“Does he know that?” he asked. “Because judging by the cozy scene I walked in on, I’m guessing the answer is no.”
“Well, you know what, Padre? I was just about to tell him when you interrupted us.” This happened to be true. No, really.
“You were sitting on his lap,” he said. “We men are simple. We tend to take that sort of thing as encouragement.”
I set down my slice. “Okay, the lap-sitting was not my idea. He just— No. I do not owe you an explanation. Read into the lap thing what you will. I don’t care.” I snatched up the slice and bit off a great big chunk. It tasted like indignation.
We ate in silence for a couple of minutes during which I sensed that Martin regretted tipping his hand. That was how he’d see it, anyway. For the longest time he’d taken pains to avoid any hint that he cared. It was no great mystery as to why. He thought I was still pining for Dom, and he had no wish to be anyone’s consolation prize. Well, I was still pining for Dom back when I first met the padre. Things change.
Before I could consider how best to demonstrate precisely how much this particular thing had changed, he said, “I have some news about the rope.”
I chewed fast and swallowed. “What? Tell me.”
“The crime lab made microscopic comparisons and determined that the rope used to tie Peaches to that chair came from the length of rope found in Audrey Moretti’s basement. The cut ends even match up.”
“Wow,” I said. “This is major.”
“It did not match the rope from Zak Pryce’s house,” he said. “Turns out they’re not even the same thickness.”
“Okay, so who had access to Audrey’s rope?” I said. “There’s Audrey herself, of course. Plus both Sean and Carter, who were living with her.”
“Evie must have visited her on occasion,” Martin said. “And for sure she was there on Thanksgiving, which was shortly before Peaches was murdered.”
“It would have been easy for her to slip down to the basement,” I said, “cut off a piece of rope, and shove it into her purse.”
“So it’s looking more and more like Peaches was killed by a family member,” he said.
“What else did your secret contact in the Crystal Harbor PD tell you?”
“Who says I have just one?” he said.
“Quit showing off. Let’s have it.” I nibbled on a piece of crust.
“I told you I was trying to find out what kind of soda it was,” he said. “I finally hit pay dirt.”
“Please don’t say Coke. I mean, Sean drinks Coke, but so do about a gazillion other people, so that doesn’t exactly narrow down the list of suspects.”
He said, “You know anyone who drinks black cherry soda?” I could tell he didn’t expect a positive response. One look at my face, however, and he straightened. “Who?”
“Carter,” I said, feeling a little stunned. “When I was over at Audrey’s the other day, I saw him drink black cherry soda straight from the bottle.”
“Did you catch the brand?” he asked.
“Something old-timey,” I said. “Grandpa Dan’s?”
“Could it have been Grampy Deke’s?” he said.
“That’s it! Grampy Deke’s Original Black Cherry Soda.”
“Well, that’s what they found in the attic,” Martin said. “A nearly empty bottle of Grampy Deke’s.”
“With just enough residue to test it and find that sedative,” I said. “Zenaproche.”
“Talk about narrowing down the suspect list,” he said.
“Well, kind of,” I said, “but don’t forget, the whole family had access to that brand of soda, because Audrey keeps it in the house. And we don’t know whether the killer actually drinks the stuff or just used it to try and drug Peaches.”
“We know Sean’s a Coke drinker,” he said, “but maybe Evie shares her dad’s love of Grampy Deke’s.”
“It’s possible. I did see her drinking soda at the beach. Don’t know what kind ’cause it was in a cup. But anyway, she’s a soda drinker, for what it’s worth.” I lifted my glass as if to say, Join the club.
“The thing is,” he said, “the cops were on the lookout for that particular brand of soda when they searched Audrey’s house. Peaches’s house, too. They didn’t find any.”
“I remember Audrey apologizing to Carter for having run out of it,” I said. “She’d just gone shopping that morning and laid in several six-packs.”
“So that’s why the cops didn’t make a connection,” Martin said.
