The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (17 page)

“Number twenty-two,” Courtney said, pointing.

“‘Marijuana joint, half inch,'” I read. “Kolby! He was toking up on the roof. He could've gotten into it with his father, lost his temper, and pushed him off.”

“We don't know when he was up there,” Courtney pointed out. “He could have dropped that joint days or even weeks earlier. Judging by the number of cigarette butts, no one ever swept the roof. And even if he was in the habit of sneaking a joint on the roof now and then, it doesn't rule out the possibility that he also liked to smoke behind the Dumpster on occasion.”

I reluctantly conceded her point, but added, “I still think he was lying about why he was out there.”

“Most people lie,” Courtney said cynically. “The trick is sorting out what they're lying about and why. People might lie about their whereabouts at the time of the crime because they were having an affair, or doing a line of coke, or something else embarrassing or criminal, not because they were involved in the crime being investigated. It didn't take me more than one case as an associate to realize that. I'll bet you there's a lie in every one of those statements. Except yours, of course,” she added politely.

“And Derek's!”

She remained silent and studied the page in her hand.

I studied her, hovering between anger and curiosity.
“You think Derek lied to the police about something? What?”

“I don't know, but he was drunk and facing a tough situation when they interviewed him that night. It would be miraculous if there weren't any . . . discrepancies.”

“Discrepancies” sounded so much better than the
L
word. “Will you be able to get him off?” I asked.

She gave me a straight look. “Probably. The scene was chaotic, lots of people had motive and opportunity, there are no witnesses—juries love witnesses, even though they're notoriously unreliable—and the only physical evidence is Gordon's blood on Derek's shirt, and I've got a plan for handling that. On the downside, several people, including you, know he and Gordon were fighting about money and how to run the pub, and he gets that million-dollar insurance payout.”

Big downsides. I eyed the striking lawyer curiously. It was none of my business, but I asked anyway. “Are you and Derek . . . ?”

“Derek and I are lawyer and client,” Courtney said with an enigmatic smile. “Look, I've got a meeting in half an hour, so I've got to go.” She rose to her feet in one graceful movement and began to gather the documents together.

After showing her out, I threaded my way through the balloons and worked hard on upcoming events until five o'clock.

T
his being Thursday, I headed for movie night with the Readaholics. When the book we were reading had been made into a movie, we usually watched it together after we discussed the book. Movie nights were usually at Maud's or Brooke's, because they had the nicest TV-viewing setups. Brooke, of course, had a full-up home theater with stadium seating and a projection screen. Maud had a big-screen TV in her living room, which had ample seating. You had to take a sweater, though, because her house was always chilly. Lola didn't even own a TV and Roman and his buddies usually took over Kerry's television for their Xbox games.

Driving to Maud's, I thought through the case, wishing I'd had time to read more of the documents Hart had turned over to Courtney. The thought made me think of him, and as I pulled into Maud's driveway, I dialed his number.

“Thank you,” I said when he answered.

“For what?”

“Arresting Derek.”

He choked on a laugh. “I never thought I'd hear you say that.”

“I never thought I'd say it,” I admitted, “but Courtney Spainhower explained about discovery and mentioned that the HPD was really cooperative about turning over documents and reports, and whether you thought that through before you arrested Derek, or you're just being decent, I appreciate it.”

“If it comes to trial, I'll have to testify,” Hart warned me.

“It won't come to trial,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “And if it does, Courtney will tear you apart on the stand, shred your testimony, and make you wish you'd decided to open a bakery instead of become a cop.” I let a little humor creep into my voice to show that I was kidding . . . sort of.

“She can try.” Hart's tone said he didn't think she'd succeed. “It's not exactly my first go-round as the lead investigator in a homicide, you know, and I rather suspect it is Ms. Spainhower's first appearance as lead counsel on a murder-one case. Let's hope it doesn't come to trial.”

“Amen.” I realized that a trial would almost certainly end my just-beginning relationship with Hart. Whether or not Derek got convicted, I was sure I wouldn't be able to get the images of Hart testifying against him out of my mind. I could tell myself until the cows came home that he was only doing his job, but Derek was my brother. The thought crushed me and I struggled for something to say. Kerry's Outback pulled up to the curb and she got out. “I've got to go,” I said.

“Thanks for calling,” Hart said, his rising inflection asking if we were okay.

“Sure,” I said, not feeling sure about anything.

“Any chance of seeing you Friday night?”

“I've got a bachelorette party.”

“Wow, that was sudden. Who's the lucky guy?”

I laughed, feeling lighter again. “No one you know—he's from Oklahoma. The bride is a sorority sister of Brooke's. It's a hen party, of course, but I could maybe sneak you in if you want to wear a cop uniform and take it off while singing ‘I'm Too Sexy for My Shirt.'”

