Spooky Trills (Alice Whitehouse Book 2)

by Nic Saint

  “A rumor that those unholy friends of yours probably started,” he grumbled.

  “So you think there is no money?”

  He sighed and drew his fingers through his hair. “Hell if I know. The old man was mean and crazy enough to go and do a stupid thing like that, but Mom wasn’t. She would never have allowed him to bury their hard-earned money.” He leaned on the counter. “I asked her about it this morning, and she swore up and down it’s just a stupid rumor. The money—what money that’s left over, that is—is all safely in the bank.”

  “Oh,” I said, slightly disappointed.

  He laughed. “Yeah, I wanted it to be true, too. Millions in gold and cash hidden somewhere in some secret hidey-hole? Who wouldn’t sign up for that? But I’m afraid it’s not true. Besides, as Dad kept on telling us, there’s no money in duck farming. Never was, and now there never will be, as Mom is closing the business.”

  “You’re not going to keep it going?”

  “No way,” he said. “I’ve got my own business to take care of, and my brothers have their businesses.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Mom is tired of duck farming. She wants to sell out and be done with it.”

  “There’s a rumor,” I began, and he heaved a tired groan.

  “What is it with you people and rumors? Don’t you realize you’re talking about real people with real issues here?”

  “Oh, but I didn’t start it,” I assured him.

  “That’s what they all say,” he grumbled. “Come on. Tell me. What’s the latest rumor?”

  “The rumor goes that a real estate developer is looking at Pender Duck Farm, wanting to turn it into a golf course.”

  He eyed me closely. “And who told you that?”

  I shrugged. “Just something I heard floating around.”

  He shook his head. “Damn gossipmongers. Next thing they’ll start saying mom was involved with this golf course guy and killed my dad so they could have free rein.” When I gave him a sheepish look, he cursed loudly. “I knew it! That’s what they’re saying, isn’t it? See? That’s what you get from associating yourself with people like your three terrible friends.”

  “They’re not so terrible,” I muttered.

  “Look, why don’t you just sell me a gun. I’ve told you too much already.”

  I looked at him steadily. “I’m sorry, Kelley. But I don’t think I can sell you a gun. Not at this moment, anyway.”

  “What?” he asked, incredulous. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a suspect,” I said with a shrug.

  He raised his voice. “A suspect, me? Do you really think I killed the old man? I wasn’t even in town this morning! I was over in Long Island City for a car show. I only got back when Jack called. And if you want proof, there’s plenty of people who can vouch for me, as I was up at dawn setting up my booth.”

  “I still can’t sell you a gun,” I said stubbornly. “I’m very sorry.”

  He tapped his fingers on the counter, changing his stance. “So why do you think I killed my dad, huh? Just tell me that.”

  “Your business is on the verge of bankruptcy and you need money to save it?”

  He emitted a hoarse laugh. “Huh! See how little you know! My business is doing just fine. In fact it’s doing so great I’m buying out Franklin Devlin, who owns the auto shop located right next to mine. Double my turnover. But before I can do that, I do need money, that’s true, and a cash injection would be much appreciated. But since I’m the owner of such a fine thriving business, I just secured myself a nice loan at a very nice rate with Armstrong & Tillich and negotiations with Devlin Motors have just started.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Yeah. That’s right. See how little you know, huh?”

  “I guess I owe you an apology, Kelley.”

  “Of course you do.” He tapped the counter again, impatiently this time. “So about that gun. I want myself a nice, big one with—”

  “I still can’t sell you one, though,” I told him.

  “What?! After everything I just told you?”

  “Technically you’re still a suspect,” I explained. “At least as long as your father’s murder hasn’t been solved.”

  He groaned. “I can’t believe this.”

  “But if you’d like, you can talk to my uncle Mickey. Maybe he’ll sell you a gun. He’s a lot less discerning than I am.”

  He stared at me. “That doesn’t make any sense. If you’re so sure your uncle will sell me a gun, why don’t you?”

  I raised my chin. “I happen to have a moral compass. And I’m sticking to it.”

  “Sure you do,” he said, shaking his head. “Tell that to Bettina Bell, who came nosing around my shop just now, pretending to want to buy a car and asking me all kinds of questions. Nice moral compass.”

  I blushed slightly. “Maybe she was actually looking for a car?”

  “Yeah, right. Trading in that sweet little Mini Cooper for one of my banged-up jalopies? I don’t think so.”

  I wanted to point out that the smart businessperson never disparages his own product, but figured I’d already angered this man enough.

  “Neighborhood watch my ass,” he grumbled, striding toward the door. “Huh!” And then he left, slamming the door.

  Yep, that was one customer who I hadn’t sent home with a smile on his face. Or was it whom?

  Chapter 11

  My shift over, I decided to pay a visit to the second brother. Since all three of them were suspects, I wanted to find out what Carney was up to. And since he essentially had told me off about coming near him or his family ever again, I decided that a very big carrot was required. Which is why the first thing I told him as I stepped into his office was that I wanted to take out life insurance, the best and most expensive policy he had.