I said, “Do you think they asked—” but was interrupted by my phone’s “Tequila” ring tone. I didn’t recognize the number but tapped the green Answer button anyway, prepared to hang up if it was one of those annoying spammy robocalls. “Hello?”
“How’s it going, Jane?”
“Not bad, Howie,” I said. “I almost didn’t pick up. But then I thought: And risk missing out on an amazing deal to lower my credit-card rates?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m calling from a loaner. I’m not near my phone at the moment. Long story. I wanted to run something past you, get your take on it.”
“About what?” I asked.
“About Peaches Gillespey, what else?” he said.
“You feeling okay, Howie?” I asked. “Do you have a fever? Maybe a devastating brain injury?” Since when did closemouthed Detective Howard Werker willingly talk to me about an ongoing investigation?
“You want to hear this or not?” he said. “I just thought you might have a fresh perspective on something that’s been bugging me, but if you’d rather be kept out of the loop—”
“No, I’m thrilled to be kept in the loop, for once,” I said. “Honored even. Listen, Martin’s here. You mind if I put you on speaker or is this for my ears only?”
“Like you wouldn’t blab to him the moment you hung up,” he said. “Sure, no reason he can’t hear this. I think I can count on you two not to spread it around.”
I pressed the phone’s Speaker button, and Martin and Howie greeted each other.
“So listen,” Howie said, “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to Peaches’s advice column.”
“‘Peaches Preaches,’” I said.
“Right. I always assumed she wrote it herself,” he said. “I guess everyone did.”
Martin said, “She didn’t?” I’d been about to fill him in on that, and more, when Howie called.
I said, “Turns out she was a lousy writer. Beyond lousy. Even her daughter, Evie, acknowledged it.”
I wasn’t about to reveal that it was Burke Fletcher who’d alerted me to Peaches’s semiliterate state. Howie didn’t know I’d met the man, and I wanted to keep it that way. And, too, I had no desire for Martin to learn that I’d gone all by my lonesome—if you didn’t count a small, neurotic poodle—to meet with the person who might very well have strangled Peaches Gillespey in that attic.
“I know you’ve been talking to a bunch of people about the murder,” Howie said. “Don’t bother denying it. You must hear things they’d never tell me or Cookie.”
“You know I do, Howie,” I said, “and haven’t I been sharing everything I learn with you two? I mean, just yesterday I told Cookie all about Peaches’s history of prostitution and blackmail. Plus Evie’s connection to Zenaproche.”
“Whoa.” Martin’s eyebrows rose. “Prostitution? Blackmail? Seriously?”
I turned to the padre. “Yeah, a lot of stuff’s been happening.” I mouthed, I’ll tell you later.
“The reason I’m calling,” Howie said, “is to find out if you have any idea who might have ghostwritten Peaches’s column.”
I sighed, disappointed. “I guess he didn’t contact you, then.”
“Who?” He sounded suddenly alert.
“Zak,” I said. “I spoke with him this morning. Now, don’t scold me. I ran into him at the dog groomer’s. It’s not like I sought him out or anything. Turns out you were right not to buy his alibi back then, for his wife’s death. It was total BS. Not that he’s necessarily guilty. He s
ays he didn’t do it, that it was the Xanax and booze she’d—”
“Wait, back up. Just so we’re clear, we’re talking about Zak...” Howie waited for me to fill in the last name.
“For real?” I said. “I was kidding about the brain injury. Now I’m not so sure. Zak Pryce? Lives across the street from Peaches? Writing the not-so-great American novel? That Zak?”
“I knew who you meant,” he said, “I just needed you to confirm the full name. For official purposes.”
Martin and I shared a silent communication. It went something like this:
So that was weird, right?
Yep. Weird.
“Proceed,” Howie said. “What is Zak Pryce’s connection to Peaches’s column?”
“He wrote it,” I said, “from the very beginning. Peaches was blackmailing him, too, but not like the others, the former call-girl clients. They were paying cash. The way it worked with Zak was, Peaches and Carter provided a false alibi for him eleven years ago, and in return, he had to ghostwrite her advice column in perpetuity. He couldn’t stand doing it.”
