I stopped short.
A few passersby had to step around me as I focused my attention at the corner of Sullivan and Vine. A three-ring circus—Roslynn and the pastel people, Jimmy and Joe, Alistair and the ilk.
“They have different last names,” I said out loud, and the next pedestrian crashed into me.
“He’s her uncle!” I told him and ran for home.
Chapter 33
No car.
That altogether infuriating revelation hit me as I elbowed my way around this, that, and the other protester at the corner.
Candy was at Tate’s, Karen was off installing custom cabinets, and Peter drove way too slowly.
I made it to the semi-safety of my stoop, and proof that there is a God in heaven, remembered I had my cell phone with me. I pulled it from my back pocket and tried finding a number for a taxi while the three-ring circus worked on distracting me. Alistair and his clowns screamed at me, Jimmy and Joe jeered at me, and Roslynn and the pastel people cheered at me.
Roslynn!
I clicked off my phone and made a beeline for my protégé.
***
“If you really want to help me,” I yelled at her over the general commotion. “Put down that sign and take me to your car.” I reached for her ‘Romance Rocks’ poster, but Roslynn refused to relinquish it.
“No can do!” she said. “I can’t leave until Alistair does. Geez Louise’s direct orders.”
“I need a lift, Roslynn. It’s an emergency.”
“No can do!” She jiggled her stupid sign even more aggressively. “Geez Louise wants me to stay on Dee Dee Larkin’s radar. If this lasts long enough, maybe I’ll get another spot on the national news. That’ll be good for both of us, Jessie.”
“Oh, for Lord’s sake!” I reached out and none too gently pulled her toward me. “I need to get to the police station,” I whispered in her ear. “Now!” I said a lot louder.
While Roslynn looked me over, perhaps to see where I was bleeding, I yanked the poster from her hand and shoved it at the hapless demonstrator standing closest to us. She fumbled, trying to rearrange her own poster to accommodate carrying two. Meanwhile I wrestled with Roslynn, trying to move her unyielding person in any direction whatsoever.
“Cat fight!” Jimmy exclaimed, and he and Joe the cameraman came rushing.
“Please!” I shouted at her, and Roslynn finally got the hint. Or maybe the sight of Alistair and his groupies stampeding toward us stirred her to action. Whatever the reason, she grabbed my hand, and we raced down Sullivan Street toward her car.
Behind us Alistair was shouting some nonsense about the unbecoming behavior of women who write smut, and Jimmy kept asking where we were headed.
“The public has a right to know,” he screamed, and it occurred to me I have a bad habit of making a scene whenever I figure out who a killer is.
“Stop!” I yanked poor Roslynn’s arm, and we came to a screeching halt.
While Roslynn inspected the damaged heel of her lilac pump, I turned to head off Jimmy. He and the cameraman were so shocked we had stopped, they stopped, too. Alistair plowed smack into Joe, and down they went.
“Roslynn will be back shortly,” I told Jimmy as he stepped over the two big guys. I tried to sound calm. “I just need a ride to the—” Nothing came to me. “I need a lift to the—” Again I stopped.
“To the library!” Roslynn helped me out. “Jessie’s out of reading material!”
***
“The police station,” I ordered as Roslynn started her car. “And would you please lock the doors,” I said as Jimmy came running. Evidently he’d seen right through our ingenious library-excursion ruse.
Bless her heart, Roslynn followed orders. And as soon as we were safely ensconced in midday traffic, I called Wilson.
“I figured it out,” I told him.
“Great. I can’t wait to read it.”
“What? Read what?”
“The solution to Willow’s water rights.”
I scowled at the dashboard. “We’re not talking about Willow’s well, Wilson. We’re talking about the murder. I know who did it.”
Dead silence. No pun intended.
“Did you hear me?” I asked. “Are you at the station? I’m on my way over. Roslynn’s driving me.”
“Who?”
“Is Russell there? If not, get him.”
“Who?” Wilson asked.
“Lieutenant Russell Densmore!”
“No, Jessie. I mean, who’s the killer?”
