Double Shot (23 page)

“College students studying pool players?” Mother chuckled at the idea. “Is there a need for that sort of thing?”

“Who knows? But Kevin lied about something else, too. He had started seeing Angela right before she got killed, but never mentioned it to anyone.” I stopped and waited for my mother’s reaction.

Nothing.

“So Kevin is Candy’s number one suspect now,” I continued. “She insists it can’t be a coincidence that they had just started dating before Angela got killed.”

“I see.”

“You do?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Good! Since I truly hope it wasn’t Kevin.”

“Although he does wear sandals, doesn’t he?”

***

As I predicted, the Dickerson-Klodfelder confrontation was quite straightforward. The triumphant Winnie Dickerson was escorting a most grateful Sarina Blyss past the duly chagrined Constable and out of the St. Celeste jail when my intercom buzzer went berserk.

“Let me in, Jessie,” Ian demanded and laid on the buzzer for about the tenth time.

Clearly the man had taken lessons from his wife, and I was beginning to rue the day Wilson had talked Karen into installing the stupid thing. I might be safer with the intercom system in place, but life had actually been more peaceful when obnoxious visitors could simply come on up and bang on my door.

While Ian continued his frenzied bell-buzzing, I fortified myself with another gulp of coffee, slipped on my shoes, and braced myself for the day’s Hewitt-Crawcheck confrontation. I promised Snowflake I would be right back. “Alone,” I added before closing the door.

It took some effort to push my ex off the stoop and out to the sidewalk. But when there’s a will, there’s a way. I poked, and prodded, and persevered, and finally got him a few yards away from my building.

Meanwhile Ian was pointing to his watch and tapping vigorously. “It’s 11:20, Jessie, just like we agreed. What the hell’s your problem?”

Where to begin? But here was a task I was definitely up to, so I delved on in. “You lied to me, Ian,” I began. “You are not altogether broke, you still have the money to play golf, and you still have friends. If this Dickie-person’s so willing to play eighteen holes with you, you can shower at his place from now on. Or at that stupid country club you and Amanda are so proud of.”

“I risked my life at the Wade On Inn the other day,” he snapped. “You owe me.”

“Yeah, right,” I snapped back. “And why are you even here, anyway? The last time I saw Amanda she was huffing, and puffing, and stamping off in the direction of your office. Did she not invite you back home?”

“My marriage is none of your business.”

“No kidding! But you and your stupid wife both seem bent on making it my business.”

Ian backed off, at least for a moment, and conceded that Amanda had begged him to come back home.

“Proof positive that there is no accounting for taste,” I said.

“But then I told her about us.”

I blinked twice. “Us?” I finally managed. “You mean, like, in you and me—us?”

The look on my ex’s face told me that was exactly what he meant. “Come on, Jessie. Just the other day you were telling me all about your new book.” The man actually winked. “We both know what that means.”

I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

Then I did some deep breathing exercises while I wondered, not for the first time, why I had ever married this fool.

All I can figure is that some people get smarter as they age, and some people get stupider. I’ll place myself in that first group, and Ian Crawcheck definitely falls into the second category. So, if you do the math...

But that’s ancient history. Or at least I wished it was. I waited until my ex wiped the stupid smile off his face.

“Go to Dickie’s house,” I said firmly. “Or better yet, go home.” I began walking away. “Do not be buzzing my bell ever again, or else.”

“Or else, what? You’ll have me arrested?” he called after me. “He’s too young for you, Jessie. What is it, like ten years’ difference?”

I remembered my theory that I’m getting smarter every day and kept on going. I did not turn around, and I did not correct my ex’s misconception. But it was only five years’ difference. And my relationship with Wilson was perfect, thank you very much.

I stopped short and almost fell over. My relationship with Wilson was perfect.

Lord help me.

Chapter 27

The Duke of Luxley steered a course for Priesters and reached his destination at dusk. The humble chapel was just as Sarina had described it. And Father Conforti was just as she described him—a sensitive soul who noticed at once the highly distressed countenance of his visitor.

Indeed, the two men had barely introduced themselves before the good Father saw fit to inquire as to the Duke’s well-being. Trey confessed that he was not at all well. He explained how he had come to know Sarina Blyss, and the harrowing circumstances in which the poor lady now found herself.

