by Anna Gerard
Not that he had miraculously lost weight. By the time we reached the square, I was panting a little with the exertion of wheeling a six-foot-tall muscular man. On the bright side, I was getting a good glute workout. And the physical exertion had helped deplete a little of that extra adrenaline. But I forgot all of that in my reflexive gasp as we reached the square.
Seeing the crowd on my phone’s small screen was nothing compared to seeing it in real time. The block looked like a festival, with the buzz of voices and energy high. And with that number of people, Lana could be anywhere.
“I can try to get you right up to the bandstand so you can scan the crowd from there,” I told Harry. “But that might draw too much attention to us. It might be better to take the square one quarter at a time. Besides, if I were Lana, I’d be standing toward the back so I could see all the action.”
I’d expected a bit of a debate. Instead, he gave a decisive nod.
“Good thinking,” he said. “Let’s try that.”
While the reporters continued to throw questions at the sheriff, Grampy Westcott and I began our rounds. Unfortunately, my earlier flip description of Harry’s stalker looking like every other middle-aged white woman in the country wasn’t far off.
“Don’t focus too hard on faces,” Harry advised, sotto voce. “Lana’s worked as an extra, so she knows how to blend in. Think nondescript clothes, nothing with a logo. And so you don’t notice her face, she might be wearing a wig or a hat or big sunglasses. What you want to do is look at body shape, and look at behavior. If everyone is focused on something, except for one person, that’s who you check out more closely. Oh, and keep an eye out for that tat.”
But if Lana was somewhere in the crowd, she was doing a good job of maintaining a low profile. We’d barely scanned the first two quarters of the square with no luck when Melissa Jane took back the microphone.
“Thank you, Sheriff Lamb, and thank you, members of the press,” came her magnified voice over the tinny PA system. “We’ll have another update same time tomorrow.”
“It’s over,” I said unnecessarily, watching as the town council and sheriff’s department members began departing the bandstand. “We’d better grab the sheriff before she takes off.”
“Right. Onward, James … er, Jane.”
Ignoring Harry’s feeble attempt at humor, I started in the general direction of the bandstand hoping to head off the sheriff before she reached her vehicle.
The reporters were dispersing, too, making beelines to their crews so they could file their individual reports. That left the tourists and the locals, who, curiosity temporarily satisfied, began spreading in all directions. But still no sign of Lana anywhere, though we kept looking as we headed toward where Sheriff Lamb had paused to speak with Melissa Jane.
And from their body language, it was a contentious conversation … at least, on Melissa Jane’s part. She was doing a lot of head-shaking and arm-waving, her face far more flushed than the temperature warranted. Sheriff Lamb stood with arms crossed, letting the mayor do most of the talking.
By the time we got within earshot of the pair, the square was almost back to its usual mostly empty weekday self. And so, as we walked/wheeled closer, I caught the last part of what the sheriff was saying.
“—can’t make an arrest just to make one.”
Melissa Jane had opened her mouth to counter that when she abruptly caught sight of me and Harry. She promptly schooled her features into genial mayor mode.
“Well, thank you, Sheriff Lamb,” she said, honey dripping from every syllable. “That’s all very helpful information.”
To me and Harry, she said, “Hello, Nina. And who’s your gentleman friend?”
Not waiting for my reply, she rushed on, “I don’t need to tell you what a terrible thing poor Mr. Bainbridge’s murder was. But beyond that, all this notoriety … well, let’s just say this isn’t the type of publicity we want. People should feel safe here in Cymbeline. Right, Sheriff Lamb?”
“I totally agree, Madame Mayor. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to interview more witnesses.”
“Uh, Sheriff,” I said as she turned to leave, “my, er, gentleman friend has some confidential information he’d like to share with you about this case. If we could speak in private …”
I trailed off with a meaningful look at Melissa Jane, who huffed a little.
“Oh, very well. But think about what we talked about, Sheriff.”
