The Chocolate Cupid Killings (16 page)

I blinked dully, wondering how to react.

Hogan pressed his point. “Do you know what's wrong, Lee?”

“I'm trying to thick. I mean, think! Give me a minute.”

Quandary with a capital Q. Of course, probably what Aunt Nettie was upset about was keeping quiet about Pamela—Pamela who turned out to be Christina and who had left in the middle of the night with Myrl. We both felt guilty about not telling Hogan her real identity. But Aunt Nettie's best friend was determined that Myrl's name must not appear in this, no matter what. So that left Aunt Nettie—and me—between the proverbial rock and the equally proverbial hard place.

Aunt Nettie wasn't going to be happy with me if I blabbed to Hogan about Pamela. I sighed. “I'm sorry. I can't tell you a thing.”

He leaned back in his chair and eyed me casually. I remembered uneasily that over his forty years in law enforcement Hogan had interviewed hundreds of unwilling witnesses. My face began to feel hot.

“Seems as if a whole bunch of folks are disappearing around here,” he said.

“Success? I mean—Such as?” Now I'd done it. My tongue had twisted twice, and Hogan would know that meant I was nervous. “Who's disappeared?”

“That detective who came to see you. The second guy.”

“O'Sullivan? I thought the State Police had hauled him in.”

“Nope. He fled the scene before they got to him.”

“Doesn't that show that he feels guilty?”

“We all feel guilty about something. He's probably headed back to Georgia. They'll pick him up. I'm more concerned about that woman who disappeared.”

I made my voice as innocent as possible. “What woman?”

“Some woman who worked here in the shop. Nettie won't tell me anything about her.”

“Then how did you know she disappeared?”

“Joe let it out. He said you'd been up and down last night because some woman came to the house, slept a few hours, then left.”

“Oh,” I said. We both sat silently for a few minutes.

Hogan finally spoke. “So, Lee, who was this woman?” I

sighed. “She was a temporary employee named Pamela Thompson. She had been having family problems. She called Aunt Nettie last night—while you were busy investigating Derrick Valentine's death—and told her she thought the guy she was afraid of had found her.”

“Who was this guy?”

“Her ex-husband, I think. Anyway, Aunt Nettie met her at the Shell station out on the highway and brought her to our house.”

“Why didn't she bring her to our place?”

“You'll have to ask Aunt Nettie that one. But I think it was because she thought whoever was looking for Pamela would be less likely to find her at our house.”

“Where did this Pamela Thompson go?”

“I don't know, Hogan. She had contacted a friend, and someone showed up to get her about five-thirty this morning.”

“Who picked her up?”

“I'd never seen the woman before, and Pamela didn't introduce us.” That wasn't exactly a lie. I went on hurriedly. “All I know is that Pamela went willingly.”

Hogan kept looking at me. I knew he was trying to get me to add to my story. I was determined that I wouldn't do that.

After about two minutes of silence, Hogan won. I spoke. “Hogan, I don't see how Pamela could have had anything to do with Derrick Valentine's death. She never spoke to him. He never saw her. They had no contact.”

Hogan rubbed his eyes with both heels of his hands. He looked exhausted.

“I guess I'm getting tunnel vision,” he said. “It's just that we have this dead detective. Then we have this missing detective. Then there's this missing woman. Then we have the Marson Endicott bunch nagging us over their missing woman. Who turns up on CNN, so I guess she's not missing anymore. And now you think Harold Belcher may be in town.”

He gave a deep sigh. “It's a regular crime wave. And with all these things happening at the same time in a town this small, it seems as if they should fit together.”

“What could Pamela—a woman willing to take a temporary job doing unskilled work in a chocolate shop—have to do with a high flier like Marson Endicott?”

“Beats me.” He stood up. “You ready to go?”

“Let me call Joe and tell him I'm on the way.”

“Yeah. It'd be dumb to get escorted to your vehicle here on the main street, then run through the deep, dark woods to get into your house.”

I gathered up the last bit of work I'd hoped to accomplish—comparing the phone bill to my own record of long distance calls—and stuck my computer flash drive in my pocket. Now that you can load a mass of information on a gadget five-eighths of an inch by two and three-eighths inches, I try to take it home automatically, so that I can work at home if I need to.

Hogan escorted me to my van; then he followed me home. He pulled into the drive behind me, said, “Hello,” when Joe came out to meet us, and declined an invitation to come in.

He drove away leaving me mired in guilt so deep I could hardly walk into the house. I was longing to tell him the whole story, not the carefully expurgated version I'd handed out. I felt terrible. Hogan treated me almost like a daughter. He had been wonderful to me and to Joe.

Plus, he was a highly professional law officer. He might be able to use the information I was keeping to myself.

But I couldn't say anything without getting Sarajane's approval. I simply could not threaten the carefully built structure of her underground railroad.

I decided to make one more effort at getting Sarajane's permission to tell Hogan the real story about Pamela-Christina.

Joe went back to some basketball game he'd been watching, and I went into the bedroom and called Sarajane. I nearly fell off the bed when a man answered.

“Good evening! Peach Street Bed-and-Breakfast!”

A man? Answering Sarajane's phone?

I was even more surprised when I recognized the voice.

“Rhett?”

His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “P.J., what are you doing calling this number? Listen, I'm taking care of this end.”

“Rhett?”

He kept whispering. “I'll call you on my cell. It may be an hour or so.”

Then he hung up.

I stared at the phone. That was the oddest phone call I'd ever taken part in.

