by Mary Maxwell
I waited while he sipped his tea and regained his composure.
“I know about your father,” I said gently. “And the incident at Whetstone Gulf.”
His mouth fell open. “How do you know about that?”
“Ivy Minkler found an envelope that had somehow fallen behind the copy machine at the library, and—”
“That’s a lie!” Nigel blurted. “Annabeth was at the library, but she never used the copy machine. She got up for a drink of water, left the envelope on the table and it was gone when she returned a minute later. She went to the front desk for help, but the librarian told her that they aren’t responsible for anything you bring in from outside. Annabeth said the woman was acting suspiciously, and now it seems pretty obvious why. I bet she’s the one that took the envelope.”
The revelation was stunning. If it was true, Ivy Minkler had fabricated her story about finding the envelope. A flood of questions rushed forward in my mind. Why would Ivy steal someone’s belongings? What did she hope to gain? Did she know what was inside the package before she took it?
“Kate?” I turned my gaze back to Nigel. “Did I lose you?”
I shook my head. “I was just thinking about the letter and the other things,” I said. “The newspaper clipping about your father, an old photograph and—”
“And the map of Crescent Creek that I drew,” Nigel said. “Along with earlier versions of the letter to Walter Shipp and a receipt from the day my sister and I had coffee and dessert here at your café. I was trying to keep everything from our trip in one place. Annabeth had it because we planned to go by Mr. Shipp’s house later that day after I finished working on an article for the magazine. We left the final version of the letter in his mailbox early yesterday morning.”
I drank some tea and pondered which direction to take the conversation. When Ivy first told me about the death threat, I thought it might possibly be a hoax. But now that Walter had gone missing—along with Nigel’s sister—it seemed the situation was anything but a misguided prank.
“Have you mentioned this to anyone else in Crescent Creek?”
Nigel chewed the inside of his cheek and squinted into the distance. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to recall a specific conversation or regretting that such an exchange had happened. When he shifted his eyes back to meet mine, I felt it was probably a blend of both.
“Well, I did foolishly share part of our story with someone the other night after, like, three drinks on an empty stomach,” he said slowly. “I just got caught up in the euphoria of being so close to the end of our search for the man who killed our father. And I regret opening my big mouth. But it was the night we arrived, and I was tired from the flight. One of the book fair women plied me with some kind of sugary sweet peach cocktail.”
The last detail caught my attention. “What kind of cocktail?”
“I don’t think she ever told me the name,” he said. “But they were really strong and really peachy.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In the prep kitchen at the Civic Center,” he answered. “It was the night after Annabeth and I arrived in Crescent Creek. We came out early to try and talk some sense into Mr. Shipp without resorting to something as extreme as the threatening letter. Ivy Minkler invited us to tour the facility for a glimpse of the main auditorium, the smaller meeting rooms and the banquet hall.”
“Did Ivy fix you the drink?”
Nigel shook his head. “No, it was someone else.” He thought for a moment, wriggling his lips and staring at his hands. “I don’t remember her name, but she was wearing a leopard-print dress and shiny high heels.”
“Was her name Sonya?”
Nigel frowned. “I’m not sure, Kate. I had too much to drink that night. It’s all kind of fuzzy.”
“But you do remember telling the woman about your reason for visiting Crescent Creek?”
“Yeah. I told her about the letter and Whetstone Gulf. And I remember thinking at the time that she seemed especially interested in all of that.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” I asked. “It’s a heartbreaking tale.”
“More like a nightmare,” Nigel murmured. “A nightmare that my sister and I have been living for the past few years. And it seemed like maybe now, after finally locating Walter Shipp, we could get justice for our father and recover the inheritance he wanted us to have.”
“How did you find Walter anyway?” I asked.
“We hired a PI from Albany,” Nigel answered. “He found him for us. He sent me a link to Walter’s picture on the website for the Crescent Creek book fair. That’s when I got the idea to contact Mrs. Minkler and arrange to speak at the event and promote my new book. I knew that the fair usually only features local and regional writers, so I offered to pay my own way.”
As he scooped up one of the cookies and took a bite, I suddenly wondered if perhaps Nigel’s sister had decided to take matters into her own hands. Their original intention may have been blackmailing Walter Shipp into confessing to their father’s murder, but maybe Annabeth had decided to go to the most extreme next step. As he finished the cookie, I asked Nigel when he last saw his sister.
“We had coffee this afternoon,” he said. “Around one o’clock at some place near the Civic Center.”
“And then?”
“Then I thought she was going to check out the places you suggested. She said maybe she’d get a manicure or buy something new to wear for the book fair.”
“Did she have her own car?”
He nodded. “Yeah, Annabeth’s a bit of a control freak. I suggested we share a rental, but she insisted on getting two.” A faint smile appeared. “She’s got this huge streak of self-determination. Doesn’t like anybody telling her what to do. Has to call the shots about where and when and how.”
“Do you think she went to see Walter Shipp?”
His head angled to one side. “Today?”