I glanced sideways at my driver. “Later,” I said and hung up.
***
“Stick with the library story,” I told Roslynn as I climbed out of her car.
“But what about the murderer, Jessie. Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Nooo. I am not going to tell you.” I shook my head and started closing the passenger door, but remembered something. “Roslynn?” I bent down and peeked back in.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” I took the time to smile. “Thank you for your help with A Singular Seduction. Thank you for your protest march. And thank you for this.” I pointed to her steering wheel. “Thank you.”
She waved me away, and I noticed she had chipped a nail. “Anything for Adelé,” she said and drove off.
I turned around and into Wilson.
“Who?” he asked, and I told him he’d been right all along.
“It wasn’t a coincidence,” I said. “It was Plan B.”
Chapter 34
“Who?” Russell asked from behind Wilson’s desk. He patted the empty chair beside him. “Come join me, Jessie.”
I glanced at Wilson, and he also pointed me to the chair. “Motive, means, and opportunity,” he said. “Start talking.” He spoke to Russell. “Alistair Pritt,” he said. “Start typing.”
“Typing what?”
Both cops looked at me, and I confessed I didn’t have all the pesky details worked out.
“Well then. Let’s work them out.” That was Wilson of course. My fiancé the cop is a stickler for pesky details. Motive, means, and opportunity? The man can’t get enough.
“Motive.” I gave it a go. “Alistair’s her uncle. He’s a bit like Dianne Calloway’s misguided Uncle John. Or even better—he’s like Willow’s Uncle Hazard. Eccentric, over-protective, and misguided. Uncle Hazard is the reason Willow finds herself in such a pickle.”
“Uncle Hazard?” Russell said. “Who is this Willow person?”
“Willow-slash-Will, LaSwann-slash-LeSwine, is the heroine of my latest book.”
“Jessie!” Wilson scolded. “Can we get back to Pritt, please? The guy you’re accusing of murder.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Alistair Pritt is her uncle. Or rather, he was her uncle. But they don’t have the same last name. Just like Mrs. Marachini and her niece Trisha Fister.” I slapped the desk. “Different last names!”
“Who?” the cops asked.
“Candy Poppe’s polka-dot bra lady.”
Russell glanced at Wilson.“Permission to shoot her?”
“Granted.”
“Okay, okay.” I waved my hands and promised to do better, and began explaining what had occurred to me during my power walk. “I’d bet my daddy’s cue stick Alistair Pritt is related to that poor woman who got killed.”
“Miriam Jilton?” they asked.
“No! Alistair killed Miriam. But he was related to Darla Notari. He’s her uncle, or cousin, or something.”
“What?” the cops continued speaking in unison.
“Think about it, Wilson. If you hadn’t gotten your current position, Darla Notari would have. She wouldn’t have moved to Georgia, and she wouldn’t have gotten killed.”
Blank stares.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But Alistair, her misguided uncle, blames you for all that. And he killed an innocent person, and put her on my car to draw attention to me—your fiancée.” I raised an eyebrow. “Because if I look bad, guess who looks bad?”
“Keep going,” Wilson said.
“But Plan A failed miserably,” I continued. “Because Jimmy Beak didn’t play his part as expected. He never did accuse me of murder.”
“Because of the lawsuit threat,” Russell said.
I sat back. “So there you have it. Enter Plan B.”
“Not yet.” Wilson started pacing rapidly. “I think it gets worse.”
“It does?” Russell and I asked.
“Yep.” He made a U-turn at his office door. “What if Pritt expected Beak to go even further than accuse you of murder?”
“What could be worse than that?” Russell asked for me.
Wilson stopped and stared at me. “What if Pritt knows about Dianne Calloway? Lots of people do.”
I shook my head in confusion, but clearly Russell was following the logic. His jaw dropped and he, too, stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Jessie,” he said gently. “What if Alistair Pritt was hoping Jimmy Beak would compare you to Dianne?”
I let out a squeak and looked at Wilson.