Hart made a gagging sound, and I rang off, still laughing, and got out of the van to greet Kerry.

Inside, the happy aroma of popcorn pulled us into Maud's living room, where she, Lola, and Brooke had already staked out positions on the charcoal gray sectional sofa. I sat on the floor with my back against the sofa, between Lola and Brooke, because I didn't like the couch's too-squashy cushions. The opening credits for the movie were frozen on the huge television screen.

“We're having sidecars tonight, in honor of the Orient Express,” Maud said, waving to a tray with martini glasses filled with a golden yellow drink. “They're a classic 'thirties cocktail with cognac, Cointreau, and lemon juice. I never thought I'd find a way to use the Cointreau someone gave Joe for his birthday two or three years ago, but this fits the bill nicely.” She held a glass up to the light. “I remember my mom drinking them, with a precious little spiral of lemon rind. I'm not the garnish type, so you'll have to make do.” She urged us toward the tray. “It would be more authentic if we
had a steward to bring them to us, but I'm afraid we'll have to settle for self-service.”

We laughed. When everyone had a drink, Maud dimmed the lights and clicked the remote. The rumble of the train, the elegance of the 1930s costumes and hairstyles, and the edgy tension of the dialogue held us spellbound for the first half of the movie, although there were some complaints about the casting.

“They did a good job casting the men,” Kerry said, crunching on popcorn, “but the women—good grief! Lauren Bacall as an ‘elderly' American lady, who I pictured as overweight, and Ingrid Bergman as a woman the book described as having a ‘sheeplike' face. Come on! There is nothing in the world less sheeplike than Ingrid Bergman.”

“Jacqueline Bisset is lovely as the young countess,” Lola said.

“Albert Finney makes a good Poirot,” Maud put in. “Arrogant and obnoxious.”

“Shush,” I commanded, trying to catch the dialogue.

“It would be easier to find Gordon Marsh's real murderer if you had a finite set of suspects,” Kerry observed later during a quiet moment. “Poirot had it easy—no one could come and go.”

“True,” I said. “I drew up a timetable today, like Poirot did. Here.” I had made copies of it and I passed them out, explaining about Courtney and the discovery materials she had shared with me. “I'm afraid it doesn't help much. This other page”—I passed it out—“is the crime scene sketch that was in the file.”

“You know,” Lola said slowly, studying the latter, “I
don't know if I could have dragged a man Gordon's size fifteen or twenty feet and then gotten him up and over the wall, and I'm stronger than most women.”

Biting my lip, I nodded in agreement. Lola wasn't tall, but she had muscular arms and legs, a product of hauling heavy plants and sacks of fertilizer and soil around all day at Bloomin' Wonderful.

“She's got a point,” Maud said. “Gordon must have weighed—what?—two twenty, at least? And a dead body is just plain awkward. I've only got experience with deer and elk, of course, but moving a body is not like lifting a nice, stable weight bar at the gym.”

“We should try it,” Brooke announced, startling me. “We need to know if we can rule out the women suspects.”

I turned to look at her. “We should try throwing someone off the pub roof?”

“No.” She laughed, but didn't look any less determined. “We try an experiment here. How high was the wall?”

I held my hand just below my rib cage. “About here.”

“Okay. Maud, do you have anything around here that's about that height?”

Maud thought for a moment, upper lip pushing out over the lower. “I think the deck rail's just a bit lower.”

Kerry, getting into the spirit of the experiment, asked, “Who's going to be Gordon? None of us weigh anything like two twenty.”

Mischief sparkled in Maud's pale blue eyes. “Joe's home.” She disappeared down the hallway and
reappeared a moment later with Joe Wrobleski, a rumpled-looking guy of her height and age, sporting a closely trimmed, mostly gray beard.

“I hear you need a guinea pig,” he said good humoredly, his voice a bass rumble.

“Do you mind?” Brooke asked.

Like most males, he was not proof against her hopeful green eyes. “Heck no. I was only watching a
Big Bang
rerun.”

“To the deck,” Brooke said, twirling her hand over her head and pointing.

We trooped through the kitchen and out the back door onto the deck. Only a thin line of yellow showed on the western horizon, so Maud turned on a light so we could see what we were doing. It startled a great horned owl that took off from a lodge pole pine near Maud's boat shed. Moving the picnic table and grill, which took up most of the room on the deck, we cleared a space for Joe to lie down.

“He needs a towel,” I said, “so he won't get splinters when we drag him.”

“Good thinking.” Maud whisked away and came back with a ratty army blanket, which she folded into a pad and spread on the deck.

“Okay,” Brooke said, apparently appointing herself director, “who wants to be the murderer?”

“Should I be faceup or facedown?” Joe interrupted, lowering himself to the blanket with an audible creak from his knees.