“And he said he was going to contact me?” he asked.
“Not in so many words, but I encouraged him to,” I said, “and I really thought... well, I figured if he was going to come clean, he’d have done it today. By now he’s probably talked himself out of it.”
The padre said, “But what incentive did he have to do that? Besides his statement to you, which he could deny.”
“Zak might have, um, gotten the idea that the cops already know about the false alibi,” I said, “and how Peaches blackmailed him. And that they’re just waiting until they have enough evidence to arrest him.”
“I’d call that incentive.” Martin offered an approving smile for my subterfuge, which accelerated my pulse just the tiniest bit. Or maybe a little more than that. He added, “It’s a double whammy. The false alibi and blackmail implicate him in both his wife’s murder—well, possible murder—and Peaches’s.”
“So, Howie,” I said. “Think you can stand another intriguing nugget of information?”
“Wait, let me brace myself,” he said. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“When you interviewed Carter, you must have asked him if he drank black cherry soda. You know, since a bottle of it was found at the scene, laced with Zenaproche.” Without giving him a chance to demand how I knew about the black cherry soda, I said, “If he told you he doesn’t drink it, he lied. He’s addicted to it, according to him. Drinks it all the time, but he ran out of it before you guys searched his house, so you might not know that. You’re welcome.”
“That is an intriguing nugget, Jane,” Howie said. “Glad I called.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up, whereupon the padre and I set about annihilating the rest of that Buffalo chicken pie. We didn’t succeed, both of us calling it quits after a measly three slices.
I washed down the last bite with a slug of orange soda. “I don’t know how I feel about this, Padre.”
“I know what you mean.” He leaned back and patted his flat belly. “I can’t put it away like I used to, either.”
“No, I mean about Zak,” I said. “I really don’t think he killed Peaches.”
“The evidence points more to a family member, it’s true,” he said, “but don’t forget, the guy’s had eleven years to build up resentment. No way was Peaches going to let him stop writing that column.”
“Plus she was demanding he ghostwrite a self-help book for her,” I said. “It must have felt like she’d always have her talons in him. Still, I don’t really feel it, you know?”
Martin got to his feet. “We’re going to pay this guy Zak a visit.”
“What,” I said. “Now?”
“Why not now?” he said. “See if we can’t persuade him to go to the cops on his own. It’s not too late. Plus you’ve piqued my curiosity. I want to meet this guy.”
“Shouldn’t we call first?” I asked.
“And give him a chance to put us off?” he said.
He was right, of course. Ambushing Zak at his home had worked for me before. Of course, I’d had Sexy Beast with me then.
No sense departing from a winning strategy.
16
Another Mouth to Feed
THE SUN HAD set while Martin and I were having dinner. Only the faintest smear of violet lightened the western sky as we took off in my Mazda. On the way to Zak’s place, I filled Martin in on all the juicy stuff I’d learned from Evie the day before, as promised.
As usual, Zak was initially standoffish when he answered the door, but the padre scored brownie points by loving up his goofily friendly dog, Dylan. And after all, my own little canine companion is pretty darn irresistible, so within seconds we were standing in his foyer, admiring the fresh wallpaper and gleaming woodwork.
“Wow.” I set Sexy Beast on the floor and unhooked his leash so he could pal around with his friend. “You’ve made a lot of progress in a few days, Zak. It looks great.”
“Thanks,” he said. “The realtor will be here tomorrow to have a look around and settle on an asking price.”
Martin indicated the newly refinished floor we stood on, satiny pale wood with an intricate parquet border. “Is this maple?”
Zak nodded. “You have a good eye. Would you like to look around?”
We took him up on his offer and spent the next half hour touring the stately old Victorian, which, like the one across the street, had stood in that spot for more than a hundred years. I couldn’t help thinking this was how these venerable homes were meant to be maintained, with love and respect. I became angry all over again as I recalled how thoroughly Sean Moretti had trashed his mother’s house. Then I reminded myself that Evie now owned it and would soon evict him. She could be counted on to restore the place to its former majesty.