As he reported the dire situation, Trey became more and more agitated, and Father Conforti confessed that he, too, was sorely vexed. He assured Trey he would happily identify Sarina Blyss, the true owner of the golden necklace. Indeed, he insisted on making the journey to St. Celeste that very evening.

Trey’s relief was short-lived, however, when Father Conforti led him to the stable behind the church and introduced him to his trusty steed, Barnaby. The priest smiled fondly at the beast, but Trey only frowned. A donkey? And a very old donkey at that? It would take the man until midnight to get to his destination on that bedraggled creature.

Alas, Father Conforti would entertain no other alternatives. Barnaby accompanied him on all his pastoral visits, and dear Sarina had always been so fond of Barnaby. Why, the Father recollected one occasion when Sarina was but ten years old, and Barnaby had been much younger himself, when—

The Duke of Luxley held up a hand in surrender. He ceased arguing and arranged to meet the devoted priest and his devoted beast in St. Celeste as soon as possible.

With that, Trey jumped back on his horse. Next stop? The Blyss Estate, to confront Agnes and Norwood Blyss about their horrid mistreatment of their own flesh and blood!

Thoughts of Sarina’s flesh left Trey momentarily woozy, but he quickly recovered and dashed away.

***

Inspired by Trey Barineau’s quest for justice, I stopped writing and stared at Snowflake. “Kevin Cooper,” I said.

The cat opened one eye.

“He may not be as altogether evil as Agnes, but he has been lying. And he must be confronted.” I stood up with a determined nod, and Snowflake promptly resumed her nap.

So much for encouragement. Wilson would likely disapprove also, but I ignored them both and hastened over to the University of Clarence library.

I was climbing the stairs to the second floor when the thought occurred to me that Kevin could be dangerous. I stopped. What would I do if he really were the killer? Or more importantly, what would he do?

But surely I was safe in a library? I kept climbing and found him in his usual spot, doing the transcribing thing. He pretended not to see me, but I hovered over him until he was forced to look up.

He sighed dramatically and switched off all his machinery. “You and your boyfriend have something against me getting any work done?” He made a point of frowning as he pulled out the ear buds, but I pretended not to notice and sat down anyway.

“So Wilson’s already been here?” I asked.

“Earlier this afternoon. He and Sergeant Sass. She’s gorgeous, but she’s as nosy as you are.”

“That’s because you lied to us, Kevin.”

“Nooo. I just chose not to tell you about Angie and me. It’s none of your business.”

“It is if you killed her.” I raised an eyebrow. “Did you kill her?”

“Does your boyfriend know you’re here?”

“No. And you better not tell him.”

Kevin actually grinned.

“Now then,” I said. “Please tell me you didn’t kill Angela.”

“What do you think?”

“I think my mother and Candy are both wrong.”

“Huh?”

“My mother was the old lady with Doreen and Ethel the other night. She thinks you’re fishy.”

“Your mother?” Kevin seemed rather puzzled, so I took a moment to explain why my mother had been at the Wade On Inn while he stared at me, aghast.

“It wasn’t the most brilliant plan,” I conceded.

“Wow. You’re a little scary. You know that?”

I decided to move on. “My friend Candy thinks you’re a little scary. She says it can’t be a coincidence that just when you started dating Angela, she ended up dead.”

Kevin took off his glasses and began the cleaning routine. My patience shot, I grabbed them from his startled hands and placed them on the table, just out of his reach.

“Come on, Kevin. I need some answers here.” I began counting off questions on my fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me or anyone else about your relationship with Angela? Why was it such a big secret? And why are you still hanging out at the Wade On Inn, now that she’s gone?”

He waited to be sure I was done and then tapped his computer. “This answers that last question. I still have tons of data to compile.” He shook his head. “If Tessie Hess visits that bar next year on her vacation she’s apt to run into me again. Research takes time.”

“And Angela?”

“And Angie and I were only together twice before she got killed.”

He leaned over and stretched to get his glasses, glanced up to ascertain that I was not going to stop him, and placed them back on the bridge of his nose. His hands were shaking through the whole drawn-out procedure.