“I think maybe I saw her there this afternoon,” I said. “But she’d taken a taxi.”
Nigel frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, she went to talk with him a couple of times by herself, but not today.” He paused, deep in thought. “And why would she take a cab? She had the rental car.”
I shrugged. “Well, I’m pretty sure it was her,” I said. “And I also visited the crime scene at Walter’s tonight. The police had recovered three wine glasses, one of which had dark purple lipstick on the rim that almost certainly matches the shade your sister wears.”
His face went slack. “Okay, that’s just weird,” he said. “How do you know what kind of lipstick Annabeth wears?”
“You have to admit that she’s a bit more exotic than most women here in Crescent Creek,” I said.
“Meaning what?”
“I didn’t get a particularly close look at her in the back of the cab,” I answered. “But I’ve heard about her—the dark lipstick, heavy eye makeup, pale foundation and pitch-black outfit from head to toe.”
Nigel smirked. “Annabeth is a downtown kind of girl,” he said. “She lives in the East Village. Hangs out with artists and musicians. Kind of thinks of herself as a modern version of the old punk rock attitude.”
I smiled. “Okay, sure. And don’t you agree that someone like that would be very noticeable in a place like this?”
He heaved an irritated sigh. “I suppose,” he said. “I’m more interested in why you were at Mr. Shipp’s. Did the police call you or did you call them?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “And I’m too tired to explain that part of it tonight. But, getting back on track, I’m pretty certain it was your sister’s lipstick on the glass. And the first responders also found the business card that I gave to you.”
He frowned. “What business card?”
“Remember? When we met, you asked for a few places that Annabeth could—”
“And the card was at Walter Shipp’s house?”
“Yes,” I answered. “And there’s more.”
When
he nodded, I told him about the overturned furniture and the missing Cadillac Escalade.
“What are you getting at?” he said gravely. “You think that my sister was with Mr. Shipp and someone kidnapped them both?”
I shrugged. “Or maybe she kidnapped him.”
He scoffed. “Annabeth?”
“It’s a possibility,” I answered. “It’s pretty apparent that she was in Walter’s house at some point. She’s not answering your calls. And the two of you came to Crescent Creek for a rather chancy confrontation with Walter.”
His eyes flashed with anger. “My sister wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“I didn’t say that she did, Nigel. I’m just speculating based on what you’ve just told me along with the evidence recovered at the scene.”
He nodded and sipped his tea. Then he closed his eyes and rubbed his face.
“Wait a sec,” he said, lowering his hands and looking at me. “You just told me that there were three wine glasses at the crime scene?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, if Annabeth was drinking from one of them,” he said, “that means two other people were there as well.”
“At least two,” I said. “In a situation like this it’s important not to rule out the unknown.”
“I don’t follow,” Nigel said.
“The fact that the police found three wine glasses doesn’t necessarily mean that only three people were at Walter’s. Someone else might have been there without drinking any wine. Or the third glass could’ve been from earlier in the day. Maybe Walter had a glass of wine by himself before Annabeth arrived.”
Nigel shook his head and stared angrily at the half-filled mug of tea.
“This is all so confusing,” he said. “I just want to find my sister before it’s too late.”
“Too late?”
He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Before she gets hurt by someone else.”
CHAPTER 19
I was drifting through a dream about a half-price sale at my favorite shoe store when I realized the sound of the cash register was actually my phone. I surfaced slowly from sleep, reached for the bedside table and answered the call without looking at the time.
“Is that you, Kate?” asked a scratchy voice.
I mumbled a greeting and switched on the lamp.
“It’s Alma Cassidy.” She sniffled softly. “I just heard about Mr. Shipp.”
I glanced at the clock; half past eleven.
“Isn’t it just terrible?” she asked.
“Yes, I heard the news,” I said. “I actually went by there earlier to talk with Deputy Chief Walsh.”
“The police were here at my house around nine. They asked why I thought your business card was found in the kitchen. I hope you don’t mind, but I told them about your visit earlier in the day, Kate. Is that when you gave the card to Mr. Shipp?”
“It’s more complicated than that, Alma.” I pushed up in bed and leaned against the pillows. “But I explained everything to Deputy Chief Walsh.”
“That’s good to know,” she said in a faraway voice. “I’m still terribly worried about Mr. Shipp.”
“That’s understandable,” I said. “But remember that the police have started their investigation, and I’ll do whatever I can from this point forward to help find Walter.”
“You’re a kind person that way.”
I closed my eyes and dropped my head back into the feathery mound. “Thank you, Alma. Takes one to know one.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” she said, sounding defeated. “I’m feeling really guilty, Kate.”
“Why on earth would you feel guilty?”
“I just think maybe I could’ve done something,” she said. “Or I should’ve done something.”
“Like what?”
She answered with a tearful rush of garbled words. When I asked her to repeat them, she explained that she’d found the threatening letter in Walter’s living room. “And I didn’t say anything to him,” she added. “I just pretended like it wasn’t real and nothing bad would happen.”
