The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (20 page)

“T
hat's a whole boatload of ‘could haves' you've got there, and not much proof,” Hart observed twenty minutes later.

We were seated in his office and I had blurted my theory out, barely stopping for breath, when he invited me back and offered me a chair. His office in the Heaven Police Department was a small room with windows on two sides. Paint, flooring, and furniture were all institutional blah and utilitarian, but a full set of Sherlock Holmes novels and short stories were bookended by a plaster deerstalker cap and pipe, a bag with bat handles peeking out slouched in one corner, and Ugga, the University of Georgia's bulldog mascot, perched atop the printer, wearing a red jersey. A vinegary odor confused me until I noticed the remains of a take-out salad in his trash can.

“But it all fits,” I said, leaning forward to convince him. “They had motive, means, and opportunity. You should have heard her—she hated Gordon. And Foster does, too. I was nervous of him in the kitchen, how gleeful he was telling me about his sabotage.”

“That doesn't make either of them killers,” Hart said, eyeing me, not without sympathy. “Look, we can reinterview her, focusing on her whereabouts rather
than her husband's, but even if she wasn't home, that doesn't prove anything.”

“What do you want?” I flashed. “Another blood-spattered shirt?” Even as I said it, I knew I wasn't being fair. He was a police officer, trying to build a case that would earn a conviction.

“That would be a strong piece of physical evidence, yes,” he said, remaining calm in the face of my attack. “The murder weapon with their fingerprints on it would also suffice. I could even pressure them if a witness saw her inside the pub. I'll ask some questions.”

I must have made a doubtful face, because he reiterated, “I will. You know Derek's still the strongest suspect, but that doesn't mean I'm not open to evidence that suggests otherwise.” His expression was sympathetic but firm; I was only going to piss him off if I pushed more.

“Thanks,” I muttered, standing. Hearing how ungracious I sounded, I smiled ruefully. “No, really. Thank you. I know you don't have to look into it, or even listen to my theories—”

“Like you'd let me ignore you,” he murmured.

“—but I really think I'm right about this. The Readaholics were all talking about how there was probably more than one person involved—”

“There's no proof of that, either.”

He was sure fond of the
P
word. “—and we were looking at trying to pair up people who don't have an obvious connection, but this makes so much more sense. Anita and Foster hate Gordon with a passion, whatever their individual reasons, and I could see how
they would spur each other on, how every time Anita had to forgo a manicure she probably said something nasty about Gordon, and how whenever he heard about his old buddies playing eighteen holes without him, Foster would add it to his tally against Gordon, until it felt
right
to them to go after him.”

“I saw that dynamic at work once in Atlanta,” he admitted. “I'm not saying you're wrong, just that we need to get—”

“Proof. I know.” I grinned at him. “That's why I channel Annie Laurance Darling or Stephanie Plum when I'm investigating, rather than Jane Rizzoli or some other cop who has to be all hung up on proving things in court.”

He rolled his eyes and made shooing motions. “Go. I have to give a talk to a middle school class about the joys of serving the community as a police officer. Maybe I'll channel T. J. Hooker.”

I stuck my tongue out, blew him a kiss, and left in a better mood than I'd been in for a week. I knew that if Hart looked into Anita and Foster's story, it would unravel and he'd find the proof that they had killed Gordon. Derek would be freed, I would no longer have to bartend, and life would go back to normal.

•   •   •

I needed a distraction that night, and the bachelorette
party I was in charge of was just the ticket. It was for a sorority sister of Brooke's and was being held at another friend's house. I'd ordered the custom invitations for fifty of the bride's closest friends, coordinated with the caterer and the party-supplies rental company, ordered party favors for the attendees, planned games, and, yes, booked a male stripper. The hostess, a thin blonde who still looked like she could be living in the Kappa Delta house at CSU, had insisted that she wanted a “tasteful” stripper. “Good-looking and built, of course,” she'd said, “and a good dancer, but nothing
dirty
. Tasteful.”