For a moment I wondered if I'd called the right number. Then I remembered; Rhett had answered with “Peach Street Bed-and-Breakfast.” Yes, I had called Sarajane's number, though I had no idea why Rhett answered it.

I began to laugh. Who did Rhett think I was? Obviously someone he didn't want to talk to at the moment. That left a lot of possibilities, of course. It could be the person who ate the second pizza. It could be some business contact he was trying to dodge. Maybe it was someone he owed money. But I really couldn't see any reason why it would be me.

In fact, he'd said a name. Or rather initials. “P.J.” They meant nothing to me.

I still needed to talk to Sarajane. I hit redial.

Rhett answered again. “Peach Street Bed-and-Breakfast.”

This time I started with my name. “It's Lee Woodyard, Rhett. I wanted to talk to Sarajane.”

Rhett gasped, then spoke. “Mrs. Woodyard? Did you call a moment ago?”

“Yep.”

“I'm so sorry I hung up. I thought you were someone else.”

“That's what I figured. What are you doing at Sarajane's?”

“I'm helping out with computer problems. We stuck Mrs. Harding with three of our guys, and one of them is having trouble checking his e-mail.”

“He'll continue to have problems,” I said. “Warner Pier is still in the dark ages computer-wise. No wireless service.”

“I have a direct satellite link, so I brought my laptop over for him to use.”

“Where's Sarajane?”

“Mrs. Harding is preparing bedtime snacks. She asked me to get the phone because she was halfway up the stairs with a tray of cheese, fruit, and cookies. Shall I have her call you back?”

At that point I heard a voice roar in the background. The roar faded to a rumble almost immediately, and I deduced that Rhett had put his hand over the receiver, blocking the sound. But I had caught three words, none of them fit to be used in polite company.

Poor Sarajane, I thought. Potty Mouth was one of her guests.

In thirty seconds or so Rhett was back on the line. “Sorry,” he said. “I had to take care of a problem.”

“Who is that guy?” I asked.

“Whom do you mean?”

“Potty Mouth. He was swearing at the television set this morning.”

“I believe you're referring to Mr. Smith. Elliot J. Smith. Mr. Smith is chief financial officer of the Prodigal Corporation.”

I made a disgusted noise. “I can't believe a man that crude has reached the upper echelons of an important corporation.”

“Oh, yes, it's true.” Rhett's voice was amused.

“You must have an extremely varied set of duties.”

“Yes, Mr. Smith is regarded as a financial genius. I think Mrs. Harding will be here shortly. Do you want to hold?”

“He's standing there, right? And he's mad because his e-mail won't behave.”

“That is correct.”

“Tell Sarajane I'll be up until midnight, and it's important that I talk to her.”

We hung up.

I had learned one interesting thing. Potty Mouth was Elliot J. Smith. He'd been mentioned often in the articles about the Prodigal scandal.

Elliot J. Smith had a lot to swear about, according to the newspapers and magazines. If the charges of financial manipulation being lodged against Marson Endicott were substantiated, the chief financial officer of Prodigal was in serious trouble. There's no way he could have failed to know what was going on unless he hadn't been to the office in a couple of years.

I decided I might as well get into something comfortable. As I put on my emerald green velvet robe—the one Joe gave me—I thought over my conversation with Rhett. It still seemed odd for him to be at Sarajane's, despite his responsibilities for tending to the needs of all the members of Marson Endicott's business conference.

But Rhett hadn't simply been surprised by my first call, when he'd mistaken me for someone else; he'd been annoyed, or even alarmed. And what was he taking care of? As in, “I'm taking care of things at this end.”

Again I wondered who P.J. was. She could have been calling from anywhere in the world, not just from Warner Pier, but maybe the call was from his fellow pizza eater.

And just who was that?

And, I asked myself, was the identity of Rhett's pizza pal any of my business? The answer was no.

I had zipped up my robe and picked up the phone bill I needed to go over when Sarajane called back.

She sounded harried. “Lee. What's up?”

“I need to talk to you seriously, Sarajane, so if this isn't a good time . . .”

“No. I think I have everybody settled. Thanks to Rhett.”

“He seems to be the go-to guy for that bunch at the Dome Home.”

“He's been a godsend to me. He came over last night, explained exactly who would be staying here, and what each man would need. He's even giving them breakfast tomorrow. Now, what can I do for you?”

I steeled myself for an argument. “Sarajane, you've left Aunt Nettie in a bad spot over Pamela, and I'm not sure how much longer she can go on without telling Hogan who Pamela really was and who took her away.”

I expected a huge protest. Instead, I got silence.

I went on. “I'm not kidding. You know Aunt Nettie's about as sneaky as—well, as sneaky as a brass band in full marching regalia, with cymbals.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Tonight Hogan began on me. He knows she's hiding something, and he wants to know what it is. He's going to keep asking her. How long do you think she can hold out?”

“About a minute.”

“Right. Aunt Nettie is simply going to have to tell him about Pamela. Wouldn't it be better if you told him?”

Sarajane gave a deep sigh. “I'm afraid you're right, Lee.”

It was my turn to give a deep sigh. Of relief. “Sarajane, I'm sure that's the thing to do.”

“Can we wait until morning?”

“Actually, Hogan went home less than an hour ago, and he seemed completely exhausted. I think waiting until morning is an excellent idea.”

“Maybe by then Myrl and Pamela will have turned up.”

“Turned up? I thought they called in early this afternoon.”

“They did. Or Pamela did. But . . .”

“But what?”

“Myrl always calls her mother at eight p.m. every night. No matter where she is. And tonight she didn't call.”