“My other fiancée.” He groaned. “The murderer.”
***
Wilson resumed pacing, but I myself was happy to be sitting down at that point.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, so now we get to Plan B. Jimmy never accused me of murder, and therefore the comparison to Dianne wasn’t going to happen. And meanwhile Alistair has just killed Miriam Jilton. So what does he do?”
“He thinks of some other way to keep Beak focused on you. And eventually me,” Wilson said as he wore a hole in the carpet. “He starts the book-banning parade.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The timing is perfect.”
“Ah, so it wasn’t a coincidence,” Russell said. “Pritt started his protest right after the Sunday morning Weekly Wrap Up program.”
“Wherein Jimmy point-blank told his audience I did not kill Miriam Jilton.” I sat back and folded my arms. “So there you have it.”
Wilson stopped again. “No we don’t. Your theory has too many holes, Jessie.”
“Oh, come on! You yourself just filled the hole.” I threw my hands in the air. “The big huge Dianne Calloway-Jessie Hewitt comparison hole!”
“But you still haven’t given us motive,” Wilson argued while I huffed and puffed.
“How do you know Pritt cared about Darla Notari?” Russell asked me.
“How do you know he was her uncle?” Wilson said. “And don’t say intuition.”
“Intuition,” I said, and he started pacing again.
“Okay, then. What about the picture?” I tried. “Alistair keeps a family photograph behind the cash register at the Hava Java. He pointed it out to me.” I nodded at Wilson. “Remember the Missy incident?”
Wilson stopped and leaned over the desk. “You know for sure the picture’s still there?”
“No.”
“You know how many years ago it was taken?”
“No.”
“You know Darla Notari is in it?”
“No.” I pouted. “But I bet she is.”
“Maybe when she was ten,” Wilson mumbled. “That is, if we’re lucky.” He frowned and started pacing again.
I turned to Russell and pointed him toward the computer. “Work with me, here. Do that magic that you do, and prove the connection.”
“The Darla Notari-Uncle Alistair Pritt connection.” Bless his cooperative and capable heart, Russell started tapping at the keyboard. “This may take a while,” he said as various charts, graphs, and spreadsheets of what I assumed was Darla Notari’s family tree flashed onto the screen.
“Her funeral,” Wilson said. “You were there, Densmore. Was Pritt?”
I jumped. “That’s right, Russell! Did you see Alistair?”
The good lieutenant looked up from the computer to roll his eyes at us. “It was a year ago, you guys. Hundreds of people attended that funeral to pay their respects—cops, politicians, friends.”
“Family,” I added.
“Check the obituary,” Wilson said and hustled himself around the desk to see.
Russell returned to the computer and located the archives of several Atlanta newspapers.
“Look at that.” I pointed at the screen. “It says Sheriff Notari left behind a large extended family of loved ones.” I sat back. “And Alistair has a large extended family of loved ones. They’ve been marching with him, and they’ve been running the Hava Java all week.”
“Yeah, so?” the cops said.
“And his large extended family is in that photograph I just mentioned.”
“Yeah, so?”
I sighed dramatically and was busy getting discouraged, when Wilson reached over Russell’s shoulder and pointed. “Date look familiar?” he asked.
“May fifth,” I whispered.
“Darla Notari was killed exactly one year to the day before Miriam Jilton,” Wilson said in case we didn’t get it.
He shuffled around behind us. “Check the photos,” he told Russell, and soon we were squinting at the pictures taken at Darla’s funeral.
Wilson and I were complaining about our middle-aged eyesight when Russell started.
“Bingo,” he said. He pointed at something—or more accurately—someone, and Wilson and I strained our eyes to focus.
Russell zoomed in on the person in question, and we took another look.
I glanced up at Wilson. “Motive.”
***
All three of us jumped when someone knocked at the door.
Wilson recovered first and cleared his throat. “Come in,” he hollered, and I was relieved to see Tiffany Sass poke her head in.
“Sass!” Wilson said. “Get in here and shut the door.”
