by Maddy Hunter
“No! We’ve always been on good terms. It’s hard for me to believe she’d ever look at me that way.” She lifted her chin at a haughty angle. “Emily could be wrong, you know.”
Kitchen nodded toward Grover. “Mr. Kristiansen, same question.”
Grover gave two palms up. “I’m with Goldie. I think Emily was imagining things.”
“Mr. Iversen?”
“There’s no reason in the world why Delpha would give me the stink eye. Whoever she was looking at, I can say with some certitude that it wasn’t me.”
“Alrighty then.” Kitchen flipped to a fresh page on his notepad. “Now that we have that over with, let’s try again, only this time I want specifics. And I hope you’ll try real hard to give me something other than you were wandering around like zombies for an hour because that’s just not going to cut it. So, Mr. Kristiansen, with as much detail as possible please, where did you go, who did you see, and what did you do after you left the museum?”
Kitchen plied them with questions, testing both their alibis and their short-term memories. Clever questions. Tricky questions. But their responses were no more detailed on the second telling than they had been on the first. So he subjected them to a third round, then a fourth. By the time Sergeant Quinn walked through the door again, not only were we worn out from the constant barrage of questions, but Kitchen had nothing new to show for the hour and a half he’d been interrogating us, and his mood reflected the failure.
“I hope you’ve had more luck than I’ve had,” he barked at Quinn. “Did you find the phone?”
“No, sir.”
Nuts. I was so sure it’d find something. I slumped in my chair, discouraged that my brilliant idea had proven to be not so brilliant after all. But it had made so much sense at the time.
“I’m through for a while,” admitted Kitchen, slapping his palms on his thighs and rising to his feet. “Show’s all yours.”
“Thank you, sir.” Releasing his handcuffs from his belt, Quinn crossed the floor to where Alison was sitting. “Alison Pickles, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder.”
The room erupted in gasps and cries of shock.
Omigod! Alison? But…but…no. It couldn’t be Alison. She’d been holed up in a restroom stall with intestinal distress!
“I didn’t kill that woman,” Alison cried as Quinn cuffed her right wrist. “How could I kill her? I didn’t even know her!”
“I’m not arresting you for the death of Delpha Spillum,” he said as he slapped the cuff on her left wrist. “I’m arresting you for the death of Ralph Henry Carter.”
I choked back an emerging gasp to stare at Lieutenant Quinn.
Ralph Henry Carter?
Who was Ralph Henry Carter?
twenty-one
“Are you out of your mind?” shrieked Alison as she fought against her restraints. “I don’t know any Ralph Henry Carter.”
“You married him,” Quinn said calmly. “Ring any bells now?”
Grover lasered a look at her, his mouth and eyes rounding like moons. “You’re married?”
“Not anymore, she’s not.” Quinn braced his hand on her shoulder, anchoring her in her seat. “You’re not so big on the whole wedded bliss thing, are you, Alison?”
She gritted her teeth so hard, her cheeks bunched into knots. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you. I don’t know anyone named Ralph Henry Carter.”
Quinn shrugged. “Older guy? Nearing retirement age? Lived in Kansas? Obsessed with the over-fifty dating sites after his wife died? I guess he was pretty lonely, so he was ripe for the picking.”
“I don’t know what this has to do with me,” huffed Alison.
“Ralph died as a result of a fall in the shower. Skull fracture. Died immediately. His young bride wasn’t home when it happened. She mentioned to friends that she was taking a few days to visit her parents across the border in Missouri. The authorities found him after he failed to show up at work for two days running, but when they tried to contact his wife, they discovered her cell phone was no longer in service, and—surprise surprise—all Ralph’s bank accounts had been cleaned out.”
“Sounds familiar,” grumbled Ennis.
“And even more curious,” Quinn continued, “there were no parents in Missouri. They were fake. Just like their name. Just like her name. Abby Peel. Ring any bells yet?”