“Twice was enough,” he said quietly.

I studied him as he stared off into the stacks. “You loved her,” I whispered.

He took a deep breath. “Which of course, makes me looks guilty as hell. Women tend to get killed by the men in their lives. Unfortunately, I know this kind of stuff.”

“Sociology?” I asked.

“And anthropology. Like I told Captain Rye this morning, it probably does look weird that I’m still spending time at the bar. But I have my research. And being in a place she liked so much makes me feel better somehow.” Kevin searched my eyes. “Do you believe me?”

I did. “But why did the two of you keep this relationship such a deep dark secret?”

“It only lasted about a week before she got killed. We weren’t being all that cagey.”

“Maybe,” I agreed.

“I still don’t understand how everyone found out about it. The only people who knew about Angie and me, were Angie and me.”

“Mackenzie Quinn,” I said, and he muttered a four-letter word. “You do know Angela confided in her?”

“That girl knows way too much.”

“Angela trusted her.”

“Angie trusted everyone.” Kevin checked his voice and returned to a whisper. “She trusted that little blabbermouth, she trusted Fritz Lupo, she trusted Elsa. She worked for her for practically free, you know?”

“Oh?”

“Oh yeah! You know what the deal was? Angie did hours and hours of bookkeeping and paperwork for her, and Elsa let her drink for free. But Angie drank maybe one glass of beer a night.” He threw up his hands. “She earned about a penny an hour at that stupid job.”

“She was friends with the Quinns,” I argued. “Maybe she was doing them a favor?”

“Maybe that favor got her killed.”

A vision of Bobby Decker in his Stetson hat flashed through my head. “Do you think the murders had something to do with Angela’s bookkeeping?”

He slumped. “No. Not really.”

“Do you have any idea why Bobby Decker was missing last night?”

“You realize I just answered these exact same questions for your boyfriend?”

I might have felt the teensiest bit guilty for being so annoying, but I still waited for an answer.

“I think Bobby’s scared,” he said. “Just like me. He’s paranoid he’ll be blamed, so he’s hiding.”

“Who do you blame?” I asked.

“Earth to Tessie.” Kevin waved a hand in front of me. “I mean Jessie. Didn’t you hear Spencer Erring’s blatant lie last night?”

“About the gun?”

“Well, yeah! He lied when he claimed not to know about it.”

“Or else you’re lying.”

“What? To divert suspicion away from me?” Kevin snorted. “I haven’t done very well at that, have I?”

“Have you?”

“Look, I’m not lying, okay? Erring’s definitely the guy who told me about the gun.”

“When?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I talked a lot those first few nights when I was starting my research. I was nervous, so I asked everyone all kinds of stupid questions—just to get something on my tape recorder.” He tapped his machinery. “Erring must have mentioned it then.”

I knew the answer, but asked anyway, “So why would Spencer feign ignorance about the gun?”

Kevin knocked his head. “Earth to Jessie.”

***

I stood up before he hit me over the head with his laptop, made my way over to the library’s computers, and Googled Spencer Erring.

Nothing. Or almost nothing. The guy had no Facebook page, no Twitter account, and apparently no job. About the only information I could find on him—and I admit I stink at this sort of thing—was in relation to his wife and his in-laws.

“Weird,” I whispered to myself, and moved on to Dixie Wellington-Erring and the Wellington family in general. Why not?

Now here was some data. But, as always happens when I start down the slippery slope of Internet-searching, it took an inordinate amount of time to sort through all the info on the Wellingtons. And I easily got sidetracked for no good reason. Also the norm.

At some point, I got a grip and gave up on mom and dad, Ricky Senior and Maria Wellington. I mean, did I really need to know Ricky had gotten his start in the grocery business by slicing deli meats at a corner store in Atlanta when he was fifteen?

I redirected my efforts to the Clarence contingent of the family, namely Dixie and Ricky Junior.

I do believe Dixie Wellington-Erring was living the life Amanda Crawcheck aspired to. The woman belonged to every club known to mankind, or at least to Clarence—the Country Club, the Garden Club, the Bridge Club, the Ladies’ Benevolent Society, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.