She did so, but didn’t move very far into the room. She looked back and forth at the three of us huddled behind Wilson’s desk. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But can I do anything to help, Captain?”
“You sure can.” Wilson told her to go down to the corner of Sullivan and Vine. “Keep your eye on Alistair Pritt. Don’t let him out of your sight until you hear from me.”
“Got it. Am I to make my presence known?”
“No. Put on that blue outfit you wore yesterday and join the Romance Rockettes again. Fit in, if possible.”
Tiffany nodded and reached for the doorknob, but I called over to stop her. “I’m still at the library if anyone asks.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s the excuse Roslynn and I used to get me over here. We told Jimmy we were on an emergency library run.” I glanced around at several pairs of perplexed eyes. “Apparently I’m out of reading material.”
Chapter 35
“Motive, means, and opportunity,” Wilson reminded us of the goal. “Means.”
Russell patted my knee. “I’ve got this one, Jessie.” He swiveled his chair around and again pointed to the computer screen. “The picture says it all.”
That, it did. Alistair dwarfed everyone else in the photograph. “He’s a big guy,” Russell stated the obvious. “Strong enough to strangle Miriam Jilton and carry her to Jessie’s car.”
“What about opportunity?” Wilson asked. “That’s not so easy.”
“You mean, how did he know where my car would be?” I said.
“That, and why wait all this time? It’s been a whole year since Darla died. Pritt could have found out where you live and dumped a body on your car anytime.” Wilson scowled. “And, did he even know your car?”
Russell guffawed. “Come on, Captain. Of course he knew her car. Everyone in town knows the Add-a-lay car.”
“And the Hava Java is in my old neighborhood,” I said. “Alistair knew my car.”
“So why’d he wait so long?” Wilson asked again.
“The date,” I said. “That year-to-date thing you yourself just noticed.”
“Not enough.”
I threw my hands in the air. “Would you stop being so demanding? Who knows why he waited?”
“I know,” Russell said. “Jessie’s been on Jimmy Beak’s radar lately. He got her fired from that writing contest, and he made fun of the Romance Hall of Fame.”
“All in the last month or so,” I said, and even Wilson had to agree Jimmy’s shenanigans could have put this sick idea into Alistair’s head.
“Alistair’s likely been waiting for the right moment.” I gave my fiancé a meaningful look. “He’s been waiting for the right opportunity.”
“The opportunity.” Wilson caught my emphasis. “To use Beak against you, to get to me.”
“And there you have it,” I said.
“No we don’t,” Wilson the naysayer said.
I sighed dramatically. “And why, pray tell, not?”
“Opportunity.” He remained on topic. “How did Pritt know where your car was Saturday? And another thing—”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Please do give me another thing.”
“And another thing.” He ignored the sarcasm. “Why didn’t Pritt take someone out at Sullivan and Vine? He didn’t need to wait for your car to be at the Junior Prom.”
“Umm,” I answered, but luckily Russell was still working with me.
“That corner where Jessie lives is way too busy, Captain. You’re always complaining about it.”
“Someone’s always traipsing in and out of The Stone Fountain,” I agreed. “And the gas station is open twenty-four-seven. It’s right next to where I usually park.”
“Pritt wouldn’t do it down there,” Russell said. “Too big a chance he’d be seen.”
“But that still leaves one question,” Wilson said. “How did Pritt know where the Porsche was on Saturday?”
I glared and pulled out my phone. “Give me a minute.”
***
“Miss Jessie?” Frankie answered in a whisper. “I’m in algebra class. I’m not supposed to use my phone.”
“Get a hall pass,” I told him. “We need to talk.”
He gasped. “You know who did it?” he whispered, and I again told him to work on the hall pass.
“Be discrete, Frankie.”
I was entertained at both ends while I waited on the line. On my end I was able to watch Wilson and Russell go through all kinds of amusing gyrations. Apparently they considered it unwise to involve a “civilian,” and a “minor at that,” in our discussion. Russell swiveled his chair around and around, and Wilson paced up and down, continuing to wear out the carpeting.
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