8 A Wedding and a Killing

by Lauren Carr

  “No,” Portia said.

  “No to what?” Mac asked. “No you won’t tell us, or no he didn’t kill Fairbanks.”

  She glared at them. After a long silence, she said, “I don’t have to talk to you.” She gathered her baby bag.

  Mac reached across the table to grab her arm. “I’m not looking to get you or your friend into trouble. I’m simply trying to get the facts to help Scarlett Fairbanks clear her name.”

  “No one blamed her for killing her husband,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I would be glad to testify in her defense about the monster she lived with.”

  “If you really want to help her, tell us what happened the day he was murdered,” Archie said.

  “Let me tell you what happened,” Mac said. “Fairbanks raped you but the prosecutor refused to press charges. Someone came to you—someone who was equally disgusted by seeing all that Jason Fairbanks got away with—and offered to teach him a lesson, on your behalf. You called Fairbanks and offered an apology and to make it up to him with an afternoon of fun and games at your place. Then, you went to your job interview, which gave you a solid alibi. When Fairbanks arrived at your apartment—vengeance was waiting for him.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “How did I do?”

  Archie looked from him to Portia and back again.

  Portia was gazing silently at Mac. Finally, she said, “He assured me Jason was alive—madder than hell, but alive, when he left my place.”

  “Can you give me a name?” Mac asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “You can’t—”

  “I won’t,” she said. “Arrest me, sue me, whatever. He was the only one who stood up for me and got me some justice for what Jason had done to me. He went to bat for me when no one else would. No way will you make me sell him out.”

  The chair of Spencer’s town council, Bill Clark could not resist scoffing when Police Chief David O’Callaghan entered the interrogation room, even if the county prosecutor was directly behind him.

  “You do realize, O’Callaghan, that I will remember this day when it comes time to renew your contract as police chief.”

  “Try it, Clark,” Ben Fleming said, “and the local media will get the low-down about the town councilman who tried to close down a church, and your soon-to-be ex-wife’s divorce lawyer will find out about all of the skeletons in your closet. So, I suggest you adjust your attitude … unless it’s twisted beyond adjusting.”

  Silently, Bill Clark eyed David O’Callaghan who was sitting directly across from him at the table.

  The police chief’s eyes met his. “I’m only doing the job I was hired to do. That’s all I ever try to do.”

  “No matter what the collateral damage is,” Clark said.

  “There are some things that are beyond my control,” David said.

  Clark’s eyes narrowed to dark beady slits.

  “We have witnesses who heard you threaten Eugene Newton,” Ben Fleming said. “Now he’s dead.”

  “Did you kill him?” David asked.

  “I despised the cretin,” Bill Clark said. “He could not understand that my trying to get his church closed down was not personal. It was business. They’ve been sitting on that prime property doing their pagan worship to some supreme mythological being since Spencer was founded. Do you know how valuable that property is—right on the lake with a building that could easily be converted into a club house? But those people are too pathetic to make good use of it. What use does Spencer have with a church anyway? But Newton took it all personal and decided to get even by digging into my business—”

  “Which ended up costing you an arm and a leg in your last divorce,” David noted.

  “That was when it got really personal,” Clark said in a cold tone.

  “And now that you are in the process of a second divorce Eugene Newton is dead,” Ben said.

  “Are you waiting for me to express remorse?” Clark asked with a smug grin on his face.

  “I don’t think that’s possible for you,” Ben said. “Makes me wonder if maybe Newton’s death was to prevent history from repeating itself.”

  “Are you waiting for me to express remorse?” Clark asked with a smug grin on his face.

  “I don’t think that’s possible for you,” Ben said.

  “Just ask your police chief,” Clark replied.

  Confused by the comment, Ben glanced over at David, who was gazing past the councilman to the wall behind him. Before Ben could inquire, David raised his voice to ask, “Where were you Tuesday between noon and one o’clock?”

