MURDER on the ROCKS (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

              Waiting for eight o'clock to come was an exercise in ninja-like patience. Allie resigned to spend the interim hours in a swirling mix of confusion and frustration.

              "So not right, Dinah," she said to the cat. "They framed him. Dupond, Bennett, they framed Matson. He's going to have to out himself and Lord knows what that will lead to. And what's this with fingerprints?"

              The cat meowed hungrily.

              "I know! I can’t believe it either. I'll tell you this though: our lovely Frank Beauchenne, esquire, is going to have a ton of explaining to do, believe you me."

              The hour finally came for the explanation. She paced Sara's Bridge, too angry to be scared. When Beauchenne's car pulled up, her blood raced, and she could keep it in no longer.

              "Alright, you," she yelled, not even waiting for him to exit fully from the vehicle. "You know Matson isn't guilty, and you know it's not a damn table leg either."

              "Just hold on, Allie."

              "Oh no, sir, you hold on. How could you let this happen? They arrested an innocent man on trumped-up charges and you just stand there—"

              "Allie! I'm suspended!"

              She froze, mid-sentence. "What?"

              "Dupond caught me running the stats on your ATM guy. Said he gave me fair warning to keep out, which really he didn’t but I can’t argue, and he put me on temporary suspension without pay. Two hours later they made the arrest."

              "Oh God, Frank... I don’t know what to say. I'm sorry."

              "No, I was sloppy. Anyway, here." He reached over, grabbed a folder off the passenger's seat and handed it to her.

              She looked at him and he nodded. She opened it.

              "Get out. This is the guy?"

              "Name's Chernow. Roger Chernow. He's got priors."

              "But you said Dupond—"

              "One of the guys owed me a favor. I had him sneak this out for me."

              "I could kiss you so hard right now."

              "Not tonight, honey, I have a headache."

              "You poor thing. I've messed up your job."

              "I could use the time off, to be honest with you. But you have more than one problem on your hands. It seems your buddy Bennett Reilly called in a tip about a table leg he – quote, unquote – found in the woods behind his house. They went down there to pick it up and that's when he told them about Matson. Showed them the blackmail note and everything. Told them to dust the thing for prints. Tomlin brought it to Dupond and Dupond gave the ok. They have an accident report from Verdenier Granite written in Matson's own hand. The spelling mistakes match. It's all circumstantial of course, but it's obviously enough for Dupond. He wants this thing done with."

              "What about the prints? Where'd those come from?"

              "You can transfer prints. It's not easy, but someone with a little time on his hands and a lot to lose by not doing it can do it. One method would be to pick up a lump of clay that Matson had handled. They've probably struck clay a number of times. You pour hot silicone into the prints, wait for it to cool, peel it off – instant fingerprints."

              "So it was Reilly all along. It had to be."

              "Allie, I didn’t say that. This is speculation. You need proof."

              "It had to be him! What, he just suddenly happens to find a murder weapon? According to you, he didn’t trust his hitman to dispose of the evidence."

              "The hitman is there, on that photo I gave you. You said it yourself. He received money before and money after. I believe you about that. Reilly obviously wanted someone framed for this. He wanted Matson. I think that much is obvious."

              She looked at the picture he'd given her in the folder. It was hard to see by the light of the moon, but she could make out that Roger Chernow was balding save for the temples, which looked gray, and that he seemed to have a very large crease across his forehead that was too big to be a natural wrinkle.

              "Tell me about this guy."

              "Has a history of extortion. Beat the rap once. Either been lying low or he's very good at his job. Either way, I'm not comfortable with the thought of you crossing paths with him. Think of another way."

              There was something in Beauchenne's voice that conveyed a desperation she'd not heard in it before.

              She stared again at the picture. This man was a possible killer and it made her shudder. He looked like a typical villain out of central casting.

              And that gave her the idea for another way.

              She texted Del that she was on her way over.

              Del's flat reflected the kitschy tastes of its occupant. Broadway posters and framed Playbills with scribbly autographs on their covers adorned the walls. And then there were the Styrofoam heads with wigs, and some without, lined up like a headhunter's trove; and there were the multicolored draperies and campy figurines and here and there a remnant from some bygone vacation – cheesy mementos from places like Niagara Falls and Howe Caverns – mugs and statues made cheaply and hastily for tourists.

              "I am
so
glad you came, dahling," she said in an uppercrust British accent. "Benjamin and I have been shopping all day and were dying for a bit of respite from the drudgery of it all."

              "Are you finished?"

