Homicide by Horse Show

by Arlene Kay

  Bascomb had obviously overdosed on Raymond Chandler novels. He curled his lip in a bad cinema noir imitation. That gave me time to interject a question.

  “Any idea when he died?” I asked.

  Bascomb answered reluctantly using the official terminology. “TOD is undetermined but based on liver temperature, Jakes was dead about two to three hours when you found him.” He held up his palms. “That’s not precise, just so you know. Any of your little group could have nipped over to Ms. McCall’s place and killed him before your meeting. That includes you too, missy.”

  “You forget—I have an alibi. Mr. Pruett.”

  Bascomb narrowed his eyes. “You might be in it together. Ever hear of conspiracy? As they say, it takes two. And the murder weapon had your signature all over it.”

  I remained silent and arched an eyebrow.

  “Your belt, Ms. Morgan, your belt.” Bascomb looked toward the kitchen. “Any chance of getting some coffee? I could really use a cup.”

  After I nodded, he stepped warily around my dogs and loomed over the kitchen table. Within minutes, Bascomb was sipping espresso, nibbling biscuits and acting almost civilized. He forced me to repeat, not once but twice, everything I recalled about Jakes’s blackmail comment.

  “The only thing I surmised was that it was someone wealthy. That scarcely narrows the field around here.”

  Bascomb decided to be snide. “It eliminates you.”

  I put a leash on my temper. True, by most objective standards I lacked wealth, but everything was relative. For someone like me, being a self-supporting woman with a home and a good business was a measure of success. I had come a long way and appreciated every leg of the journey. So there!

  Bascomb changed his tactics. “Tell me again, who came in the meeting and who left for the break.”

  I angled for a sliver of information. “You found Jakes’s cell phone, I suppose. Any fingerprints on it.”

  He answered without thinking. “Nope. Wiped clean.” His response emboldened me.

  “Where was it?”

  Suddenly the supercilious Bascomb resurfaced. “Funny thing. We found it wedged under a cushion on your dear friend’s sofa. Go figure.”

  Our conversation went downhill from there. Bascomb sneered and insinuated about Babette and Carleton but got nowhere. I was simply too exhausted to play his puerile games. If only Pruett would call. I couldn’t wait to share Bascomb’s antics and the latest information. I told myself it was all in the service of justice and solving two murders but even I wasn’t fooled. My behavior was juvenile and pathetic. I longed to hear his voice no matter what he said.

  After two hours of sheer torture, Bascomb finally decamped. My cell rang just as I was about to abandon hope and go to bed.

  “Thinking of me?” Pruett asked. That deep sultry voice quickened my heartbeat.

  I decided to play it cool. “Actually, I was thinking of Bascomb. He just left.”

  “Funny. I didn’t think he was your type of guy.” Pruett managed to blend sultry and snarky into one salacious sentence. It was a rare talent, one that had probably served him well during his career.

  “Very funny. Bascomb is nobody’s fool. I worry about Babette.”

  Pruett dispensed with the levity and immediately grilled me for every morsel of information. We debated the probable time of Jakes’s death and implications for our suspects. He gasped when I told him about finding the cell phone under Babette’s couch cushion.

  “Jacqui and Charlotte sat on the couch,” Pruett said. “Could be that collapse was just a ruse so that Charlotte could stash the cell phone out of sight. Maybe they’re in it together. Charlotte was on a cell phone when she walked in the room. Who knows if it was really hers.”

  Before we hung up, Pruett mentioned some pressing engagements that would probably sideline him for several days. I fought bravely to act nonchalant wondering all the while if Monique was one of those engagements. Then I gave myself a stern lecture. Pruett owed me nothing. As long as I accepted that, things would be fine. I attended to my pets, wrapped myself in a ratty tee shirt and drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  * * * *

  Bascomb haunted me for the next two days, insisting on endless written statements, and repeated conversations. Fortunately, Babette’s pricey criminal defense attorney protected her rights by urging both Croys to refuse all requests for interviews. Carleton returned to work and Babette reclaimed her sanity—until the monthly edition of Capital Corner hit the newsstands.