  Clark whipped out his cell phone and checked his calendar. “I was home alone. Since my wife walked out on me and my mistress realized she wasn’t going to be wife number three, I spend a lot of time alone.” He chuckled. “I’m sure that’s only a temporary situation, though.”

  ”Too bad,” David said. “It’s hard to alibi yourself when you’re alone.”

  “Unless your soon-to-be-ex-wife is a blood-sucker,” Clark replied. “I’m sure her private investigator can verify where I was and what I was doing, complete with time-stamped pictures.” He paused to enjoy the disappointed expressions on the police chief’s and prosecutor’s faces. He especially enjoyed it on David’s face.

  “Well, if you have no other questions …” Clark rose to his feet and, without waiting for a dismissal, he threw open the door and left.

  Ben Fleming shot David a look that demanded an explanation for the cryptic exchange between him and the councilman before shoving back his seat and going after their suspect. In the hallway, Fleming turned around so fast that he bumped into David. “If there’s something going on between you and Clark, then you better fill me in.”

  “Nothing more than a personal dislike for each other,” David said.

  “Never lie to a politician, O’Callaghan,” Fleming said. “The first lesson in political science is lying, so I can spot one from a mile away … in the dark.”

  Before David could think of a response, a high pitched scream, partnered with laughter, came from the reception area.

  “That sounds like Clark,” Fleming said.

  Pushing past the county prosecutor, David rushed down the hallway and into the reception area where Bill Clark was pushed down onto the sofa with what appeared to be a small black bear on top of him—licking his face.

  “You’re right, Marilyn. He does scream like a little girl.” Bogie had his arms folded across his chest.

  “Po Bear isn’t picky,” Marilyn Newton said with a wicked grin. “He loves garbage. Doesn’t he, Twerpie?” She was digging through her purse at the reception desk.

  “Get him … off … me. Now!” Bill Clark begged between licks that included tongue action from the huge dog covered with thick black fur.

  Po Bear was approximately seventy pounds bigger than Gnarly, who watched the attack from under Tonya’s desk. With wide eyes, he appeared to be thinking, That’s one big dog.

  Displeased with Bogie’s lack of action in saving the councilman, David grasped Po Bear’s collar and pulled him off.

  Once he was freed, Bill Clark’s arrogance returned. While wiping the dog drool from his shirt, he sputtered out his threat to Marilyn. “I was attacked! You all saw!” He pointed at each one of them. “This woman has no right owning a dog of that size! It’s clear to everyone that she can’t control him. He attacked me, knocked me down, and tried to eat my face.”

  “Here it is!” Marilyn sang out while pulling a brilliantly colored brochure from her purse. “Here you go, Bogie! Now, I have already booked the suite for double occupancy. I have the dates circled on this brochure.” She thrust the brochure into Bogie’s hand. “Tell Doc to call me. We’ll have a blast.”

  “To tell you the truth, I think if Doc was to go on a cruise, I’d want to go with her,” Bogie said.

  “No men allowe
d,” Marilyn said. “I’m in mourning. It just wouldn’t be right for me to go on a cruise with a man.”

  “I was thinking her and me,” Bogie said, “on our own cruise.”

  “Then who’s going to go with me?” With her bottom lip sticking out in a pout, she stomped one of her feet.

  “I have legal recourse!” Bill Clark yelled louder as if to get through to Marilyn.

  “I’m sure you do,” she replied. “You also have illegal recourse, which I’m well aware of.” She turned to David. “Have you asked Twerpie for his whereabouts at the time of my Eugene’s murder?”

  “He claims he has an alibi,” Ben said, “which his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s PI can confirm.”

  “Oh, do you mean Brenda?” Marilyn asked. “I just saw her at zumba.”

  “Zumba?” David asked.

  “It’s an exercise class,” Tonya said.

  “I thought you took yoga,” David said to Marilyn.

  “That’s on Tuesdays.” One corner of Marilyn’s lips curled upward. “Ivana is in my yoga class.”