That is, unless she ended up doing time for murder.
We ended the tour back in the foyer, where we’d started. Dylan had helped to show us around, with SB bringing up the rear. Now the big white dog shoved a moist toy into Martin’s hand, a plush, realistically rendered duck. The padre obediently hurled it down the adjacent hallway, to the delight of the dogs, who dashed after their fuzzy prey and presented it for more rounds of fetch. The padre was happy to comply.
“Do you have a dog?” Zak asked him.
“Nope.” He threw the toy again and watched Dylan and Sexy Beast take off. “I’d love to adopt a big fellow like this, but I live in a small apartment. It’ll have to wait.”
A mental picture materialized, unbidden: Martin playing fetch with a big dog on my property’s five acres. Martin possessing an actual key to my house. Martin and I sharing dinner every evening. And more provocatively, breakfast every morning.
Zak’s voice jolted me back to the here and now. “So what brought you here, Jane? You said you had something to tell me?”
“I just wanted to reinforce what I told you this morning, Zak. You need to go to the detectives, tell them everything you told me. You’re not doing yourself any favors by waiting for them to bring you in.”
He waved aside my concern. “Done. I met with them both today, not long after I spoke with you at the groomer’s. Before Rocky finished working on Dylan, in fact.”
“Wait. No.” I glanced at the padre, who appeared just as befuddled. Zak must be lying, just trying to get me off his back. “I have to tell you, I just spoke with Howie Werker, and he hasn’t heard from you. So if you—”
“Well, that’s just not true.” Zak frowned in consternation. “I called my cousin Karen right away—she’s a lawyer—and we met Werker and Kaplan at the station around noon. I told them everything. I don’t know why Werker would tell you otherwise, unless he considers our meeting confidential or something.”
Zak sounded sincere, yet how to reconcile this information with what Howie had told me not an hour before? Very simply, I couldn’t. According to Howie, he’d had no idea Zak had been Peaches’s ghostwriter, and he hadn’t heard from him.
I’d never known Howie to lie to me. Of course, I’d never known him to be confused or forgetful, either, as he’d seemed during our conversation. For instance, it had apparently slipped his mind that just yesterday, I’d provided valuable information about the case. And that business about needing me to say Zak’s last name, “for official purposes”? Either Howie, who possessed one of the sharpest minds I knew, was suffering from sudden early-onset dementia or—
Or that wasn’t Howie on the phone.
Now that I thought about it, the call hadn’t even come from Howie’s phone. The caller had claimed to be using a “loaner”—in reality, probably a burner phone that couldn’t be traced.
I looked at Martin and saw he’d arrived at a similar conclusion. Dylan, toy in mouth, repeatedly nudged the padre’s hand, finally resorting to a frustrated huff. Distractedly Martin grabbed the duck, its fluff now wetly matted, and tossed it. The toy bounced off the edge of the hallway entrance. The look both dogs gave him could only be interpreted as, You’re losing your touch, buddy.
I said, “All right, um... I must’ve misheard Howie, then. I’m glad you, you know, decided to meet with them, Zak. Sorry to bother you.”
We said our goodbyes, collected SB, and stepped onto the big wraparound porch, warmly illuminated by several hanging lamps. Once the door had closed after us, Martin steered me away from the nearby windows and whispered, “So who was that on the phone?”
I’d been thinking about that. “There’s only one person I know who could do such a spot-on impersonation of Howie. Burke Fletcher.”
“I don’t know anything about the guy,” he said, “except what Howie and Cookie said when you mentioned his name at the pub. Fletcher lives in Rego Park and they questioned him because he harassed Peaches at some point.”
“I met him,” I said. “Don’t ask me how.”
Martin’s expression said he would comply. For now. “So what makes you think he could pull off a stunt like that phone call?”
“Burke is a dialect coach,” I whispered. “He trains comedians to do impersonations. And for sure he’s familiar with Howie’s voice and speech patterns. I mean, the detectives questioned him after Peaches’s body was discovered.”
Preserving Peaches Page 24