  I’ve never subscribed to the thing. Wouldn’t have the interest or the time to read sprightly posts about the glitterati or hit pieces on our political overseers. This time was different. My day started with an agitated call from Sheila. The hour was early and the manner so unlike my friend that I scarcely recognized her voice.

  “Have you read it?” she asked. “Ellis called a minute ago to warn me. Poor Babette. I mean it’s bad enough for the rest of us, but she’s right in the middle of things.”

  I let her wind down before interrupting. When she finished, I felt my world spin out of control.

  “The main story is online,” Sheila said. “Just plug Capital Corner into your computer. How could he do that to us? I thought he was a friend.”

  Fortunately, I had skipped breakfast. Otherwise, the bile that rose in my throat would have taken me down. I input the information into my computer and gasped. The lead article was entitled “Paradise Pillaged—Sex, Blackmail, and Murder Stalk Suburbia.” What followed was an account, letter perfect, of every event since the murder of Ethel McCall and our reactions to it. Participants were named, including me. The author had thoughtfully given my business a plug and even mentioned my pets. The usual weasel words were used to fend off lawsuits: “Alleged,” “supposed,” “purported.” But the message was clear: two murders of prominent Great Marsh residents remained unsolved and the local cops were clueless. Other accounts had appeared in the Post and the Washington Times, but this had an air of intimacy and contained information known by only a few. Titbits about Jakes’s cell phone, his intent to blackmail the murderer and his final text were all included, the same things I shared with Pruett only two nights before. The author’s name and photo did not faze me one bit. We had all been duped by Wing Pruett, traitor, Quisling, opportunist and worst of all the man who broke my heart. I should have realized that a hot story meant more to him than relationships. Should have but didn’t.

  I steeled myself to face Babette and even worse, Bascomb. She would understand but he would not. Bascomb had warned both me and Pruett against leaking any information. I kept that trust not that it mattered much at this point.

  Tears were just a wasted effort. I chose to maintain my morning routine by tending to my pets, filling orders and expanding my social media presence. Thanks to Pruett my name was now trending on Facebook but that was notoriety not business. I ignored his phone calls and deleted his texts unread.

  Late that afternoon, Babette knocked on my workshop door. Instead of speaking, she held out her arms and enveloped me in a gigantic hug.

  “Oh darlin,’ I’m so sorry.”

  I gaped at her, astounded. “You’re the victim here, not me.”

  Babette chuckled, then dissolved into a fit of giggles. “I’m the one who first brought him around, remember? Girl, men are so rotten! Every damn one of them. Get this. Carleton moved into a hotel. Can you believe it? After all the crap he put me through, he decided I was a drain on his reputation. The rat!”

  Then we both laughed—long, raucous laughter, until tears streamed from our eyes. Our dogs cozied up to us, trying their best to understand our antics. Thatcher hissed and strutted from the room in high dudgeon.

  “What about Bascomb?” I asked. “He’ll be out for my scalp.”

  “Naw. That boy will be busy trying to solve the damn crimes. Doesn’t want that clueless label to
stick. Besides, the rest of us lawyered up so he’s frustrated.”

  I had no partner now but my determination to solve the murders remained. “You and I have to act,” I told Babette. “We have access to all the parties involved. Let’s do something.”

  “What?”

  “Let me think about it and get back to you. Just be careful, Babette. That murderer is out there and it’s someone we both know.”

  I spent the evening reviewing motives, suspects, and theories. It was all a jumble, a puzzle with pieces that simply did not fit. It was almost midnight when the dogs sensed something. Keats and Poe rose and charged the door after issuing a warning bark. I reacted by reaching down for my holstered Glock. I abhor violence, but I know how to protect myself. With a double murderer on the loose, I had to remain vigilant.

