Double Shot Page 10
“Content as long as he’s winning,” Wilson mumbled. “What else?”
“Well, Ethel and Doreen still puzzle me. There’s some odd history between those old ladies. Something other than their sons being business partners.”
“Tiffany Sass and I paid a visit to A & B Developers,” Wilson said.
“Oh? I’m surprised they were open on a Saturday night.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “Abernathy and Buxton could be involved in this mess.”
“You think they killed people just to scare their mothers away from the Wade On Inn?”
“A and B are brutal about getting what they want,” he reminded me.
“But murder?” Candy asked, and he shrugged.
“We had to check it out,” Wilson explained. “But George Abernathy and Paul Buxton both have alibis for the nights in question.” He looked back and forth between Candy and me. “Anything else?
“Melissa Purcell’s hard to read,” I offered. “She’s so testy, but at the same time, she seems desperate for friends. She adores Spencer.”
Candy sat forward. “Should we tell him my theory now, Jessie?” She didn’t wait for my answer, but plunged on in and announced that Spencer’s wife did it.
“Did what?” Wilson asked.
“Like, duh! The murders! You know, since Spencer gambles so much? I bet his wife is pretty mad about it. Just like Mrs. Marachini.”
“Who?”
“The polka dot lady,” I explained, and before he could even think of a response to that, I suggested we stick to Spencer’s wife.
Wilson surprised me when he told us he had already checked into Dixie Wellington-Erring. “She has an alibi. At least for the second night in question.”
“She’s thrown Spencer out,” I said.
“He told you this?”
“Oh, yes. And if you ask me, it’s no wonder. The man is a professional flirt.”
Candy groaned. “All the women like Spencer except me.”
“You either love him or you hate him,” I said.
“What about you?” Wilson asked me. “Do you love him?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Never fear. Spencer’s too young for me.”
“Everyone but Avis Sage is too young for you, darlin.’”
***
“So enlighten me, Captain Rye,” I said as I unlocked my door a bit later. “Where were you and Tiffany tonight?”
I folded my arms and waited, determined to hold my ground on the threshold with much more resolve than I had shown the previous night.
Wilson shook his head. “Can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both. I don’t trust you.”
I guffawed. “You don’t trust me? Now that’s rich.”
“I’ll tell you what’s rich—Ian Crawcheck being spotted in the Wade On Inn parking lot this afternoon.” He reached for my elbow and moved us inside. “We need to talk.”
I mouthed a four-letter word to Snowflake and allowed my soon-to-be ex-beau to steer me into the kitchen before pulling away.
“Let me guess.” I took a seat at the counter. “You have someone staking out the parking lot?”
“Very good.” He turned on the stove and slammed my poor tea kettle onto the burner. “Officer Richardson called in that some fool pretending to be bird watching was out there taking pictures of the premises.”
“I told Ian to be discreet,” I mumbled.
It was Wilson’s turn to use that four-letter word. “Richardson didn’t recognize him. But he ran the plates and called me.” Wilson slammed the cups onto the counter. “‘Should I arrest him?’ he asks me.”
I grimaced. “Did he?”
“Nooo. Crawcheck should already be in jail for the crap he pulled last summer. But no, we did not arrest him.”
He took a very long, deep breath. “What were you thinking, Jessie? And what the hell does your ex-husband know about what’s going on at the Wade On Inn? And your involvement in it?”
“Nothing,” I said, and before he popped an artery, I related the story I had used to lure Ian out there. “Trust me, Wilson. He really doesn’t know what I’ve been up to. He has no idea he was helping with our investigation.”
“Our investigation!” Wilson practically shouted the ‘our.’
“Shall we check out his pictures?” I asked. “I’m sure he sent them, but I haven’t had a chance to look.”
I hopped off the barstool and started moving toward my computer, but Wilson told me to stop. “You’re a little scary. You know that?”
“Do you want to see the pictures or not?” I asked from the middle of the room.
