Dead Between the Lines (16 page)

C
HAPTER 19

W
hen Jake walked in my store Tuesday evening at six, I was more than ready to begin our investigation. But even my eagerness to get started didn’t stop the tingling in the pit of my stomach as his hand brushed mine when he gave me the stack of printouts from the newspaper. And when he gazed at me with those dark indigo eyes, my heart stuttered and my pulse picked up speed.

I could see the hunger on his face, too, but I throttled back the dizzying current running through me, cleared my throat, and said a little breathlessly, “Did you find out anything from the editor?”

“Edwyn claims that Nadine Underwood was the only one he told about Quistgaard writing ‘The Bend’s Buzz.’” Jake looked around. “Where do you want to go over the columns? Here at the soda fountain?”

“Sure.” I went behind the counter. “Do you want something to eat or drink?”

“Coffee black, if you have it.” Jake took a seat on a stool and said, “Did the cops find anything when they processed the store?” I shook my head, and he asked, “Have you gotten any more threats?”

“Nope.” I set a steaming mug in front of him, then poured myself a cup and grabbed a plate of pastries left over from the Quilting Queens and the Scrapbooking Scalawags. “No evidence and no threats.” I slid the dish next to Jake and added, “But I did find out where we can talk to Yale Gordon tonight.” Noah had texted me with the info about an hour ago. I jerked my thumb at the front window. “His jazz band is playing in the gazebo in the town square right across the street at seven.”

“Well, that makes it easy.” Jake spread out the papers. “I highlighted the really vicious column entries.”

“Do the various colors mean anything?” I sat down next to him and examined the pages.

“Items about males are in blue, and references to females are in pink.”

I studied the sheets. For every one blue highlight, there were at least ten pink ones. “He really had it in for women, didn’t he?”

“Yep.” Jake nodded. “I’d say this guy had some real issues with the opposite sex.”

“From what I understand, that attitude came out in his poetry, too.” I gathered all the columns together and put them aside. “Our best bet, if we want to talk to Yale, is to catch him before his band starts playing, which means we should head over to the square at quarter to seven.”

“Okay.” Jake glanced at his watch. “That gives us about half an hour.”

“We should try to seem as if we just ran into Yale, rather than as if we’re interrogating him, so why not make it look like we’re there for the performance?” I asked. “We can grab a blanket from the storage room and pick up dinner from Little’s Tea Room. It always stays open late on concert nights, and their boxed suppers are famous for their chicken salad sandwiches, handmade potato chips, and lemon tarts.”

“That’s a good idea. Why don’t we do that now and look over the columns when we get back?” Jake suggested. “Since we’re short on time, how about I go to the liquor store and get a six-pack of Corona, while you pick up the food?”

“Splitting up is fine, but you’d better get a bottle of merlot and a sleeve of plastic cups rather than the beer, since we won’t be able to keep the Corona cold.” I tugged Jake toward the door. “Technically alcohol consumption isn’t allowed on the village green, but as long as we don’t flaunt it, the police won’t hassle us. But that means we’ll have to hide the booze in my purse. Once wine is poured into the cups, no one can tell it isn’t fruit punch.”

After we’d secured our provisions, we returned to the dime store and compared the book-club member list that I’d printed out from my computer to “The Bend’s Buzz” columns that Jake had obtained. As Gran had mentioned, one of the pieces took a potshot at Ronni. The article claimed that she had gotten the financing for her B & B from a shady source—one that could prove dangerous to her and her guests. Between the lines, I read
Mafia
.

I pointed to the highlighted paragraph and said to Jake, “Looks like we’d better add Ronni Ksiazak to our list of suspects. She was at the book-club meeting, had a run-in with the poet, and this kind of accusation could really hurt her business.”

“Yep.” Jake took a tiny spiral notebook from his breast pocket.

“And if the information is true”—I rubbed my chin—“Ronni’s backers might not have been happy with Quistgaard, either.”

“I don’t think a stake through the heart is the mob’s typical style of execution.” Jake grinned. “Now, if he’d been shot at the base of the skull, I’d be more inclined to think it was a hit.”

“Good point,” I conceded. “I wonder if the way he was murdered means anything.”

“I could run it past a profiler I’ve worked with on some cases, but it will be a few days before I can contact her,” Jake offered, then tapped another pink passage. “Here’s something about Kiara Howard. Quistgaard claims she left her previous position at a country club in Kansas because she was having an affair with her married boss, and the board forced her to resign.”