“Of course,” I'd said, nodding as if that made sense. It made as much sense as painting the town's gazebo pink. I'd immediately called Tom Smith, whose stage name was Raven, and booked him. He was my go-to guy for parties of this nature; he was reliable, had a wide repertoire of numbers ranging from cop to doctor to cowboy to Tarzan, and was smokin' hot. He wasn't shy, like Derek, about strutting his stuff in front of strange women. Also, he had a sense of humor, which I appreciated even if my clients were more appreciative of his other—
ahem
—assets.

Brooke waved to me when she came in, but I didn't have a chance to talk to her until after the women had giggled while playing the silly bridal games, tossed out bawdy remarks worthy of a
Hangover
movie while opening the presents (all lingerie somewhere on the scale from tasteful to hooker), eaten, and consumed an entire case of champagne. When the doorbell rang and
Raven entered to hoots and catcalls in his fireman's outfit, Brooke managed to draw me aside.

Beside the horse sculpture in the entryway, she whispered, “There's a girl who wants to meet us. Tuesday!”

It took me a moment to switch my brain from strippers to adoptions, but when I caught on I hugged her hard. “Oh, Brooke, I'm so happy for you.”

“It's not a done deal,” she said, twirling a strand of hair. “She could decide she doesn't like us, or find a couple she likes better, or decide to keep the baby.” I knew she was managing her own expectations more than mine. Raucous hoots and a loud rendition of “I'm Your Fireman” blasting from the living room made it hard to hear her.

“Still, it's a start. A good sign.”

Her green eyes sparkled with hope. “Keep your fingers crossed, okay?”

“My toes, too,” I promised.

“And don't tell anyone. I don't want to be answering lots of questions about it, especially if it falls through.”

I mimed zipping my lips. She hugged me again with a little squeal. “This is it, A-Faye. I can just feel it.”

Someone called to her and she slipped back into the party. I gave Raven his check when he finished, standing on the front stoop while the partiers finished drinking themselves into a coma. Frat boys had nothing on thirty-year-old women freed from their toddlers and husbands for a night. The night air was pleasantly cool and three moths bumped the glass porch light. Raven
was sweating from his exertions, and his long black hair was damp at the temples. He had the fireman's jacket draped over his shoulders, so I could still admire his tanned and oiled six-pack and pecs. We talked about his day job as a piano tuner and how my business was going. I watched as he counted the ones and fives that had been tucked into his G-string. I'd supplied them, of course (after suggesting it to the maid of honor hosting the party and getting her approval to bill for it), in a Ziploc baggie, and passed them out before he arrived, so I knew he'd made something in the three-hundred-dollar ballpark. Not bad for half an hour's work.

He kissed my cheek before he left. “When am I going to be dancing at your bachelorette party, Amy-Faye?” he asked, teasing.

“Not in this lifetime,” I said. Not because I was never getting married, but because I didn't plan to be ogling other men on the eve of my wedding, or ever again, hopefully. My husband would be my one and only oglee.

“With all the business you've thrown my way, I'd do it for free. In fact”—he took a step closer until I could feel the heat coming off of him—“I'd dance for you privately, anytime.”

I flattened my palm on his rock-solid chest and pushed him back. “Sheena break up with you again?” I asked.

He shrugged and gave a “you caught me” smile. “Yeah. She says she's done with me forever this time.”

I was unimpressed. “She said that the last three
times, too. To everyone at the salon. I heard some of her clients were running a pool to guess when she'd take you back.”

Nodding, he said, “Yeah, that's why I thought I'd put the moves on you quick, while I'm still unattached.”

Laughing, I pushed him off the stoop and said good night.

I
groaned and rolled over, burying my face in my pillow when my alarm went off at six o'clock the next morning. Saturdays were for sleeping in. Why, oh why, had I agreed to organize the Cherubim Glen community garage sale? Because the HOA president had asked me to and I foresaw a fair amount of business from future HOA functions and Cherubim Glen homeowners, I reminded myself. After dragging myself to the shower, I felt almost human when I emerged fifteen minutes later. I snagged a boiled egg from the fridge and a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and snarfed them down standing at the counter. Then I gathered my supplies and hit the road.