“Not.” He beckoned me to sit back down and handed me my cup. “Believe it or not, my people took lots of photos themselves. I know what the crime scene looks like, for God’s sake.”
“But I don’t,” I argued. “I haven’t had a good chance to study that spot where the bodies were dumped. It’s always dark by the time I get out there.”
Wilson continued frowning as I continued arguing. “I wanted to see if it would be possible for an old person to push two bodies into the waterfalls.”
“I already told you, Jessie. It is possible. Why can’t you believe me?”
I mumbled some lame excuse about liking to get a clearer idea on my own.
“What’s the deal with you and your ex-husband, anyway?” he continued with the pesky questions.
I petted Snowflake, who had joined us at the counter. “I suppose you know about his new business? And its location?”
“I do now. I did some checking after his stunt this afternoon. Tell me why he’s set up shop in your backyard.”
I had no idea, but I bit the bullet and explained the showering arrangement. Despite Wilson’s huffs and puffs, I was even honest enough to mention the lunch I had served Ian that day, and the lunch I was planning to give him the next.
I did, however, consider it wise to skip the details about the fancy bacon from Wellington Market. I also decided to leave it to some other time before presenting Wilson with the goodies I had purchased for him and his cats. It was, perhaps, not the best moment to mention my excursion to Wellington’s?
“How long is this deal going to last?” Wilson pointed toward my bathroom. “I’m not all that crazy about Ian Crawcheck running around naked in here.”
Okay, so I may have grinned. Just a little. Then I assured my beau I had no intention of ever seeing Ian in the buff again. “And don’t worry. His lowdown, conniving, and altogether despicable new wife Amanda is bound to ask him to come home sooner or later.”
I mumbled something about how late it was getting and led Wilson to the door, where he couldn’t resist the urge to scold me one more time about my status as an amateur and a civilian.
“Concentrate on the pool table,” he said. “Leave the rest of the investigation to me.”
“To you and Tiffany Sass, you mean. Where were you two tonight?”
“I’m not telling you that, Jessie. The less you know, the better.”
“This, after I’ve been so forthright about Ian. Goodnight, Captain.” I tried to shut the door, but he stopped me.
“What?” I snapped.
“I was just going to thank you for doing such a great job of disguising yourself.” He glanced at the top of my head.
“Make one comment about my hair, Wilson Rye, and I swear to God, I will never speak to you again.”
“No really, Jessie. It’s great.” He continued staring and frowning. “But—“
“But what?”
“Well,” he sang. “With your hair like that you remind me of someone.” He squinted. “Someone from an old sitcom, maybe?”
I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. “Eddie Munster?”
“That’s it!” he exclaimed and clapped his hands.
When I opened my eyes he was pointing to my necklace. “Eddie Munster goes Hawaiian,” he said.
I shut the door.
***
She was watching me with those baleful gold eyes, no doubt wondering what possible excuse I could have for treating the charming Wilson Rye with such disdain.
“The man’s been out gallivanting with Tiffany La-Dee-Doo-Da Sass all night. I have a right to know where they were.”
I pointed to the computer and sat down. And I had a right to check out Ian’s pictures. After all, if he risked life, limb, and arrest to get the stupid shots, the least I could do was take a look.
While the internet booted up, I took off Candy’s seashells and placed them on the windowsill. Snowflake jumped up and tapped at them while I studied the photos Ian had e-mailed.
Unfortunately, Wilson was right. It would probably require some strength to toss a body over the safety railing which separated the Wade On Inn parking lot from the depths of Shinkle Creek. But almost anyone would be capable of shoving a dead body underneath that barrier. Even Avis Sage. Or even Ethel, or Doreen.
So much for narrowing down the list of suspects. “Well darn,” I said to Snowflake and closed my computer.
But then a new idea occurred to me, and I called my mother.
It was after one a.m., but Mother is a night owl. She picked up on the first ring, and I immediately told her there was nothing wrong. She may stay up until all hours, but she knows I usually do not.