  My cell phone rang; Pruett didn’t give up easily. I gave him top marks for persistence, a trait that every good reporter probably cultivated. Pruett pounded on the front door for ten minutes before I finally had enough. After all, he didn’t frighten me. Better to settle things once and for all and be done with him. I shoved the Glock behind my back and threw open the door.

  My initial reaction floored me. Seeing him melted my anger and fueled an irresistible impulse to kiss him. Fortunately, self-restraint is my superpower.

  My voice had an edge but remained steady when I greeted him. I considered that a major triumph. “Hi,” I said. “What brings you here? I told you everything I know. Gave you everything I had.”

  Pruett stared down at me, his eyes burning with intensity. “I am so sorry, Perri. We have to talk. Please. Give me ten minutes.”

  A glacial calm tempered my emotions and encapsulated my heart. There was no danger now because indifference was the ultimate victory.

  I motioned him toward the living room. “Sure. Come on in.” I claimed the wingchair. It was Pip’s special chair and Pruett had no right to it. He eased onto the sofa and was immediately joined by the traitorous Thatcher. “Would you like a drink, or something to eat?” I played my part to perfection, the hostess offering hospitality to the weary stranger.

  “Nothing, thanks.” He hesitated. “I don’t know what to say. It looks bad, I know that, but believe me I did not deceive you.”

  I crossed my arms, holding them tight against my chest. My lips stretched into a rictus grin that held no mirth. Body language be damned. It was his show and I was merely the audience.

  “Everything spiraled out of control,” Pruett said. “I had no idea they intended to publish the article. Not now, at least.” He learned forward, hands on knees. “Please believe me, Perri. I wouldn’t do that to you. Not ever.”

  I took a deep breath and channeled my days as an army sergeant. Pretend this is a standard briefing. Nothing special.

  “What happened?” I asked, watching his eyes, those eyes that captivated me, drawing me into their depths.

  Pruett composed himself as he stroked Thatcher’s back. “Look. I sent my notes to my editor, my preliminary notes. No conclusions, no salacious headlines. That’s standard procedure. We agreed this would be a long piece, five-page article at least. I fought hard for more time, pitched the idea of solving the case first. He agreed. Then Jakes was murdered, and all bets were off. He decided to go with my preliminary draft.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to sift through an account that pitted emotion against logic. “I feel so bad for the others, particularly Babette. You said some snide things about her. About all of us, actually.”

  “I typically do character sketches of the principals in my stories, little vignettes, if you will. Kind of theatre of the absurd.”

  I did not respond. Could not. Emotion was not some salve for hurt feelings. It was volcanic, a world bending ride that I took seriously.

  “Do you believe me?” he asked. “I have to know.”

  I wanted to respond with every fiber of my being. Instead of answering, I posed a different question. “Where do we go from here?”

  Pruett stood and stretched out his arms to me. I moved forward, willing myself to avoid the precipice but knowing I would not. Could not. The faint scent of his cologne mesmerized me as the baby soft fabric of his shirt brushed against my cheek. He was probably using me, but I didn’t care. For the first time since losing Pip, I felt alive. That alone was worth the risk.

  He repeated my question. “Where do we go from here? We find the murderer. Together. Always together.”

  I couldn’t resist making one final gibe. “I hope all that’s off the record.”

  “Count on it,” he said.

  Chapter 25

  Pruett left after we discussed our battle plans. Somehow, he knew this was not the right time for physical contact. Our relationship, or whatever you called it, was fragile. Building trust took time, but satiating lust was easy. Truth be told, while I appreciated sensitivity, I wished he had been more forceful. Sometimes lust is worth considering.

  Babette was the ultimate night owl, so I took a chance and called her immediately on Skype. Her voice rose two octaves as she processed everything.

  “Good Lord! He had the nerve to face you? I can hardly believe it.” She paused then heaved a big sigh. “Of course, any real man would have explained himself in person and like it or not, Pruett is all man!”

  Amen, sister.

  Her voice softened as she went in for the kill. “Forgive me, darlin’ but I must ask. Did you have makeup sex? Ooh, that always feels extra good, doesn’t it? Just thinking about it makes me miss old Carleton. I mentioned his assets, didn’t I?”