I'd actually enjoyed the garage sale challenge, right up until I had to roll out of bed before the early birds were patrolling for worms. This was the first one I'd been hired for, and I'd had fun contacting homeowners to see who wanted to participate, drawing up a map and having it printed, arranging advertising, suggesting parking and a shuttle from a nearby middle school so heavy traffic wouldn't disturb shoppers walking from sale to sale, contacting local high schools to see if they had any clubs who wanted to make some money
selling concessions on various street corners, hiring an off-duty cop to direct traffic, and more.

Cherubim Glen was a community of about a hundred homes and fifty patio homes located on the southwest corner of Heaven, not too far from the country club. It had its own landing strip, and some of the homeowners kept small planes parked out in back of their homes, as casually as I parked my van at the curb. Usually, a rolling gate barred entrance, but today it was wide-open, inviting shoppers and the merely curious into the exclusive enclave. I waved at the gate guard as I drove through and was relieved to see that many of the participants were already lugging stuff from their houses to their driveways, as I'd recommended. The sale was set to start at seven. I recognized Axie Paget with three friends, busy setting up a baked goods concession on one side of the most traveled intersection. I gave her a thumbs-up and she grinned. I made a mental note to stop by later, buy some cookies, and ask if she was interested in working for me a few hours a week.

The HOA president, a retired admiral, lived in a four-thousand-square-foot home he called a “cottage.” It was built to resemble an Adirondacks lodge and was decorated in what I thought of as “early-modern Hemingway,” with animal or fish trophies on every wall. Notwithstanding his penchant for killing any critter that swam, snarled, or had antlers or horns, Admiral Beaubridge was a nice guy who volunteered at the library and the hospital, and turned his powerful leadership abilities to many town projects. He had hired me
with the approval of his HOA board, given me an idea of the kind of event he wanted, and left me to it. My kind of client. He awaited me on his porch, hands on hips, looking like a fireplug in a crisp white shirt and khaki slacks that managed to suggest the uniform he had given up twenty years earlier. Iron gray hair was slicked back from a high forehead, making his Roman nose even more prominent. I always got the urge to hum “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General” when I spent time with him.

“Top o' the morning to you, Miss Johnson,” he called. “Lovely day for a tag sale.”

“Good morning, Admiral,” I answered, smiling. “I think we're all set.”

“Come aboard, come aboard,” he invited, gesturing me inside. “Coffee's on. You can brief me once we've been properly fortified.”

Gratefully sipping his superb coffee in a kitchen that was, of course, shipshape, I briefed him on all the arrangements.

“Excellent work, excellent work,” he said, beaming. “You'd have made an outstanding executive officer.”

I had no idea what an executive officer did, but he made it sound like high praise, so I said, “Thank you, Admiral.” I drained my cup. “I'm happy to work under your command anytime. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make sure the shuttle driver knows the route and that the signs are all posted.”

I carried out those tasks and then drove slowly around the community, watching as perhaps half of the homeowners buzzed their garage doors up and
dragged outgrown, unneeded, unwanted, or otherwise excess stuff onto their driveways and lawns. I could have furnished my whole house with the lamps, chairs, headboards, dressers, tables, linens, knickknacks, and small appliances for sale. Of course, the lamp needed a new cord, the headboard's brass needed lots of elbow grease and polish, the dresser needed leveling, the table refinishing, and the linens a good bleaching, but still. And the books! There were books at every other house, it seemed, ranging from pristine hardcovers to ratty paperbacks. I'd found a hardback Elizabeth George novel I didn't own a copy of, and a paperback Travis McGee mystery I didn't think I'd ever read, and asked the seller to put them aside for me. I knew I would be going home with ten or fifteen books for my to-be-read stack. One home had a pile of throw pillows I would check out later, and I called Lola to let her know there were twenty or so ceramic planters at another house. She could pick them up for a song and resell them at Bloomin' Wonderful.