              "Not quite. But what brings you here?"

              "Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I've got an acting job for you."

              She resumed her normal voice. "You do? What, where, who, and how much?"

              Allie smiled sheepishly at her friend and bit at her finger.

              "Oh," Del said in full anticipation of the coming anti-climax. "Another alley gig?"

              "Sort of. What did you mean by 'not quite'."

              "We'll get to that in a minute. I'm assuming you heard about your friend Matson?"

              "Yes, and it's messier than you can possibly imagine. We've got a murder weapon with forged fingerprints – which, by the way, is the wrong weapon altogether; we've got a hitman with money coming to him for a hit he never made; we've got Bennett Reilly in cahoots with the cops to nail an innocent man; and to top it all off like a big, fat cherry, we've got a ton of incriminating evidence all inadmissible due to the fact that it was obtained by virtue of a hacker two mouse clicks away from the FBI's most wanted list."

              "Oh my," said Del.

              "Right, and so I need you to do me a favor."

              "Done."

              "You don’t know what it is."

              "I don’t have to. I trust you."

              "You do?"

              "Of course."

              "Why?"

              "Because close your eyes."

              "I'm sorry?"

              "No favors unless you close your eyes."

              Allie did as she was told. She heard Del leave the room, heard her commanding from somewhere else in the house to keep her eyes shut, and heard her return and plonk something heavy upon the kitchen table.

              "Open."

              Right before her, a murder weapon.

#

              When Allie returned home, it was time to make one of the most important calls of her life. She looked at the clock: 4:15. She had to hurry. Folks in Verdenier Granite's financial headquarters probably didn’t work past five.

              "Hi there. Me again. Can I come in for a second?"

              Bennett Reilly looked peeved. "Do you have to now? I mean, I'm a little busy and a bit frazzled. I apologize."

              "No apologies. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your, your guy with the blackmail note? I think I may have an ID for you."

              His demeanor changed from frazzled to focused. "Oh. But didn’t you hear the news?"

              "Yeah, I heard. Matson was arrested, but I just received some new information that I think you'll want to hear. Can I come in?"

              "Come in, please."

              She stepped in to the familiar home, her duffel bag hoisted over her shoulder. "I'm sorry; I was just at the gym and was in the neighborhood. Forgive my appearance. Can I put this down? I've got my weights in here."

              "Sure."

              "Thank you." She dropped the bag with a clunk. "Phew. I try to tell myself that carrying it around is actually a good thing. They say you should carry the weight bag around to and from the gym, just to get a couple more reps in. I don’t buy it. But here I am anyway."

              "What can I do for you?" he said curtly.

              "Uh, yeah. I was thinking about what you said about the guy Matson. And so I went down there to talk with him."

              "You didn’t."

              "Yeah, I did."

              His voiced rose in anger. "Why did you do that? That was irresponsible and, if you don’t mind me saying, stupid."

              "I do mind you saying and I assure you I took every precaution."

              "I'm sorry," he said automatically. "What happened?"

              "Well, funny you should say. Listen, can I get some water? I finished all of mine."

              He huffed out an impatient breath and led her to the kitchen. There he handed her a glass.

              "Oh my, thank you." She drank long and hard. "Oh, that's wonderful. Thank you. Where did you get these glasses? They're beautiful."

              "Honey got them. Do you mind getting on with your story?"

              His cell phone began ringing.

             
It's about time
, Allie thought.

              He stared at the number as if trying to place it, then answered the call.

              "Yeah."

              Allie could just make out Del's shrill voice on the other end.

              "
Hi, is this Mr. Van de Kamp?
"

              He started at the name. "Uh, I'm sorry, who?"

              "
Mr. Van de Kamp?
"             

              "Uh, I-I'm afraid you have the wrong number."

              "
Is this...
"

              He confirmed his phone number. "Yes, but there's no person by that name here."

              "
Sir, this is Molly Feisdeck from Chittenden County First National? We have a 401K payout check here in the amount of three hundred and twenty-five dollars for a Mr. Van de Kamp?
"

              His eyes widened. "Wait, what? Who is this?"

              "
Sir, this is Chittenden County First National?
"

              "No, I mean how did you get this number?"

              "
Sir, this number is listed as the primary contact number on Mr. Van de Kamp's employee contact sheet?
"

              Bennett Reilly froze.

              "
Mr. Van de Kamp? Sir? Hello?
"

              He clicked his phone off and ran into a room off the main hallway.