“Hmm.” I flipped through the pages. “I don’t see anything here on Mrs. Zeigler or Zizi Todd, but there is a dig at Zizi’s mother.”

“Something about Winnie?” Jake leaned over my shoulder to see what I meant. “I don’t remember anything about her. How did I miss it?”

“It doesn’t mention her by name,” I assured him, “but it’s pretty obvious he’s referring to her, since she’s our town’s most famous hippie.” I read, “‘Which over-the-hill flower child still makes psychedelic trips courtesy of her very own homegrown weed?’” I shook my head in disgust. “If this is true, Winnie could get in real trouble. Chief Kincaid doesn’t take marijuana growing lightly, not even for personal use.”

“Quistgaard really was a slimeball.” Jake pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Of the worst kind.” It made me crazy thinking of all the lives the putrid poet might have destroyed with his malicious gossip.

“I see this stuff about Winnie was published only last week,” Jake pointed out. “And the item about Kiara was about a month ago.”

“The one on Ronni is recent, too.” I flipped through the columns with March and April dates. “Look, I bet he’s referring to Bryce Grantham here.”

“The guy who found the cat for you last month?” Jake asked. “The animal helped you solve the murder that Boone was accused of, right?”

“Uh-huh.” I gestured to the printed lines and read, “‘What new Shadow Bend resident is hiding in a closet filled with a skeleton that could cost him custody of his darling little daughter?’”

“But you said Boone won the case for Grantham,” Jake reminded me. “His ex-wife had no proof that he was gay or that his lifestyle was a detriment to the child, so Quistgaard’s attack was pointless.”

“True.” I nodded. Bryce’s ex had waited until he’d moved to Shadow Bend before she brought the case to the local court. If she’d done it when he lived in Kansas City, he wouldn’t have been so worried about the outcome, but the county court was not exactly a bastion of liberal thinking. “His wife could always try again.”

“I suppose.”

“You know . . .” An idea popped into my head and I blurted out, “It was almost as if Quistgaard was going after book-club members in particular.”

“Maybe he felt the need to be in a superior position when he spoke to them,” Jake suggested. “Sort of like picturing your audience naked.”

“That could be it.” I paused, recalling my brief conversation with the obnoxious man. After a second or two I said, “He did seem to enjoy being in control of others. Almost like he wanted to dominate every interaction.”

“A gossip column would be a perfect vehicle for a bully like that.” Jake checked the clock. “Time to go talk to Yale and see if Quistgaard pushed him too far.”

“Okay.” I stood. “Let me make sure the back door is locked.”

As I hurried into the storage room, I checked my cell and found a voice mail from Noah. I held the phone to my ear and played it.

“Dev, Mom’s feeling sick again and I’m on the way to the hospital with her.” Noah’s voice was strained. “I’ll call when I have a chance.”

I sent a supportive text to Noah, made sure the store’s exit was secure, and joined Jake out front.

As he and I strolled across the street to the square, I said, “Noah left me a message. His mother is back in the hospital. Apparently, she had another attack of some kind. She already had a bunch of tests yesterday. I wonder what’s wrong with her.”

“Hard to say.” Jake switched the box supper and the blanket to his left hand and put his right arm around my waist. “Could be a lot of things.”

“Poor Noah.” I enjoyed the feel of Jake’s palm through the thin silk of my top. “Nadine is tough to handle when she’s healthy. She must be an awful patient.”

“Yep.” Jake spread our blanket out near the front of the bandstand among the other early arrivals. “Underwood has my sympathy.”

“Look.” I nudged Jake with my shoulder. “Over there, by the pavilion. The guy bending over the instrument case is Yale.”

“The guy that looks like a young John Elway?” Jake asked, squinting.

“Who?”

“You don’t know who John Elway is?” Jake expression was horrified. “He’s a famous quarterback. One of the best.” Jake’s tone was reverent. “And he’s currently the executive vice president of operations for the Denver Broncos.”

“Sorry.” I shrugged. “I don’t follow football.” I didn’t bother to mention that I wasn’t fond of any sports. I had a feeling that wouldn’t be a big shock to Jake, but why slap him in the face with my uninterest? Instead, I suggested, “Let’s pretend to walk over to the drinking fountain and I’ll say hi.”