The woman flounced off … well, as much as one could flounce in running shoes and a seersucker suit. And while it seemed she might have been tiptoeing across an ethical line with the sheriff in pushing for an arrest, I understood where she was coming from. She and her team had built up Cymbeline from a moribund small town into a thriving tourist haven. Seeing all that threatened by something out of their control had to be difficult.
Once the mayor was out of earshot, the sheriff pulled out her notebook and said, “All right, Ms. Fleet, why don’t you introduce me to the gentleman?”
Before I could answer, Harry straightened in the chair and pulled off his sunglasses. “Hey, Connie, it’s me.”
“Harry? Harry Westcott?” At his nod, she gave him a sharp look. “Is this some sort of stunt, Harry? Why are you dressed like someone’s granddad, and what’s up with that chair?”
“I’m kind of in disguise,” he replied. “That’s what I needed to talk to you about. I’ve got someone after me, and I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
“Right. Low profile.” To me, she said, “And you’re here, Ms. Fleet, because …”
“I’m here to corroborate Harry’s story. We think we know who killed Gregory Bainbridge, and why.”
I expected a bit more excitement out of her at this revelation, but apparently that wasn’t how the cops—well, at least this particular cop—worked. Instead, she replied, “It’s pretty hot out, so why don’t we head over to my patrol car. I can turn up the AC and we can chat.”
She indicated the coned-off VIP parking area, which happened to be a portion of the angled-in parking spots on the square right across from Peaches and Java. Three sheriff’s department vehicles were still parked there.
While I pushed Harry in that direction, the sheriff fell back a little behind us. I overheard her talking into her shoulder mike again, catching a few words—suspect … my squad … ETA under a minute—but nothing that I could make any real sense of it. All I wanted now was to get this over with and head back home again, where, in the company of my trusty pup and my nuns, I could take a little break from the insanity.
I halted at the cop cars and waited for instructions. But when they came, they weren’t for me.
“Mr. Westcott, I need you to stand up out of that chair now.”
“Why so formal?” Harry asked, remaining seated. “I really rather not break character in case—”
“Mr. Westcott, I’m asking you one more time to stand. If you don’t, I’ll consider that resisting. Now please get out of that chair and step over here in front of this vehicle.”
“Connie, what’s wrong? What are you talking about?” he demanded, though he did as requested.
Sheriff Lamb looked in my direction. “Ms. Fleet, I need you to take that wheelchair and step back at least ten feet from us. Once you’ve done that, do not move from that position.”
Equally mystified, I nodded and complied. As I did so, I saw Deputies Jackson and Mullins approaching from either side. Something was definitely going down, though I wasn’t sure what.
But at the sheriff’s next words, I figured it out.
“Mr. Westcott, turn around and place your hands on the hood of the vehicle. Now spread your legs. Wider … no, wider. I’m going to search you for weapons, so if you have any knives or guns on you, I suggest you let me know right now.”
“Connie, this is crazy,” Harry replied from his half-sprawled position as she pulled off his hat and wig and tossed them to Jackson. “I don’t own a gun, and the only knife I have is one of those
Swiss army ones.”
Unsettling as this little drama was, it wasn’t going unnoticed by the rest of Cymbeline. A few tourist types walking past stopped to stare, while a saggy pants–wearing teen recorded the action with his smartphone. Even worse, a twenty-something woman with a half-shaved head and wearing an Atlanta TV station–logo shirt had pulled out a camera and was snapping pictures.
Sheriff Lamb, meanwhile, had finished frisking Harry.
“He’s clean,” she told the deputies, and reached for the handcuffs on her belt. “All right, Mr. Westcott, I need your right hand behind you … now your left.”
In a couple of quick moves, she’d slapped the handcuffs on both of his wrists. That accomplished, she nodded to Mullins, who reached for Harry’s bound arms and pulled him upright again, then spun him around.
“Harry Westcott,” the sheriff grimly said, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Gregory Bainbridge.”