              Allie retrieved her duffel bag from the foyer and then found Bennett in a cozy study. Done in red leather and muted earth tones, the room was his own personal space, probably the one space in the entire house that could boast that distinction. Against the wall was a tiny bookshelf full of bestsellers. Next to that, Bennett sat at his desk, drumming nervously on its surface as he waited for his computer to boot up. The other shelves were occupied by a trophy, a few statuettes, and pictures of people Allie didn’t recognize. A red leather couch sat opposite his desk, off to the side, and a plain brown coffee table piled with oversized art books sat semi-functionally in front of it. Bennett's desk was uncluttered and polished, and dominated by a large computer screen.

              Allie placed her duffel bag in front of the coffee table and unzipped it slowly.

              Bennett spoke while staring at his computer screen. "Uh, I'm s-sorry, I have a lot of stuff I—, I have to do this—, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

              This very moment – occupied by his frantic logging on and tapping so nervously at the keys that he backspaced several times and retyped, swearing under his breath – was enough distraction for Allie. She calmly and silently unsheathed the item in her duffel bag and placed it gingerly on the coffee table.

              "Bennett, are you ok?"             

              He clicked furiously at the keyboard. "No, I mean yes, it's just—, listen I need you to go, I just remembered something. I have to do it for work. I'm sorry."

              She crept around him to have a look over his shoulder. "Bennett," she said calmly, "what is it?"

              "Don't look at th—, I mea—, it's private. Please."

              The butterflies in her stomach had turned into bats, yet she knew calmness was key. "You're accessing the company records," she said with breathy control of her voice. "You'll be caught."

              "They don’t know what they're looking for!" He looked up at her, a horrified expression frozen on his face as he realized what he'd just said.

              "They know now. I called them a little while ago. They have someone monitoring the account for hackers as we speak. They'll see you logging in. They'll see how and when you've logged in before. They'll link the Van de Kamp account with Roger Chernow's bank info. They'll get Chernow when it's time for him to collect the balance for the hit. I'm guessing he probably hasn’t offered you a refund. Oh and by the way, Sam Weller? Tracy Tupman? Do you really think you're the only one who's ever read
Pickwick
?" She let her indignation show, and she was glad. She let her words sink in before adding, "It's over, Bennett."

              He seemed to struggle for words. "What are you talking about?"

              She moved in closer and leaned down to achieve eye level.

              "I don’t have any proof whether she really confessed to you when you say she did. But I'm willing to bet she confessed an affair to you on the night she was murdered, and the two of you fought."

              His face was twisted up with emotion. "I-I don’t know what I'm hearing right now."

              "You fought," Allie continued, "and it brought up all the hate and the humiliation you'd been feeling for years. It must have been hard trying to please a wife like Honey and never getting anywhere. Having her chide you in front of the workers, suffering comments about how obvious it is that The Clipboard doesn't wear the pants in the relationship, having her drag you around spending your hard-earned money, having affairs. You fought, and it dredged up all that. And I'm guessing she was dismissive of you and your feelings as she always was."

              He trembled, and his eyes welled up with tears.

              "At some point she turned her back on you. It was one time too many. So you hit her, in a blind rage, with
that
."

              She pointed at the coffee table where she'd unsheathed the knife block Del had picked up for a song at Something Found, a thrift store in Shelburne.

              His expression of sadness turned to wide-eyed panic.

              Allie stood up and hovered over him. "It's too bad. The blackmail note would have been pretty good cover. You could always say you never paid the guy and so he came and killed your wife. Who would know? If only your emotions didn’t overrule your plans, maybe you could've gotten away with it."

              He stood up and walked toward the coffee table, then put his hand to his mouth as his knees suddenly gave out, sending him to the floor, all the while staring at the knife block as if it were Honey's ghost condemning him from beyond the grave.

              "I have to admit, it was also pretty clever how you covered up. The table leg, the prints, and not to mention your keen understanding of Chief Dupond's stake in this case. She did confess that night, didn’t she? And it was
his
name she gave you."

              He said nothing, merely nodded.

              "I'm just curious," she said, softening her voice, "how did you get Matson's fingerprints on the leg?"

              It was a minute before he answered, "There are no prints."

              The final puzzle piece fitted into place, and Allie caught herself smiling. "You blackmailed him. What do you have on him?"

              He shook his head, and his face became pinched with self-pity. "Nothing."

              Bennett Reilly sat on the floor for several minutes, whimpering and trembling. And Allie took a seat on his couch. She made her last call of the night. And after several minutes passed, the windows suddenly flickered and filled up with red and blue lights.