  Bill Clark’s eyebrows rose.

  The other corner of Marilyn’s mouth kicked up. “Ivana is Twerpie’s first wife.”

  Bill Clark’s eyebrows met in the center between his eyes.

  “After zumba today, we all went to the power café at the club—all four of us. What was the fourth lady’s name?” Marilyn pointed a French manicured fingernail at the town councilman. “Francine!”

  Bill Clark’s jaw dropped open.

  “Who’s Francine?” David whispered to Ben Fleming.

  “Clark’s latest mistress,” Ben said, “and the manager for his last campaign.”

  “They all felt really bad about Eugene dying and wanted to know what I was going to do now,” Marilyn said. “I told them I really didn’t know. So Ivana suggested that maybe I would like to get into politics. She said that she knows for a fact that any idiot can run for office and be on the town council. All you have to do is have the support of the right people. Well, you would not guess who came in after her Pilates class.”

  “Who?” Tonya asked.

  “Catherine Fleming!”

  “My wife.” Ben held back a chuckle as he imagined what happened when his wife, a United States senator, walked in on Marilyn’s power luncheon.

  “She said that she would give me her full support!” Marilyn threw up her arms like a cheerleader concluding her grandest performance.

  “Senator Catherine Fleming is supporting you!” Bill Clark gasped.

  “Yep, Twerpie!” Marilyn sang out. “I’m throwing my top into the political ring and running against you!”

  It took a full moment for Ben Fleming to realize. “It’s hat, Marilyn. You throw your hat into an election.”

  “But I look terrible in hats,” Marilyn said. “So I guess I’ll have to throw in my top.” She looked down at her abundant bosom. “I hope I don’t forget to wear my Victoria’s Secret when I do that for my campaign kick-off party.”

  She winked at Bill Clark, who looked gray. “See you on the campaign trail, Twerpie!”

  Marilyn Newton spun around on her high heels and waved a slender hand. “Come along, Po Bear. Our work here is done.” The humongous dog fell in next to Marilyn and the two of them sashayed out the door.

  Bill Clark collapsed onto the sofa.

  “This is one election for town council that Spencer will never forget,” Ben Fleming murmured.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Well, that was a wasted trip,” Archie said upon their return to the police station in New York. Glancing across to Mac in the driver’s seat of their rented sedan, she noticed him staring through the windshield at the sheriff’s deputies coming out of the station. “Did you hear me?”

  Blinking, a slow grin crossed his face. “Yeah.”

  “Portia told us nothing.”

  “That’s right,” Mac said. “She told us nothing. But she didn’t tell us a lot.” He unbuckled his seat belt, threw open the door, and hurried toward the entrance of the police station.

  “What didn’t she tell us?” Archie rushed to climb out of the car and keep up with him.

  “Where to start looking for the person who avenged her.” Grasping her hand, Mac practically dragged her up the steps and into the police station. “We need to take a look at the police report for when Jason attacked her.”

  David O’Callaghan couldn’t get Marilyn Newton’s diamonds out of his mind. How does a retired plumber acquire so much wealth that his death makes his widow an heiress?

  The logical answer was embezzlement.

  If David’s suspicion was correct, then that could prove to be a motive for one of Eugene Newton’s church-going friends killing him. He could understand how angry Eugene’s fellow trustees could become if they realized he was stealing from the church, threatening its closure, in order to keep his lovely wife in diamonds and glittery fingernails.

  The best place to start asking questions about the church’s finance was their accountant, Thomas Letterman.

  Since retiring as an executive from the IRS, the widower spent most afternoons at the Spencer Inn golf course. A jovial, gray-haired man with a thick mustache and glasses, Thomas was delighted to answer any questions the police chief had about Eugene’s murder as long as David could keep up with him on the golf course in the hot summer sun.

