizing each of the three syllables. “Add-a-lay. That’s certainly what
A Deluge of Desire
was all about.”

I decided not to argue, informed Rye that I planned on spotting the murderer at this shindig, and turned away to people watch.

He lingered, apparently under the impression I was enjoying his company.

After a few moments of silence, he bent down and whispered in my right ear. “I figured out who your father was.”

“Oh?” I continued to study the crowd.

“Leon Hewitt,” he said. “Your daddy was Leon Cue-It Hewitt.”

“Oh?”

“He was a shark, Miss Hewitt.” Rye was speaking a bit too loudly and I told him so. He lowered his voice. “Cue-It Hewitt was one of the best pool players south of the Mason Dixon Line. In his heyday he took on Minnesota Fats a few times. And usually won.”

The Captain seemed so proud of his earthshaking report that I failed to mention quite a few hustlers had taken on the Fatman and won. Heck, even I had played him once or twice. I didn’t win, mind you, but I adored Mr. Wanderone. He was the guest of honor at my ninth birthday party.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You’ve discovered my deep dark family secret. And what, pray tell, does what my father did for a living have to do with Stanley Sweetzer’s murder?”

“Oh.” Rye sang the word. “Probably nothing.”

We watched as Candy and the financial gurus maneuvered their way over to the buffet table. I was marveling at how much food she could pile onto her miniature plate when Rye bent down and whispered again.

“I know your deep dark secret, too,” he said.

My shoulders tensed. “Oh?”

“You were arrested for hustling back in 1980.”

Chapter 12

I spun around and almost spilled my wine. “You do know what kind of hustling?”

“At pool, of course.” The damn cop was grinning. “You got busted at some dive outside Winston-Salem after hustling a little over five hundred dollars out of the sheriff’s nephew in a little under an hour.”

“I won that money fair and square.”

“Oh, Ms. Hewitt, I’m sure you did. But gambling on a pool game is a misdemeanor, isn’t it?”

I glared with all my might. “If Jimmy Beak ever gets wind of this, I will never speak to you again. That, sir, is a promise.”

Rye assured me my secret was safe with him. “My job is to protect the public, remember?”

“Gee, I feel so much better now.”

“What I can’t figure out is how you got off so easy. You never even paid a fine from what I can tell.”

“I wore a low cut dress and smiled real pretty at the judge.” I continued glaring. “Believe it or not, that kind of thing worked for me once upon a time. The old coot didn’t even slap my delicate little wrist.”

“And?” Rye asked. “Can we assume you quit your night job after that?”

“Hell, no. I still had another year’s tuition at Duke to pay for.”

He laughed out loud. “You’re a little scary. You know that?”

I didn’t argue.

Rye cleared his throat. “So, when did you quit hustling? Or have you?”

“I just told you.” I finished my wine and placed the empty on a tray that was passing by. “When I got my degree. Believe it or not, I hated gambling. And a girl hustling at a pool table could get herself into some fairly tight situations.” I raised an eyebrow. “You can imagine that?”

Rye’s face dropped.

“Oh, don’t look so alarmed, Captain.” I patted his forearm. “I haven’t played for anything more than the occasional bottle of champagne for decades. I’m what Daddy used to call a lamb. I could play for money, but I choose not to.”

Whether or not he believed me, we stopped talking and went back to people watching. I still hadn’t mastered the skill, but I continued scanning the crowd for murderers.

Eventually I gave up and asked Rye how he did it. “How do you recognize a murderer?” I said. “For instance, when did you decide I’m not the killer?”

He continued perusing the crowd. “Who says I’ve decided?”

“When?” I asked again.

“The night Sweetzer died,” he said. “When you served me tea.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’ve been a cop for twenty five years, Ms. Hewitt. And never once has a killer offered me a cup of tea at a murder scene. Much less wondered if I take cream or sugar.”

“So all this harassment you’ve been giving me since then has been for the fun of it?”

“Remember my boss. The chief wasn’t as convinced as me.” Rye shrugged. “Heck, I might still be wrong about you.”

“Yeah, right.”

I turned my attention back to the crowd and spotted Candy. She had finally finished eating and was back to talking with Evan and his colleagues. She said something that had everyone laughing.

“Candy called you this morning?” I asked over my shoulder.

“Yep.”

“She didn’t do it, you know?”

“Yeah, right.”

I turned around. “Come on, Captain. Surely even you can see why she didn’t tell you everything? Her argument with Stanley doesn’t mean anything at all,” I insisted. “Except that she’s fickle about men, correct?”

Rye stared straight ahead. Straight at Candy.

“Listen,” I said as a wave of panic swept over me. “If you’re so willing to let me off the hook based on some sort of intuition, why not give Candy the benefit of the doubt, too?”

Rye finally caught my eye. “She’s never served me tea.”