I made my way around the neighborhood, stopping to chat with people I knew and lots I didn't. A boy on a Big Wheel zoomed down a sidewalk, and a large black cat with a white bib lurked under a garaged SUV, tail twitching back and forth. Grackles settled into the trees surrounding a lawn with a bird feeder and began their crackly gossiping. With sunlight slanting down and a cloudless sky, it was a beautiful day. Let the hordes descend, I thought, as my watch showed seven o'clock and the first shuttle arrived.

I'd been to the bank to get rolls of quarters and
packets of ones and I was busy for the first hour distributing change to sellers who hadn't planned ahead. I settled a dispute between two rival groups of high schoolers who both wanted the same corner for their soda and water sales, and helped an old woman roll a rack of what looked like 1950s–era clothes from her house to the sidewalk.

“This would look lovely on you, dear,” she said, “with your tiny waist.” She held up a nip-waisted jacket on a hanger. Moss green, it had padded shoulders and two big buttons crusted with sparkly rhinestones in shades of green, brown, and amber.

Beguiled by her comment about my tiny waist, I bought it for five dollars. She was telling another customer how becomingly a hat framed her lovely face when I walked away. I had to admire her sales technique.

I spotted Brooke and Troy looking at a crib and waved to them. Brooke's smile looked forced and I suspected her dark sunglasses hid a hangover from last night's bridal shower. Lola pulled over in the Bloomin' Wonderful van to thank me for the tip about the planters she had just loaded into the van. Two houses farther down, I came across Maud, stripping line from a reel she was obviously considering buying. She looked ready for a day on the river in her waffle-weave red Henley, cargo shorts, and Tevas. Of course, Maud always looked ready for a hunting, fishing, snowshoeing, hiking, or skiing adventure.

“I love garage sales,” she said. “Did I ever tell you I once went for two years without buying anything—
besides food and undergarments—other than at a thrift shop or yard sale? I still own some of those clothes—could probably make money off them at a vintage consignment store.” Her blue eyes, framed by crow's-feet, had a reminiscent look. She handed the reel to the waiting store owner and said, “I'll give you ten.”

“Why'd you do that?” I asked.

“Wanted to prove to my folks that their materialistic approach to life was shallow and crass. Of course, it didn't stop me from letting them pay my tuition at Berkeley,” she added. “I was a hypocrite.” She said it matter-of-factly, obviously having come to terms with her younger self's inadequacies long ago.

“Twelve-fifty,” the seller said.

“Done.” Maud handed over her money, accepted her change and the reel, and moved along with me.

Bargain hunters crowded the sidewalks and we stepped into the street. As we walked, I told Maud about my encounter with Anita Quinlan and my theory that she and Foster had conspired to kill Gordon.

Maud's eyes lit up. “Excellent work, Amy-Faye. Now, how do we get them to confess? It's too bad we're not trapped on a train with them. Wouldn't it be grand to get all the suspects in one place and present our theory?”

Maud sounded wistful, and I could see she really wanted to play Hercule Poirot and wow the suspects with our unraveling of the conspiracy, even the small two-person conspiracy that wasn't nearly as exciting as the fictional one that resulted in Ratchett's stabbing death. She turned to face me with a grimace. “I have a
feeling the police won't want to move without more evidence.”

“They don't. I already talked to Hart.” I kicked an acorn and watched it skitter down the street before disappearing into a storm drain.

“We should bug their phone. I have a couple of devices left over from—”

“That's against the law!”

She shrugged. “You've got to fight fire with fire. If the government has the means and the will to spy on its citizens, then the people have to—”

I stopped her before she could get too far on her hobby horse. “We're not talking about the government,” I objected.

She looked as though she was going to continue arguing in favor of wiretapping the Quinlans, but Kerry hailed us from a yard across the street. Roman, arm still in a cast wrapped in bright orange tape, stood a few feet away, sorting through a box of video games. Maud and I crossed over.