  He eyed me dubiously for a moment, his piggy little eyes staring at me from between the folds of his large, globular head, but finally settled back and decided to take the bait. He might personally dislike me and the neighborhood watch I represented, but a client was a client, and he wasn’t going to let a nice big fat bonus slip through his sausage-like fingers.

  He plastered a totally fake smile on his face and said, “How old are you, Miss Whitehouse?”

  “Um, twenty-eight,” I said, taking a seat across from the man.

  The smile widened. Get ‘em while they’re young is one of those slogans I imagine are bandied about at insurance brokers’ conventions.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any congenital diseases?”

  “No, I always use protection,” I assured him.

  “A congenital disease is a hereditary disease. A birth defect?” he added when I stared at him blankly.

  “Oh. Of course. No, I don’t have one of those either.”

  “Have you ever been a serious accident?”

  “I’ve been on some terrible dates, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Any life-threatening diseases?”

  “Well, I have a tendency to get hangnails. And split ends.”

  “What about your parents?” he asked, steepling his fingers.

  “My parents are just fine,” I promised him. “Dad suffers from hypertension a little, but that’s hardly surprising in his chosen line of work.”

  “Right. Chief Whitehouse,” he said, as if he’d just made the connection.

  “Yes. My dad’s Chief of Police,” I said, in case he needed a reminder.

  He seemed to swallow away a little lump of uneasiness, but then that smile was back in full force. “It appears that I can indeed recommend you one of our higher-end policies. Are you married, by any chance?”

  “Not at the moment,” I admitted.

  “Any plans in that direction?” he asked as he fished a brochure from a file folder.

  “Not at the moment,” I repeated.

  He nodded. “Well, then,” he said, placing the brochure on the desk in front of me and launchin
g into his usual spiel with practiced ease. For the next fifteen minutes or so he explained to me about annuities, beneficiaries, cash surrender value, dividends, free look provision and lapse rate, life expectancy and mortality, non-forfeiture and premiums, interest options and fixed period options, and when he finally got down to the difference between standard risk and substandard risk I was ready to throw up.

  “That’s all well and good,” I said, interrupting the flow of words, “but what if I already have one of these?”

  He blinked. “One of these what?”

  “One of these life insurance thingies?”

  “You already have life insurance?”

  “Sure. My dad set me up ages ago. He’s very big on insurance.”

  He blinked again. Twice. I could see color rising from his neck to his chins, which were wiggling indignantly. “Do you mean to tell me that you are already covered?”

  “Fully.”

  “But why make me go to all this trouble?”

  I shrugged. “I like to know my options.”

  He slammed the folder shut and pressed his lips together. “I knew it. I knew it the minute you walked in here that this was another fake call.”

  “Fake call?”

  “Marjorie Scattering was in here just before you dropped by. She was wearing some kind of ridiculous disguise but I recognized those horsey features of hers immediately. She wanted to know about insurance, too, and then asked me all kinds of questions about my business. She seemed to be laboring under the misapprehension that I’m about to go broke.”

  “Well, are you?” I asked. “About to go broke?”

  “Of course I’m not!” he cried. “I run a thriving business. Extremely thriving. Lots and lots of clients, and all very happy to bring me their business. Except for you and that Scattering woman, of course.” He fixed me with an angry stare, his beady eyes narrowing into pinpricks. “Why are you hounding me, Miss Whitehouse?”

  “Because I think you just might have killed your father,” I said, deciding to put all my cards on the table.

  He started, his chins swaying violently. “Me? A murderer? You must be crazy! Why would I ever commit patricide?”

  “I don’t know about that,” I admitted, “but you might have killed your father.”

  “That’s what patricide is.”

  “Of course it is. So how about it? Did you kill your father, Carney?”

  “Of course I didn’t! I loved my father. He was a crazy old kook but he was still my father. His absence will be sorely felt. My children will have to miss their grandfather, and my wife her father-in-law, whom she adored.”

  “Your wife adored your father?”

  “As strange as this may sound, yes, she did. My wife is a very big fan of the King, as are we all. Dad used to sing Elvis songs around the Christmas tree every year when we all came together to celebrate.” His face morphed into one of happy reminiscence. “I will always cherish the moment he sang Oh Little Town of Bethlehem with my wife, the whole family joining in on the chorus. I think I even have it on video.” He took out his phone but I held up my hand. Having heard Banning Pender’s singing voice once before, I had to draw the line somewhere, if only to hold onto my sanity. He put away his phone again, looking worried. “Listen, is it true you and Virgil Scattering are like this?”

  He’d crossed his index and middle fingers.

  “Yes, we are very close,” I admitted. “He’s one of my best friends.”

  “And is it also true that you and Rock Walker are a thing?”

  Now it was my turn to scowl. “We’re not a thing,” I said. We just kept on kissing each time we met, which meant nothing. Nothing, I tell you!

  He eyed me dubiously. “So your dad is Chief of Police, your best friend is a cop, and your boyfriend is the detective in charge of this case.”

  I gritted my teeth, then said, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Right. Of course he isn’t.” It was obvious he didn’t believe me. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a gesture I recognized from his brother Kelley. “Look, I may have been hasty in denying you access to the house and my mother. And if you think I committed patricide… The thing is, Miss Whitehouse.”