Chapter Fourteen
While the deputies loaded an obviously stunned Harry into one of the vehicles, I abandoned the wheelchair and rushed over to the sheriff.
“Wait, Sheriff Lamb, you’ve got the wrong guy,” I choked out, realizing as I said it that this was the clichéd claim of every friend and relative when someone they knew was under arrest.
Still, I persisted, “Harry and I know who really did it. It’s this woman who’s been stalking and threatening to kill him. She obviously thought it was Harry in the penguin costume. Her name is Lana Harwood, and she—”
“Ms. Fleet, please don’t interfere in sheriff’s department business,” she cut me short, sliding her sunglasses back into place. “If you’d like to make a statement to one of the deputies about the case, come by our facility later this afternoon, and we’ll be happy to listen to you.”
She handed me a business card with a big star stamped on it along with her name and the sheriff’s department address.
The official sheriff’s department blow-off move, I thought in outrage, watching as the car with Harry in it drove off. But before I could summon another argument, the sheriff’s chill expression softened fractionally.
“Look, Ms. Fleet, I’ve known Harry since we were kids. He’s a great guy, lots of charisma. But he’d been a little, well, off since that falling out with his family. And we do have an eyewitness who puts him with the victim at the estimated time of the murder.”
She must have seen the shock on my face, for she added, “We’re still investigating the incident, so if you think you know something that would point us in another direction, we want to hear it. But there’s something you should remember. He might not be taking statuettes home on awards night, but Harry is one hell of an actor. I suggest you keep that in mind when he tells you about how innocent he is.”
Leaving me with that unsettling thought, she climbed into her own vehicle and pulled out.
“Ma’am, ma’am!” I heard a voice behind me calling.
I turned to see a clean-cut blond kid in khakis and a pale-blue pullover halfway across the square waving a cordless microphone and running in my direction. He was trailed by a chunky, middle-aged black guy with a graying old-school Fu Manchu mustache lugging a camera on his shoulder. I was pretty sure I’d seen the blond kid on one of the Atlanta news channels back when I lived there. Just the person I did not want to talk to right now.
Telling myself I’d retrieve Harry’s wheelchair later, I fled across the street and into Peaches and Java. In this prelunch gap of time, the coffee shop was sparsely occupied, and only by locals. I saw no sign of Gemma or Jasmine, but Daniel was busy cleaning one of the coffee stations.
“Quick, hide me,” I told him as the man looked up in alarm at my hasty entry. “I’ve got reporters after me.”
Like Gemma rushing to help the other day, he didn’t pause for questions but pointed me to the storeroom behind the main counter. I fled through that open doorway as the bells on the front door jangled. From my vantage point behind a mostly stocked open shelf, I could see both the reporter and his camera guy, but I was pretty certain they couldn’t see me.
“Can I help you?” I heard Daniel say.
“Dave Bradshaw, Live News Atlanta,” the reporter replied, panting a little from his run. “I’m looking for a woman who just came into your shop. Brown hair, white shirt, jeans. We’d like to interview her about what just happened across the street from you. Any idea where she went?”
“No one like that came in, brah. But if you want to sit down and order, maybe she’ll show up later.”
“Are you sure? I saw her run in your door maybe thirty seconds ago. Anyone else see her?”
All he got in return was a lot of head shaking from the locals who, thankfully, were banding together to protect a fellow Cymbeliner. I could see the reporter’s frustrated expression, and I knew he knew everyone was lying. Not that he could do anything about that.
Then I heard the camera man speak up. “Hey, Dave. Maybe she went into the restroom.”
I hastily slid over to the next row of shelves, changing my angle so I could see what happened next. Sure enough, good old Dave marched over to the store’s single public restroom, the cartoon paintings of anthropomorphic male and female peaches on its door indicating it was a unisex facility. And then he began knocking.
“Hey, brah,” Daniel called. “This isn’t Starbucks. You wanna pee, buy yourself a coffee first.”