We looked at one another. “I don't think it matters,”
I finally said. “Faceup will probably be more comfortable, since we're going to drag you.”

“Absolutely,” Kerry said. When no one moved forward to be the murderer, she said, “Oh, heavens, I'll do it.” She positioned herself behind Joe's head, reached down, and hooked her hands under his armpits. Her bangs flopped into her eyes and she tossed her head impatiently so she could see. In a crouch, she began to drag him across the deck. Joe stiffened initially, but when Brooke ordered him to go limp, he let his head loll and asked, “How's this?”

“Corpses don't talk,” Maud reminded him.

Corpses don't have muscle control, either, but I noticed he gripped handfuls of the blanket in either fist so it slid along with him and he didn't get pulled off it.

Kerry was breathing hard after five steps and grunting before she was halfway to the rail. She paused, lowering Joe to the deck. “You're sure you only weigh two twenty?” she asked the corpse.

Without opening his eyes, he mumbled, “Two fourteen this morning,” from the side of his mouth.

Trying a new approach, she hooked her elbows under his calves and began to drag him. She managed to get to the deck rail with only a couple of complaints from the corpse about splinters, but we could all tell there was no way she was going to be able to maneuver him to waist height and dump him over. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, Kerry said, “There have got to be easier ways to kill someone.”

Maud handed her her drink. “Let me see if I can get him up in a fireman's rescue carry.”

With a great deal of effort, Maud finally managed to get Joe slumped over her shoulder, head down her back, her arm clamped around the back of his thighs at chest level. To his credit, Joe didn't object once, not even when he started to slip and we all jumped forward to wedge him against her shoulder. She staggered to the deck rail with him and tried to heft him up and forward enough to get him over the rail.

“Ow,” Joe complained as she banged his spine against the wood.

After two more tries, Maud told him to stand up. He brushed himself off and rubbed his back. “This has given me a new perspective on hazardous occupations,” he said. “Next time I'm inching down a canyon wall to get a shot of cliff swallows, I'll remember this and not complain.”

“You were a good sport,” Brooke said.

“A strong man might just have been able to get him over the railing,” said Lola, who'd stood a bit away observing the whole process like the scientist she was, “but I have trouble seeing any woman managing it on her own.”

“She'd have blood on her, too,” Brooke pointed out, “if she'd done that rescue carry. And her clothes and hair would be a mess. Surely someone would have noticed if a woman disappeared for twenty minutes or so and then came back looking like she'd been wrestling a bear?”

“Hey,” Joe objected.

“I meant a very handsome, gentle bear.” Brooke smiled at him.

“That's okay, then,” he said. He drew his hands down his beard to smooth it. “The corpse needs a drink. What's that you're having?”

Once Joe had a sidecar, we reassembled in the living room. “I still think it was more than one person,” Maud said stubbornly. “It's too awkward for one person alone, even a man.”

“You might be right,” Kerry said reluctantly (because she hated to agree with Maud on anything conspiracy-related). “If so, who are the obvious coconspirators?”

“Kolby and Susan,” I said.

“I nominate the WOSCers,” Maud said. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, never mind dozens of women scorned.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Joe teased. He sat beside her, their thighs touching, and their obvious respect and affection for each other made me happy.

“His sister and her husband had the most visceral motive,” Lola said. “They think he's responsible for their daughter's death. I'm a Christian woman, and Axie's my sister, not daughter, but I'd sure want to hurt anyone who hurt her.” Her eyes behind her glasses were quite fierce.

“Angie's too small and he's got an alibi,” I pointed out.

Lola's shrug said she wasn't convinced.

“Anyone know Gene Dreesen, Angie's husband?” I asked.

“He's an accountant,” Brooke said. “He does the books for the dealership, but I've never met him.”

How would Hercule Poirot finagle a meeting with a suspect? He'd march in and introduce himself as the world's greatest detective. That wasn't going to work for me. What would Lydia Chin do? Or V. I. Warshawski? Before I could figure that out, Kerry interrupted my thoughts.

“Money makes the world go round,” Kerry said, pulling off a clip earring and massaging her earlobe. “I'm with Amy-Faye. I think it was the ex and the son. They're the ones who benefit most.”

“Except she sat at the WOSC table all night—wasn't gone for more than five minutes at a crack, according to the other women,” I said. I pointed to my timeline.

“But you don't have anything down here for Kolby,” Brooke said.

“He was moving around too much, serving drinks, going to the kitchen to pick up food orders, and who knows what else? We could maybe track his movements more closely with the receipts from that night,” I said, the thought striking me so quickly that I sat up and spilled a couple of drops of my second sidecar on my thigh. “Every server has a code that they enter into the computer when logging an order. I could pull up the data from that night and see what it tells us.”