“If you don’t unlock these handcuffs immediately, you’re going to be looking at the mother of all lawsuits.”
“Speaking on Alison’s behalf,” interceded Orphie, “people fall down in showers all the time, and sometimes people die as a result. Accidents happen.”
To which Grover couldn’t refrain from adding, “According to the latest statistics, a quarter of a million bathroom accidents occur annually, although I can’t quote the fatality rate.”
“You’re naturally assuming Ralph’s death was an accident,” countered Quinn. “The police department did too, until they realized the reason he fell was because the floor tiles in the shower stall were abnormally slick, and the reason they were slick was because someone had apparently coated them with wax. Ski wax.”
“There’s skiing in Kansas?” marveled Goldie. “I never would have guessed. I thought the primary recreational activity in Kansas was dodging tornadoes.”
“Ski wax,” repeated Quinn, his gaze fixed on Alison. “Colorless. Odorless. And extremely effective in expediting a fatal loss of balance.”
“Why would I buy ski wax?” snapped Alison. “I don’t ski.”
“A clever crime,” said Quinn. “So clever, in fact, that Ms. Peel apparently stole a page from someone else’s playbook—an Amanda Pine from Naples, Florida, whose retirement-age husband died under similar circumstances. Ms. Pine expressed great remorse that her housekeeping idea might have caused her husband’s death, but she explained that she thought waxing the shower tiles would prevent soap scum from building up. She was never charged in the incident. I guess her pretty face and copious tears were seen as signs of sincerity.”
“Waxing the shower tiles,” mused Orphie. “I wonder how she came up with that idea. You think it works? I get terrible scummy buildup in my shower.”
Alison compressed her lips so tightly, her mouth disappeared. “I’ve never heard of Amanda Pine.”
“How about Amy Price? Angie Post? They pulled off similar operations in Texas and Michigan. And the scam always started out on an over-fifty dating site and ended in a quickie marriage, followed by the husband’s accidental death in the shower, a transfer of funds to the new bride, and the bride’s immediate flight from the area. But in the case of Ralph Henry Carter, his new wife didn’t even bother to stick around to explain about her brilliant idea to prevent soap scum. She cleaned him out and left before he even died. But she wasn’t worried about the outcome. Her plan had always worked perfectly. She had three notches in her belt to prove it. But I guess what she hadn’t taken into account was the accessibility of a nationwide database and the universal word search function. Funny how many hits you get when you type the words ‘ski wax’ and ‘shower deaths.’ ”
“This is so bogus,” sniped Alison.
“I imagine the former Mrs. Carter didn’t realize she’d earned her own moniker from law enforcement: the Blue Butterfly Killer. She might have changed her name for each murder, but she couldn’t change the tattoo on her neck.”
Alison fisted her cuffed hands below her ear as if to hide the ink.
“Pretty much nailed it, didn’t they?” asked Quinn. “You knock off your victim, then flutter off to another city to search for some other wealthy widower to fleece.”
Grover gasped for air, making it sound as if his lungs had just collapsed. “Was that your scheme?” he accused in a wild-eyed rage. “Was that what you were planning for me?”
I fired a look in his direction. W
hat?
Goldie followed suit. “What?”
“How could that be the plan?” Alison shouted back at him, dropping all pretense of innocence. “You’re still married!”
“I told you I’d take care of that!”
“You lied on your website profile. How can I trust a man who doesn’t tell the truth about his marital status?”
Killer scolds liar for purported dishonesty. Wow. That was rich.
“You lied more,” bellowed Grover. “You’re supposed to be a fifty-year-old widow!”
“I am a widow. And I thought you’d be happy that I’m younger than I said.”
“I was! I was delirious. But you’ll understand I’m a little unnerved to know you were planning to kill me!”
“I bet you’re not even rich! Were you lying about that too?”