“Just checking for that lady,” Dave airily assured him, rattling the doorknob now.
The restroom door opened a moment later, and a tall black guy with glasses walked out, newspaper tucked under his arm. Giving the reporter a chilly “It’s all yours,” the man returned to his table and settled back in with his coffee.
Dave and his camera operator exchanged looks; then the former shrugged.
“Guess I was mistaken. We’ll be back later for that coffee. In the meantime, y’all have a Live day,” he finished with what I assumed was his station’s tag line before gesturing the camera guy to follow him out.
I waited another minute in case Live Dave pulled a fast one and came back. Only when I was sure the pair was gone did I leave the storeroom again.
“Thanks, everyone,” I said to the remaining customers. To Daniel, I said, “I appreciate your letting me hide. I seriously did not want to talk to that kid.”
“Always glad to help,” he said with a smile. Then he sobered. “This Dave guy said something just happened outside the store. What’s he talking about?”
“I’ll explain if you’ve got a few minutes.”
After Daniel had poured us both a cup of fresh brew—iced for me, since I was still sweating—I gave him the rundown about Harry’s arrest. While Daniel exclaimed over this, I went on to tell him about the mysterious stalker Harry claimed had threatened him, as well as Sheriff Lamb’s warning that Harry might not be trusted. When I’d finished, the man was shaking his head.
“I’m not sure what to tell you, Nina. I know Sheriff Lamb, and she wouldn’t be arresting Harry if she didn’t have some pretty strong evidence against him. You already told the deputy yesterday about the woman who was the first one to find Gregory in the alley, right?”
“Right. But at the time, I didn’t know she was Harry’s crazy stalker.”
“And you still don’t know that, do you?”
When I gave him a questioning look, he went on, “Harry was there in the alley with you and Gemma and the nuns. He could have overheard what you said and used your description to make up this whole stalker thing. That way, when the cops came back to you with more questions, you’d be corroborating his alibi. I mean, that’s all pretty vague when you think about it—some middle-aged white gal who might have brown hair, or maybe it’s blonde hair or red hair.”
“But he described her tattoo to me,” I weakly protested. Daniel had come up with a good counterargument. The problem was, I didn’t want to believe I’d been taken in like that.
He shrugged. “You probably mentioned the tat when you made your
statement. Remember, an actor and a con artist have a lot of the same skills. They know people, and they know how to put on a convincing performance.”
The shop door jingled again, and he stood to greet the new customer. “You want my advice, Nina,” he finished, “keep away from the guy, at least until the cops wrap this thing up. You’ve got enough on your plate right now trying to run a business and taking care of those nuns.”
Which was what I’d already been telling myself. On top of that, not only the sheriff but now Daniel was warning me that Harry might be using his acting chops against me. Had he been playing me the whole time? How had the situation gone from the man waving letters and threatening me with a lawsuit to the pair of us skulking about together in search of his supposed stalker, who conveniently might also be Bainbridge’s killer?
I set down my cup with a clank. Time to kick Harry to the curb and let the professionals handle the situation. I’d already told the sheriff all I knew about Bainbridge’s murder. It wasn’t my job to play Harry’s sidekick. He had a dialing finger and an attorney. He’d be okay.
Feeling something of the same sort of relief I’d had when I’d signed my divorce papers, I gave Daniel a wave and then headed for the door. I checked first, however, to make sure Reporter Dave wasn’t lurking outside with his cameraman. Fortunately, the coast was clear, and Harry’s wheelchair was still where I’d left it. I’d do him one last favor and roll the chair back to his bus, but from there the actor was on his own.
As on the day before, I was a bit surprised when I finally got back to the house to find it barely noon. But this time, the nuns had taken luncheon matters into their own hands. The leftover meat and veggies from yesterday’s snack tray had been chopped along with a couple of hard-boiled eggs and a head of lettuce I’d had sitting around to make a hearty Cobb salad.