  “Please call me Alice.”

  “The thing is, there is a kernel of truth to the rumors about my business. I am in need of some extra cash, and my father’s refusal to invest in my business had a profoundly devastating effect on me. But I would never murder the old man. I didn’t lie when I said I loved him. I even went down to Vegas with him many times, both of us dressed in our finest Elvis threads.” He turned around a picture frame that was on his desk. It depicted Carney and Banning, both dressed like Elvis and looking pretty snazzy.

  “Did you sing?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” he said with a smile. “But I did enjoy the whole Vegas experience. The performances, the shows, the glitter and the glamor. So you see, I would never murder my father. We were buddies.”

  “But if you were buddies, why did he refuse to loan you the money?”

  “Ouch. You don’t pull any punches, do you, Alice?”

  “Not when I’m trying to solve a murder.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll tell you why. Dad was broke. As broke as I was. We all thought he was loaded—there was this story about him having buried millions around the farm somewhere—but when we were in Vegas the last time, just a couple of weeks ago, he confessed to me one evening that duck farming never made him any money. That he had to struggle each year to keep his head above water. He said he was going to sell the farm and with what little money that made him, he was going to move to Vegas and pursue his lifelong dream of being a professional full-time performer.”

  “And what about your mother?” I asked.

  “They were getting a divorce,” said Carney honestly. “Mom was having an affair with some developer type, and Dad…” He hesitated.

  I sat up a little straighter. “Your dad was having an affair, too?”

  His eyes darted back to the picture on his desk of him and his dad in Vegas. “I’m not sure. I had my suspicions, though he didn’t want to confirm or deny. Said it was too soon to tell, which was pretty much an admission.”

  “What did she look like?” I asked, instantly thinking back to the Priscilla I’d seen at the farm.

  “Like I said, Dad didn’t want to tell me more, so I don’t even know if the woman existed. But he did promise me one thing, and that was that he would always be there for me and my family.”

  “Except financially,” I said.

  “Except financially,” he admitted. “But just because he couldn’t.”

  “And now that the farm will be sold, you will be coming into some money, I presume?”

  His face hardened. “You are a terrible person, Alice Whitehouse, do you know that?”

  “No, I don’t know that,” I said. “I just know that an innocent man was murdered, and I’m going to do everything I can to find out who’s responsible and make sure they get what they deserve.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Then we’re on the same team, because that’s what I want as well. Yes, we will get some money from the sale of the farm, I assume, but I can’t imagine it’s going to be the kind of bonanza my brothers seem to think it will be. Dad had debts, and they’ll have to be settled first. And then there’s estate taxes and all that, so…” He shrugged. “If I had killed my dad for money I’d have been a very stupid person, Alice.”

  “I can see that,” I said, softening. For some reason, I believed him. I didn’t think he’d done it. And what was even more strange, he seemed nice, even for an insurance broker. And if my dad hadn’t gotten me life insurance with our family insurance agent, I might have been induced to take Carney up on his offer.

  “One last thing before I go,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Where were you this morning between seven and eight?”

  “Home with my family,” he said. “My wife and three sons will vouch
for me.”

  “Three sons?”

  “Light of my life, each and every one of them. You told me you don’t have a family, Alice. Well, I’d encourage you to start one as soon as you can. You haven’t really experienced unbridled joy until you have.”

  “First I have to find the right partner,” I said wryly.

  He smiled. “Looks to me like you already have.”

  Chapter 12

  I left the shop with a light heart. So Carney thought Rock and I were a thing, too, huh? It seemed to me everybody thought so, except Rock and I ourselves, and since we were the only people this really mattered to, that seemed a little disconcerting. And I was just unfastening the chain lock from around my bike when I saw a familiar figure crossing the street. Priscilla! The moment our eyes met, she quickly looked away, and headed for the same burgundy suburban I’d seen her drive off in before.

  I fiddled with the lock, which was stuck, as usual, but by the time I’d mounted my bike and was ready to go in pursuit of the woman, she was nowhere to be seen. Dang it. For the fearless leader of the neighborhood watch, I wasn’t very good at the art of the hot pursuit, apparently. And of course I forgot to take a look at the license plate again. Oh well. Perhaps our paths would cross again. And this time I’d be able to ask her what her relation to the dead man was.

  I pedaled down the street, trying to make sense of this whole senseless murder. And that’s when it struck me. By now the coroner would have determined the caliber of the bullets he’d pulled out of the dead man. Perhaps those had garnered a clue? I needed to get in touch with Rock again, and this time evade his wandering lips as best I could.

  I parked my bike outside Jack’s Joint and attached it to the bar placed there for fanatical cyclists like me—or, rather, people who managed to fail their driver’s test over and over again.

  The bar wasn’t crowded, and I immediately spotted Fee at the counter. Jack Pender, who saw me enter, shook his head in dismay. But what could he do? Kick me out of his bar? One of his best patrons?

  “Hey, Fee,” I said as I slipped onto the barstool next to hers. “Did you manage to get a confession out of him yet?”