  “Stop!” Babette was heading for a major rant and it was time to redirect her energy. “We did not have makeup sex or any other kind. Nothing like that. Our focus was squarely on the murders, where yours should be too. Thank you very much for your interest.”

  Babette was irrepressible but never stupid. She shifted from carnal matters to the thorny issue of two murders. “I’ve been scratching my head, trying to figure out who did it. They’re my friends, Perri, not murderers. The only ones I ruled out were you, me, and Pruett and that was because we never left the room. The others were all over the place.”

  As comforting as that was, it was unconvincing. Suppose Jakes had been murdered before our meeting started? That expanded the suspect list to include Babette, although Pruett and I were still in the clear. He had never been out of my sight from the time of his wakeup call to our arrival at Babette’s. Anyone else could have nipped out to meet Jakes, taken him by surprise, and administered the coup de grâce with my beautifully crafted belt. That told me this was no crime of passion. The killer had arrived with the firm intention of giving the blackmailer the final payment he so richly deserved—death.

  “What about your cable show?” I asked. “Still planning on doing it?”

  “Absolutely. Not to be crude but think of the audience I’ll draw with two murders to talk about. No more local cable. Could be the networks will come a-calling.”

  At times, Babette astonished and even horrified me. She made no attempt to mask her emotions even when good sense or decorum would have dictated otherwise. Bascomb was busy searching for a suspect and Babette’s loose lips might indeed sink her ship. I gave her my mean sergeant stare.

  “Pipe down. Until they find the murderer, you have to act as close to normal as you can. Bascomb is just itching to nail someone. Need I remind you that both bodies showed up on your property?”

  Babette flashed a sunny smile. Nothing, not even the threat of prison, could dim the light of that grin. “Ah, Perri, chill. With you and Pruett on the case, I don’t have to worry.” She made kissing noises and signed off for the night.

  * * * *

  I overslept again. Sun streamed through my drapes flooding my bedroom with a burst of morning light. That awakened my dogs and one fractious feline, who demanded instant gratification. For once, I was thankful to live
alone. After a restless night of interrupted dreams, I was certainly no beauty prize. My pups needed a potty break and a certain pygmy goat would soon be braying for food. At times like this, I was a model of efficiency, dispatching my chores in record time. When espresso’s siren song beckoned, I finally allowed myself to take a break and read the newspaper. I soon regretted that action. Our local rag, Great Marsh Gazette, was filled with tales of Jakes’s murder and the resulting drama. The author had cribbed a good deal of his account from Pruett’s earlier story.

  Today’s schedule was horrendous. It was dog show day and as usual I had overpromised and overbooked. I’d agreed to conduct a brief seminar for new pet owners on proper leash and collar procedures, a session encouraged by the AKC. It was essentially a PR stunt but, in this instance, I agreed with them. Anything that encouraged the human-animal bond was a very good thing for both species. Besides, many of those attending would probably spring for a handsome leash or collar from my stock. Not a problem except it was also my scheduled time to exercise the horses at Cavalry Farms.

  I battled Beltway traffic for an hour before finally entering the outer Maryland suburb of Timonium where commuters were scarce. Who knew if any of our potential suspects might show up at the event? Ken Reedy almost always did and Sheila seldom missed an opportunity to lead poor Cecil around the ring. Neither of them ranked high on my suspect list but I was anxious to hear speculation from the dog show crowd about Jakes. Had he confided in anyone about his get rich quick scheme? He had few friends but that never stopped Jakes from bragging to anyone in his vicinity. After wrangling a parking spot in the vendor area of the fairground, I freed Poe and Keats and headed for the side entrance. Fortunately, a fellow handler was overseeing the process, and he waved me and my entourage in without a fuss. Strictly speaking, only dogs that were registered for the event were allowed on the premises. Keats and Poe were fixtures, however, and far better behaved than many of their human counterparts.