“But something is wrong, Honeybunch,” she argued. “Is Wilson okay? Snowflake?”
I thought about my soon-to-be ex-beau and lied, “Everyone’s fine, Mother. But I do have a favor to ask of you. A big favor.”
Chapter 15
The dress shop was spinning. Or at least that’s how it felt to Sarina Blyss. The stricken girl trembled in stunned silence as Constable Klodfelder listed the criminal charges against her. Not only was Agnes Blyss claiming ownership of the golden necklace, but she was also insisting Sarina did not even exist!
The Constable turned his corpulent face to Mrs. Dickerson and explained that her new seamstress was not at all who she claimed to be, but was in truth one Daisy O’Dell—a lowly servant girl, formerly in the employ of the Blyss estate. According to Agnes, Sarina, nay Daisy, had not only left her position without giving proper notification, but had also absconded with the Blyss family’s most valued possession!
The Constable pointed a stubby finger at the prized jewelry, and with no further warning, pounced. Sarina recoiled in horror but was unable to stop the vile man from yanking her treasure from her. Shocked and indignant, she clutched the empty spot where her necklace had been while the Constable leered at her trembling bosom.
He jammed the trinket into the pocket of his soiled trousers, admonished the girl not to give him any trouble, and propelled her out the door of the dress shop.
Sarina felt the man’s beefy paw grope her bottom, but despite such rough handling, she somehow found the strength halt in the doorway and proclaim her innocence to her employer.
But Mrs. Dickerson only sputtered about how difficult it was to find honest help these days. She watched without protest as the Constable threw Sarina into the back of his cattle cart and drove away.
Sarina blinked back tears as the figure of Mrs. Dickerson receded into the background. Indeed, the ordeal was so terrifying that the lovely damsel could but assume she was being taken to the gallows!
***
Just how the dashing Duke of Luxley was going to deliver Sarina from such a fate was something Adelé Nightingale had yet to decide. Luckily my mother’s arrival saved me the trouble. I buzzed her in and rushed downstairs to help with her luggage.
“Goodness gracious, Honeybunch. What happened to your hair?” she offered by way of greeting.
I told her it was nice to see her too and led her to the elevator.
“Thank Karen for me?” she said as we rode up.
The elevator in our building had been forever on the blink. But after some issues a few weeks earlier, Karen finally got herself licensed to repair it. Even though I always use the stairs, I was happy the thing was in operation for my eighty-two year old mother.
She found a seat on the couch and greeted Snowflake while I made tea. When I glanced over from the kitchen, the cat was rolling around on her back, purring in ecstasy as my mother rubbed her tummy.
“How was the drive?” I forced myself to ask.
Mother didn’t answer, which could mean almost anything—that she didn’t hear me, that her habitual lead foot had almost caused an accident or two, that she had acquired a speeding ticket, or that her drive up from her home in South Carolina had been uneventful. Trust me, that last possibility was the least likely scenario.
“I’m afraid I was half asleep when you called last night,” she said. “Tell me again what you need me to do, Jessie?”
I repeated the plan. My mother was going to infiltrate The Cotswald Estates Retirement Home and get the lowdown on Ethel Abernathy and Doreen Buxton.
“There’s something fishy about those two,” I said as I poured our tea. “It may have something to do with Ethel’s deceased husband Harmon, but they’re being very cagey about it. Wilson’s concerned about their sons also.”
“You met Ethel and Doreen at this Wade On Inn establishment?”
I handed her a cup and sat down with Snowflake between us. “I’m not sure I would call the Wade On Inn an ‘establishment.’ Two people have been shot out there.” Mother grimaced and I continued, “Wilson insists the murders are related to a bet that went wrong at the pool table. But I’m wondering if the history between the old ladies might be relevant.”
“And you say Avis Sage plays there? I can’t believe you’ve run into him after all these years.” Mother offered the skylight a benevolent smile. “Bless his heart.”