  The accountant may have been an elderly man, but he didn’t let that stop him from carrying his golf bag across the course. “Golf carts are for wimps,” he told David before slinging his filled golf bag across his back and marching off to the fourth hole.

  With watery eyes, he said with a choked voice, “Eugene was a good man. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for anyone. Even if it seemed impossible, Eugene believed that if we had the will, we would find a way. And if the church couldn’t do it … more than once, he would pay out of his own pocket to help a fellow church member out.”

  As if to take his mind off the tragedy, Thomas proceeded to try to line up his shot to tee off at the fourth hole. Blinking the tears out of his eyes, he sniffed and wiped his nose on a handkerchief.

  “I guess,” David said as casually as possible, “that was one of the questions that I have to ask about Eugene Newton.”

  “What?” Thomas asked with his head down while lining up the shot.

  “He was a retired plumber.”

  “Yep,” Thomas said, “sold his plumbing business and retired ten years ago.”

  “I know plumbers make a lot of money,” David said, “but according to Marilyn, he left her an heiress—extremely well off.”

  “That’s what I heard, too,” Thomas said.

  “Yet, the church is flat broke.”

  “Was flat broke,” Thomas said.

  “Was?”

  “Yep.” Thomas nodded his head before calling out, “Fore!” He swung the club to send the ball flying over the green course. It bounced onto the green. With a pleased grin, he shoved the club into his bag, slung it across his shoulders, and proceeded toward his ball.

  David jogged to catch up. When Thomas failed to offer further explanation, he asked, “‘Was’ as in past tense. Are you telling me that the church is not broke anymore?”

  “That’s right,” Thomas said. “Eugene left his whole estate to the church’s operating fund. Estimated at two-point-three million dollars. Deborah told the trustees this morning.”

  David felt his mouth hanging open. He was forced to swallow before finding his voice again. “Are you sure?”

  With raised eyebrows, Thomas nodded his head. “It was in his will. The house belonged to Marilyn, as well as the lakeshore property. But Eugene’s liquid assets go to the church.”

  “How does Marilyn feel about that? Did she know?”

  “Of course she knew.” Stopping, Thomas placed a golf gloved ha
nd on his hip. “Why would Eugene not tell her?”

  “Well, considering that she expected to be an heiress …”

  “Expected?” Thomas uttered a hearty laugh. “Marilyn is an heiress. She told me this morning that she’s worth about eighty million dollars … thanks to Eugene.”

  David shook his head in order to clear up the confusion in his head. Maybe he could shake everything into place. “How—”

  “Ten years ago, Marilyn’s folks passed,” Thomas said in a somber tone. “They had been married for over fifty years and passed within two weeks of each other. Her mother had a stroke and, two weeks later, her father died of congestive heart failure. Guess you could say he died of a broken heart.” He leaned on his golf bag. “Well, Marilyn’s father was almost as tight as Eugene when it came to money. She inherited eight million dollars. Of course, Marilyn wanted to go wild—”

  “Like go on a cruise?”

  Laughing, Thomas shook his head. “You couldn’t pay Eugene to get on a cruise ship. The guy was not a party animal in any sense of the word.” His smile dropped. “But he and Marilyn were a good couple. They understood, appreciated, and respected each other’s differences. You don’t see that very much in couples nowadays. That’s why there’s so many divorces. People don’t respect their spouses’ differences.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  Thomas said, “Eugene did agree to selling their little house out in the country and moving into a big, fancy place here on the lake. They’d go out more and Marilyn got a snazzy sports car, but that was it. Eugene sold his plumbing business, and they lived on his money, while he invested Marilyn’s inheritance.” He chuckled. “I guess he did pretty good because she found out from her lawyer that he had multiplied her inheritance ten times.”

  “While the church was failing,” David noted.

  With narrowed eyes, Thomas cocked his eyes at the police chief. “What are you implying?’

  “Eugene controlled all of the church’s finances,” David said. “Has anyone noticed that his nest was getting bigger while the church had leaky toilets and—”