“I saw it, too,” I confessed.
“I know. You were reading it when I came back into the room yesterday with the coffee while Mr. Shipp was on the phone.”
“Old habits die hard.”
Alma snickered softly. “I get that. After so many years as a private detective, I imagine it’d be difficult to just stop being curious.”
“Well, I’m working on it,” I said. “There’s a thin line between curiosity and sticking your nose where it isn’t welcome.”
“What did you think when you saw the letter?” she asked. “Did you believe it was real?”
“I’d actually seen it before.”
She gasped. “Seriously?”
I quickly explained that someone had contacted me a couple of days earlier when they found the letter. Although I didn’t identify Ivy Minkler or mention the library, I made it clear that I was well aware of the note and the deadly threat it contained.
“And now they’ve done it,” Alma whimpered. “They’ve killed him.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “At this point, it actually looks more like an abduction, not a murder.”
“You mean they just kidnapped Mr. Shipp?”
“It looks that way,” I said. “And the police will do whatever it takes to find him.”
“Who could do such a thing?”
“I was going to ask you the same question. Have you heard Walter mention anyone that might want to harm him?”
“You mean someone capable of writing that letter?” she asked. “And someone willing to actually kill another person?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Not really, no.” Alma’s voice was brittle and cheerless, the sound of someone trying to comprehend such an inexplicable incident. “But I’ve heard enough to know that he’s made a lot of people in town very angry lately.”
“Are you talking about the investments that failed?”
Alma snorted. “Investments? Ha! It was more like an old-fashioned swindle. I didn’t know anything about until it was too late to warn my friends. Mr. Shipp had something going that he imagined would never end. But the markets dropped and several people called at the same time demanding their money. He didn’t have enough cash in the bank to pay them back.”
“Like Bernie Madoff?”
“I guess so,” she said. “I remember that name in the news, but I’m not really familiar with the story. What I do know is this: Mr. Shipp had overextended himself terribly. His life was a complete mess—bad real estate deals, two very costly divorces, a bunch of leggy girlfriends with expensive tastes. And all of that happened back in New York. When he moved to Crescent Creek, he kept his nose clean for a while, but then he fell off the wagon sometime last year and convinced a handful of folks to invest in his new scheme.”
“Do you know who was involved?”
“I gave a list of names to the police,” Alma said.
“Did it include Abe Waterhouse and Sonya Lipton?”
“Gosh, I’m sorry, Katie,” she answered. “I honestly don’t remember all of them.”
“Would you be willing to share the list with me?”
“Of course, I can send it to your email if that’s okay.”
“Thank you, Alma. That would be perfect.”
“I want to help,” she murmured sadly. “But I don’t really know what to do.” She heaved a sigh. “I was going to the new cabin tomorrow to clean, but I don’t see any point to that now.”
“New cabin?”
“Yes, Mr. Shipp bought a cabin a few months ago,” she answered. “It was supposed to be his quiet place to think.”
“More quiet than Crescent Creek?”
Alma giggled. “I know, right? But I guess he wanted even more solitude. The cabin has a wood-burning stove and a little refrigerator, but no Internet service or satellite dish.”
“Where is it?”
“Oh, not too terribly far
,” she answered. “It’s a couple of miles off Highway 72 in Diamond Creek Canyon. I’ve been driving up about once a month to make sure it’s neat and tidy for whenever Mr. Shipp decides to spend some time there.”
“Did he work with a real estate agent?”
“I’m sorry?”
“When he bought the cabin,” I clarified. “Did Walter work with a local realtor to look at property before he bought the place in Diamond Creek?”
“Oh, sorry,” Alma apologized. “I’m getting tired, Kate. My brain’s turning into mush.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was just curious if Walter used a realtor to find the cabin.”
“Eugene Crisp,” she said. “The poor guy. Mr. Shipp made him jump through hoops during the whole process and pitched a fit about paying the full commission.”
“Did you mention this to the police?”
“Their arguments over the commission?”
“No, the cabin,” I said. “Did you tell them that Walter owns another property?”
“It didn’t cross my mind. I think maybe talking with you about Mr. Shipp’s money troubles just now made me think of it. When he bought it, I wondered how he could afford to do such a thing. But I’m beginning to suspect that he used the investment accounts to finance the cabin and the rest of his highfalutin lifestyle.”
I smiled at the remark and asked if she could do a favor for me.
“Anything, Kate. What do you need?”
“Will you include the address of Walter’s cabin when you send me the list of names? I’ll pass it all along to the police.”
“Absolutely! What else can I do to help? I’ve already been to church to pray and light a candle for him.”
“That’s a good start,” I said. “We’ll just have to cross our fingers now and hope that he’s found before anything really bad happens.”
After a few more minutes commiserating about Walter’s fate, Alma said she was going to fix a strong drink and try to get some rest. I waited for her email and forwarded everything to Trent as soon as it arrived. Less than thirty seconds later, my phone rang again.