We strolled toward our objective, and when we drew abreast I did a fake double take and said in a bubbly voice, “Hi, Yale. What a surprise to see you here. I didn’t know you played in a band.”

“Hey, Dev.” Yale blushed. “I just started. My buddy put together the group and invited me to join. I haven’t really played since college.”

“I bet it will be fun for you,” I chirped. Yale’s blond, clean-cut good looks were that of a typical Midwest farm boy and reminded me of a lot of the guys around Shadow Bend. Gesturing to Jake, I said, “Yale, do you know Jake Del Vecchio?” When he shook his head, I introduced the two men, then said to Yale, “I was sorry to hear that you and Darcie Ann split up. I remember all through high school thinking that you seemed like the perfect couple.”

“I thought so, too, but she had other ideas.” Yale finished assembling his clarinet and snapped the case closed. “She was tired of small-town life and wanted something more exciting.” He paused, then added almost under his breath, “Or maybe
someone
more exciting.”

“That’s a shame,” I commiserated. “And it’s a disgrace that ‘The Bend’s Buzz’ printed the whole mess. That was nobody’s business but yours.”

“Yep.” Yale ducked his chin. “That was pretty damn embarrassing.”

“I’ll bet you could have killed whoever wrote that crap.” Jake shoved his hands in his back pockets. “I know I would have wanted to if someone did that to me when I was going through my divorce.”

“Hell, yes!” Yale narrowed his pale blue eyes, then grinned. “But it all worked out for the best. Everyone was real sympathetic about Darcie Ann doing me wrong like that with another guy, and now I’m seeing someone who’s a lot sweeter and a lot less high maintenance.” He twitched his shoulders. “So, in spite of everything, I guess the whole thing was exactly what God had planned.”

“Sounds like it,” I agreed, then asked, “Did you hear that the guy who talked to your book club last Friday was killed that night?”

“Sure did.” Yale glanced at the bandstand, where the other musicians were starting to assemble. “Right behind your store, right?”

“Uh-huh.” I was running out of time. In a few more minutes, he’d need to join his group. “Well, it turns out
he
was the one who wrote ‘The Bend’s Buzz.’ Did you know that?”

“No shit? He was the Buzzard?” Yale’s expression was shocked. “How’d you find that out?”

“It came to light once he was dead,” I hedged. “A few people overheard him and the
Banner
’s editor talking that night. I guess you weren’t one of them, huh?”

“Nah.” Yale still looked stunned. “I’m glad I didn’t know, or I would have been tempted to punch his lights out. And then I would have been a suspect in his murder.” He grimaced. “I did follow Quistgaard out into your store when he left the alcove, just to make sure he didn’t cause any trouble there. And I saw him hitting on Kiara Howard—you know that pretty black gal in charge of all the country club’s parties and stuff?”

“Right.” I nodded encouragingly. “Did you have to intervene?”

“Uh-uh.” Yale shook his head. “She didn’t appear to need any help. Told him in no uncertain terms to back off or suffer the consequences.”

“And did he?” Jake asked. “A lot of men seem to believe that when a woman says no, she means ‘Try again.’”

“Yeah. That appeared to be his way of thinking, all right,” Yale answered. “Quistgaard put his hands on Kiara’s waist and said something like, ‘A high-spirited little filly like you just needs a touch of the riding crop to know who’s in charge.’”

“Ew! What a butthead!” I felt my blood pressure shoot up. “What happened?”

“Kiara stomped on his foot with those high heels she always wears and said, ‘You couldn’t handle me if I came with an instruction booklet and a training video.’” Yale snickered. “Quistgaard hopped backward, howling like a wolf under a full moon. That’s when I thought I’d have to step in, because he got a real mean look in his eye and lunged at her.”

“And did you have to intercede?” How had I missed all this going on in my own store? In the future, I’d have to keep a better eye on what was happening when I had after-hours groups in the place. The new rule would be, No wandering away from the craft alcove except to use the bathroom.

“Kiara did some sort of fancy judo move on him.” Yale smirked. “She got his arm twisted up behind his back and told him that if he ever tried any shit like that again, she’d make sure he was singing soprano for the rest of his miserable little life.”

“Good for her.” I’d have to give Kiara a high five when we talked to her.

“Hey, I gotta get over to the bandstand.” Yale nodded at Jake, then patted my shoulder. “It’s been nice talking to you.”