“hold it,” yelled Goldie, her voice ripping through the air with the force of a nuclear blast. “You”—she stabbed her finger at Alison—“whatever your name is. I want some answers, and I want them now. What the hell kind of hanky panky is going on between you and my husband?”
“He started it!” cried Alison. “He was already profiled on the Frisky Seniors dating site, so I tickled him. He said he was widowed. He said he was searching for companionship with a woman who enjoyed the physical side of a relationship as much as he did. He said he had financial assets ranging in the eight figures.”
“Eight figures?” Orphie gasped. “Wow. Not to be nosy, but how much is that?”
“More than a million,” Florence calculated.
Orphie’s jaw dropped. “Could it be close to a billion?”
“Less than a billion,” said Ennis. “A billion would be ten figures, so eight figures would be anywhere between ten and ninety-nine mil—”
“Quiet!” screeched Goldie. Then, to Alison: “What else did my husband have to say on his profile?”
“We started having private chats. He knew where I lived, so he said maybe we could rendezvous here. He said he’d learned on the grapevine that a travel company in his town was planning a trip to Alaska, so he said he’d begin a covert campaign to encourage some of his book club friends to sign up, and he eventually convinced them all, so it was, like, full-speed ahead.”
“Was it Grover who encouraged us?” puzzled Orphie. “I don’t recall.”
“I thought it was Grace and Helen,” said Florence.
“Grace, Helen, and Lucille told us about the tour,” corrected Ennis, “but if memory serves, it was Grover who was pushing the idea, even at the pricey fee that Emily was charging.”
“You should have suspected something fishy right then,” Florence advised Goldie. “Grover’s usually such a skinflint.”
“In this instance he wasn’t thinking with his wallet,” reasoned Ennis. “He was thinking with his—”
“Will you people zip it so the girl can talk?” Goldie darted a fiery look around the room, her gaze settling once more on Alison. “Where were the two of you planning to rendezvous?”
“It never got to that. Independent travel agencies usually like to hire local guides to shepherd them around, but Majestic cruises recruit most of the local talent for their optional land tours. So there’s only a couple of us available for the independents to hire on a weekly basis, and in a well-calculated twist of fate, Emily’s tour company hired me.”
“The other local guide wasn’t available in the time slot we needed,” I objected.
“I know. I kinda made sure of that. I told him I’d accidentally double-booked, so he leaped at the chance to take over the gig I’d already accepted, which left me free if you came calling. Which you did.”
“It was the perfect setup for you, wasn’t it?” reflected Quinn. “Week in and week out, a brand-new cast of potential victims arriving in your orbit. A whole new batch of widowers to dupe.”
Alison grew unnaturally still, but only for a moment. “I’ll have you know that all my client reviews are five stars or higher. Sometimes the guests on my tours actually add stars to show their appreciation for the personal attention I’ve given them. So excuse me, but I do a lot more than prey on lonely old men. I’m an enthusiastic ambassador for Alaska tourism, and I do a damn fine job at it.”
“Are you calling me a lonely old man?” challenged Grover.
Alison slatted her eyes. “How can you be lonely? You’re married!” She threw a pleading look at the rest of us. “So get this: everything is arranged. I hook up with the tour in Seward. I ask everyone on the bus to introduce themselves. And guess who introduces herself right after Grover? Goldie Kristiansen. Grover’s wife!”
“I kept telling you,” insisted Grover. “She was only a minor glitch.”
Goldie smacked her hand against Grover’s chest. “What does that mean?”
“You couldn’t even stick to the plan,” Alison raged. “Stay away from me, I told you. Don’t raise any eyebrows. Keep a low profile. But noooo. What do you do? You’re on me like boom on an A-bomb. Putting moves on me when people are watching. Clinging to me like a hungry deer tick. Sneaking around after me in deserted hallways. Not real smart on that one, genius. Delpha Spillum saw us.”
“She did not.”