***

Bless his heart, Lieutenant Densmore relieved me of the captain, and they wandered off to harass someone else for a nice change of pace. I took a few deep breaths and walked over to join Candy.

“Serve champagne at my funeral,” I told her. “Promise me?”

She looked up from Evan, who was kneeling in front of her, doing who knows what with her shoe. “I’m sorry, Jessie. What’s that?”

“I said, be sure to serve champagne, preferably Korbel, at my funeral.”

“Okay.” She startled me by starting to cry. “Oh, Jessie, don’t you die, too!”

I reached across Evan and gave her a little hug. “Introduce me to your friends, Sweetie.”

Evan stood up and frowned. “We’ve already met,” he said and mumbled an almost inaudible ‘unfortunately.’

Vikki Fitkin and Blaine Notari also seemed less than thrilled at my intrusion. They were about the same age as Evan, and I wondered how these people, who were so very young, managed the investments of people my own age. Thomas Fell was a couple of decades older than his co-workers and much more eager to please. He shook my hand, and insisted that he hadn’t believed a word of what Jimmy Beak was saying about me.

“We all work at Boykin and Dent.” Thomas continued pumping my hand. “With Stan. What a great guy! And sharp. Did you invest with Boykin and Dent, Jessica?”

I yanked my hand away. Why the heck did that subject have to come up?

But before I had a chance to think of a response, Evan jumped in. “Jessie was working with Stan,” he announced in a loud and clear voice.

“But that’s great!” Thomas, too, was almost shouting. “I’d be happy to take over for you, Jessica! Now that Stan’s gone!”

He looked at me, his eyes wide, and I tried not to curl my lip.

“We’ve been talking about Stanley,” Candy explained unnecessarily.

“Candy here’s been telling us about a side of Stan we never saw at the office.” Blaine Notari chuckled at his colleagues. “The lighter side of Sweetzer—who would have guessed it?”

“Certainly, not I.” Vikki pursed her lips and scowled at Candy. “Stan probably liked you because then he didn’t have to be serious with you.”

Candy may not have caught the bitchy tone of that, but I did. I studied Vikki, and Rye’s old theory that jealousy might have prompted Stanley’s demise popped into my head.

But Vikki certainly had no reason to be jealous of Candy’s looks. The woman was adorable. She wore glasses, which looked cute on her pointy little face, and she had scads of curly red hair. She came eye to eye with me, which meant she was tall. Her grey skirt suit was not all that flattering, but it was well made, and I assumed it was her uniform for funerals.

“You know, Vikki,” I said. “Thomas here might have a point. Now that poor Stanley’s gone, I probably should hire a new financial advisor.” I smiled pleasantly. “Maybe I could meet with you sometime?”

“With me?” She seemed confused.

So did Thomas. I pretended not to notice and concentrated on Vikki. “You’re an investment counselor just like Stanley was, correct?”

“Umm, sure. Jessica, is it?” Vikki tore her gaze from Candy and Evan, who were busy tasting each other’s drinks, and glanced back at me. “Come down to Boykin and Dent anytime. I’ll be glad to help you.”

Thomas walked off in a huff. And when I noticed Margaret Sweetzer and Amanda Crawcheck coming toward us, teeth bared, I took Candy’s glass from her, handed it to Evan, and insisted it was time for us to leave also.

***

Karen called me early that evening. “Turn on your TV, Jess. Like, now.” Something in her tone made me obey without question, and I rushed over to the bedroom, where my twelve-inch, seriously outdated television sat on the dresser. “Channel 8,” she instructed and hung up.

I clicked to Channel 8 and saw my face plastered across the screen. Lord help me—I had made the national news. I plopped myself on the edge of the bed and watched in horrified disbelief as Dee Dee Larkin, an anchorwoman even I recognized, reported to the whole wide world that I was under investigation for murder.

It got worse when she mentioned Stanley’s job at Boykin and Dent and my supposed investments with the firm. Then she started describing my books, and Adelé Nightingale’s penchant for heroes who bore an uncanny resemblance to Stanley Sweetzer.

“I am going to kill Jimmy Beak,” I said to the TV screen.

Snowflake purred in agreement and started kneading the duvet cover.

Dee Dee Larkin concluded with some comment about ‘borderline pornography,’ and Channel 8 mercifully cut to a commercial for a new kind of pain reliever.

I turned off the TV and began plotting the demise of Mr. Beak. But then the photograph Channel 8 had used flashed into my mind. Only one person had that picture of me.

***

Louise Urko answered her phone after half a ring. “Wasn’t that fantastical, Jessica?”

“You’re fired,” I informed her and hung up without further ado.

She called me back within seconds. “Fantastical!” she shouted again. “We’re opening a bottle of Korbel up here! I mean, the whole staff insisted on a little celebration in your honor.”

“My honor? Dee Dee Larkin has just informed the entire nation that I write borderline pornography, Louise.” I started pacing. “Do you want to explain to me how she got that idea?”