“Great event,” Kerry said to me. She rattled a box of kitchen gadgets. “Maybe I can get my neighborhood to do something similar. I wouldn't mind making a few bucks off some of the junk in my attic.” She considered a garlic press but set it back down with a muttered “Clutter.”

“I'd be happy to help you set it up,” I said.

“Have you told Kerry?” Maud asked me.

“Told me what?”

I shook my head and Maud summed up my suspicions of the Quinlans.

“That hangs together very well,” she said with a brisk nod. “I think you've cracked it.”

“Yeah, well, it won't do Derek any good unless I can prove it,” I said. “The police—”

“Your hot detective?” Kerry asked.

“—are hung up on proof,” I finished, ignoring her.

“Then we should get them some.” Kerry put her hands on her hips. “How hard can it be? You've got two pissed-off people, both of whom seem eager to run down Gordon Marsh to anyone who will sit still long enough to listen. Didn't you say the janitor had a drinking problem?”

“Well, the police found him drunk at the lake,” I said, “and I got the feeling he wasn't really at an interview, like Anita said, but that doesn't mean he was at a bar.”

“He was at a bar,” Kerry and Maud said together. “My father—” Kerry started. “My first husband—” Maud began.

Kerry and I stared at her. “You were married?” Kerry asked.

“Twice,” Maud said, looking amused at our astonishment. “A story for another time.”

I held up my hands, surrendering to their superior knowledge of drunks. “So, what's the plan? Drag him
to a bar, get him drunk, and pump him for details? Seems . . . unethical, to say the least.”

“We won't have to get him drunk,” Maud said. “He'll be drunk any time past ten a.m. if my ex is anything to go by.”

“One of us will have to make nice, get him talking about Gordon.”

“He knows me,” I said.

“And he might know my face,” Kerry put in. “My Realtor signs are on all those benches, and he might have seen me at a city function or something. Not to say I'm a celebrity, but I'm pretty well known in Heaven.”

She tried to hide it, but I could see her satisfaction in that. Coming from one of the poorest families in the county, Kerry had worked and scraped and saved to go to community college and then get her four-year degree. Her Realtor's license was the cherry on top, and she quickly became the most successful Realtor in a three-county area before marrying the former police chief, having two kids, and getting elected mayor when she decided town politics were too corrupt to allow the incumbent to continue in office. She had a lot to be proud of.

“Too well known to take a chance,” Maud agreed. “I'll do it.” Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. “I'll put on one of my old suits—I knew I had a reason for not letting Joe haul them to Goodwill—and feed the target a story about being laid off when my company got bought up. I don't think I can say Gordon was involved—that might be suspicious, don't you think?”

“Too much of a coincidence,” I agreed.

“I'll let him buy me a drink, cry a little—”

I couldn't imagine Maud crying.

“And he'll spill his guts,” Kerry finished for her. “Men always do,” she added. “Women get a bad rap for spilling secrets, but in my experience it's men who can't resist yapping, especially if it's something they're proud of, or want credit for.”

“How do we find his bar?” I asked.

“Start with any watering hole within walking distance of his apartment,” Kerry suggested. “He won't be driving—he doesn't need a DUI on top of his other troubles.”

“When?” I looked from Kerry to Maud.

“Tonight,” Maud said. “Joe's photographing geese in Canada, as if there aren't enough of those pooping pests here. He won't be back for a week. I was going to do my estimated taxes, but this will be more fun. It's against my principles to fund a government that wastes my money the way this one does, but Joe insists. He says another stint in jail would send me round the bend.”

Another?
I definitely needed to prime Maud's pump with a bottle of good wine and hear the story of her pre-Heaven life.

“I promised Roman I'd watch that new zombie movie with him tonight,” Kerry said, with a sideways look at her son, now chatting (if one could call monosyllabic responses “chatting”) with a pretty redhead who was signing his cast.