I reached over and held her hand. “Were you listening last night when I mentioned Fritz Lupo?”
“Yes.” She squeezed hard. “The Fox is dead. Oh, but that makes me feel old.”
“He was a good player, wasn’t he?”
“Not as good as your father. But, yes, Fritz was good. And such a nice young man.”
I mentioned that Fritz Lupo was in his sixties when he was killed, and Mother mumbled something about how time flies.
“Wilson actually has you shooting nine ball at this dangerous bar?” she asked. “I’m surprised he’s allowing such a thing. That darling man loves you so much.”
I frowned. “Wilson Rye is far from darling. And it’s far from love.”
She let go of my hand. “He is darling. And it is love. Listen to your mother.”
I decided not to argue and reiterated what I hoped she would accomplish at The Cotswald Estates.
“I made an appointment for you,” I told her. “You’re meeting with the weekend manager, a woman named Tracy Brody. She’s going to show you around and introduce you to a few residents. Then she’s going to leave you on your own in the dining room for their Sunday brunch. I told her you wanted to try the food.”
“I’m to act interested in moving there, correct? And I’m to sit with Ethel and Doreen at lunch and see what I can discover?”
“Exactly. So, you’re willing to give this a try?”
“Willing?” She clapped her hands. “I can’t wait! I’ve never been a detective before.”
We drank our tea and worked out the details of her impending excursion. Mother wrinkled her nose when I mentioned her alias was Martha Smith.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I had to think up something quick when I was on the phone with Ms. Brody this morning.”
I explained my own alias at the Wade On Inn. “You can’t very well be Tessie. I don’t want Ethel and Doreen to wonder why they all of the sudden know two Tessies.”
“It’s so sweet you’ve been using my name, Jessie. I’m flattered.”
“Well, just remember you’re Martha Smith. And if it comes up, I told Ms. Brody my name is Susan Smith.”
“Martha and Susan,” Mother repeated c
arefully. “Got it.”
She sipped her tea. “Now then, how will I recognize Ethel and Doreen?”
As Karen would say, oh boy. I hadn’t thought about the fact that the dining room of The Cotswald Estates would be chock full of old ladies.
“Okay.” I thought about it. “Doreen is heavy-set. And Ethel is even thinner than you.”
Mother frowned. “I’m going to a retirement home looking for a skinny old lady and a fat old lady? That’s not very helpful, Jessie.”
I tried harder. “Doreen uses a cane.”
Mother was still frowning. “And?”
I thought some more. “And they’re very loud,” I said. “They’re loud even in a barroom setting. I imagine you’ll hear them before you actually see them. And look for two women with remarkably blue hair,” I added. “Their hairdresser must use the same rinse on both of them.”
I admired my mother’s lovely and natural white hair. “Thanks for not going that route yourself.”
She was checking out my hairdo also. “I don’t like to criticize,” she said. “But that color really doesn’t suit you.”
“I know that, Mother. But it’s part of my disguise. I can’t be recognized at the Wade On Inn.”
“The blond was so becoming,” she mused and continued staring at my head.
I promised her I would go back to blond as soon as possible.
“Thank goodness! Now then, let me freshen up a bit, and I’ll be on my way.” She stood up and made her way toward the bathroom.
I glanced at Snowflake. “If Wilson ever finds out about this, he’ll kill me.”
The cat did not argue.
***
Mother looked marvelous when she emerged a few minutes later. She started rummaging around in her suitcase.
“I think I should wear pumps, don’t you, Jessie? I need to look like I can afford a place like Cotswald Estates.”
I helped her find the shoes, which, I noticed, matched the purse she had brought with her. Then I crossed my fingers, handed her the directions to The Cotswald Estates, and led her to the door.
“How do I look?” she asked as I gave her a good luck hug.
I held her at arm’s length and studied her. My mother looked like Queen Elizabeth. I mean, exactly. Especially since she was wearing her most perfect old-lady powder blue skirt suit, replete with matching shoes and purse.