“Yes, she did! I know she did. That first night in Girdwood? When you put that slobbering lip lock on me in the vending machine nook near my room? She saw us. I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye before she disappeared. She saw us. So you gave us away before we even got out of the gate. You and your grubby little paws.”
Uff-da! Is that why Delpha had looked so belligerent when I’d seen her in the lobby? Had she just caught Grover swapping spit with Alison? And if that were the case, then…then…
“Oh my god.” I stared at Alison, horrified. “You killed Delpha.”
“I did not.”
“Yes, you did! You killed her to keep her quiet. You couldn’t have her ratting you out to Goldie, so you had to kill her.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not about to kill anyone over Grover Kristiansen. Eww. Have you heard the incessant stream of encyclopedic drivel that comes out of his mouth? He’s the world’s leading authority on everything. Doesn’t matter what it is—he knows more than God, and he never shuts up! All the time talking, talking, talking.” She slanted a look at Goldie. “How do you stand it?”
Goldie shook her head. “Earplugs come in handy, but deafness is my ultimate goal.”
“But we love each other,” Grover whined at Alison.
“Did you fail to hear the fate that was in store for you?” Orphie asked him. “Death by shower stall? I hate to put Al and me on a marital pedestal, but premeditated murder isn’t one of the hallmarks of everlasting love.”
“Well, someone killed Delpha,” I sputtered as I glared suspiciously at Grover.
He blinked stupidly. “Why’re you looking at me?”
“Because you’re the only other person with a strong motivation and a clear opportunity.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“He’s not,” droned Alison. “He was with me after we left the museum.”
Orphie gasped. “In the ladies’ room?”
“In an isolated corner of the building. He was all hot to continue the physical activity stuff. Bleah.” She shivered. “Physical activity meaning his hands and lips were everywhere.”
Grover slouched in his chair, head bent, looking like a turtle trying to retract his neck into his shell. Goldie thwacked his shoulder. “You are so busted.”
“So you admit your original alibi was a lie?” Quinn asked Alison.
She nodded. “Yeah, I was lying. We were both lying.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “So you’re asking me to take your word—the word of an avowed killer—that you had nothing to do with Ms. Spillum’s death?”
“Yes! I don’t kill to
tal strangers.”
“That’s right,” said Quinn. “You only kill them after you marry them.”
“So when were you and my husband planning to run off together?” Goldie asked, stone-cold anger flickering in her eyes. “After the tour? Halfway through? Or did you consider this a simple meet and greet to see if you were compatible?”
“They wouldn’t have had to be too compatible if the only thing she wanted to do was kill him,” Orphie pointed out. “And take his money.”
“Hah!” Goldie laughed scornfully. “What money? He sold vacuum cleaners all his life. You don’t find the names of vacuum cleaner salesmen at the top of the Fortune 500’s list of wealthiest men.”
Florence nodded in agreement. “You don’t even find them at the bottom.”
“You said you were a retired bank president!” Alison shouted at him. “I can’t believe you! Did you tell me the truth about anything?”
“Everyone lies on the internet,” defended Grover, sounding hurt and pouty. “So what if I embellished my profile? Does it matter? I still love you.”
Goldie slugged his arm. “Were you planning to run off after the tour? Tell me!”
“How could he run off?” ranted Alison. “He’s married! I’m not in the habit of running off with married men.”
Killing them, yes. Running off with them, not so much.
Except…
My brain kicked into overdrive.
What if, by the end of the tour, Grover could no longer claim to be married? What if his marital status changed along the way?
What had he told Alison earlier when referring to his marriage with Goldie?
I told you I’d take care of that.
Oh. My. God. “You were planning to kill Goldie,” I cried.
Alison shot me a startled glance. “Who, me?”
“No.” I pointed a finger at Grover. “Him!”
“Me?” blubbered Grover.
“Mrs. Miceli.” Quinn regarded me with indulgence. “Are you planning to accuse everyone in the room before the meeting ends?”