“Crenshaw,” came the loud, booming answer.
I threw my door open and gaped at him. “Why didn’t you call before coming over?”
He stared right back at me, as if he’d forgotten where he was, before sputtering, “Why—what—because I was already here!”
“Well, come on in. You’re letting in the cold air.”
Crenshaw stood awkwardly in my front hall as I closed the door behind him. When I faced him, his eyes roved everywhere but at me. I tightened my robe. “What’s the emergency, Crenshaw? I assume it’s important. You’ve never come to my house before.”
“It is important,” he said, finally looking at me. “But, it can wait while you get dressed.”
I sighed. “Okay. Have a seat.” I ran upstairs and returned three minutes later with my wet hair brushed back and my robe replaced by a long gray sweater over black leggings.
“Break it to me gently,” I said, sitting on the couch next to him. “Is it Beverly? What’s happened?”
He cleared his throat and twisted to look at me. “Um,” he began, “it would seem that I owe you an apology.”
“Oh?” This was a first.
“I take it you haven’t seen the news recently?”
“No, not in the past hour or two. Why?”
“Well, you see, the Edindale Police Department made an interesting announcement this morning. They are now treating Edgar’s death as a murder investigation.”
I fell back against the couch cushions. I knew it. I knew it in my bones, knew it all along. But to hear it now was still jarring.
“If you want to say ‘I told you so . . .’” Crenshaw trailed off.
I gave him an arch look. “Please. That’s not my style. So, what else did they say? Was there a press conference?”
“There was a brief interview with the police chief. He said forensic evidence suggests there was a struggle before Edgar fell. Also, incredibly, someone has come forward to say they overheard yelling in the hall outside their hotel room. This was shortly after one a.m.”
“Yelling?”
“As in an argument, though the witness couldn’t identify the speakers. Apparently, only one of the voices—a man’s voice—was loud.” Crenshaw pursed his lips. “Lord only knows why this person didn’t come forward sooner.”
“Yeah,” I said, as the news sank in. “This witness, was it Beverly? Was she the one who heard the argument?”
Crenshaw shook his head. “I highly doubt it. In fact, she’s afraid it’s only a matter of time before a warrant is issued for her arrest.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “Did she say that last night when she was drunk?”
“No. This morning. I called her after I heard the news. She informed me that the detective on the case has tried to reach her several times today. She plans to ‘lie low,’ as it were, for the time being.”
“Hang on.” I jumped up to retrieve my phone. “If she spoke to you, maybe she’ll speak to me.” I dialed her number. Just when I thought it would go to voicemail, she picked up.
“Keli,” she said.
I spoke quickly. “Beverly, first of all, I am so sorry for what you’re going through. Secondly, I did not tell the police anything about you or Edgar or our assignment. I never intended—”
“Keli,” she interrupted, “what’s done is done. Is there anything else you have to say?”
I cringed. “Just that I want to help. And I might be onto something. But I have to ask you one question. Did you see Edgar that night after the ball? Did he say anything revealing? Do you know who else he planned to meet besides you?”
“That’s three questions,” said Beverly.
“I know.” I crossed my fingers and waited for her to make up her mind about how to answer. After a few seconds, I heard her sigh.
“I am seriously considering pleading the Fifth on this,” she said. “However, I—I could really use some help. I can trust you, right?”
“Of course!”
“Fine. Yes, I saw Edgar. It was around twelve-thirty, I think. He came to my hotel room, Room 408, on the opposite side of the floor from where he . . . fell. We had a drink, and we talked. And Edgar told me he needed to tell me something very important.”
“He did? Was it about the blackmailer?”
Beverly laughed without humor. “No. It was of a more personal nature. He told me he wanted to end our relationship. After seven years, he had decided to try to win his wife back.”
“Oh, Beverly,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“We talked for a little while. At first, I didn’t believe he was serious. But he was adamant. Then he said he had to take care of something and would come back. When he left, I had another drink, or two, and then . . . I blacked out. I didn’t wake up until I heard people screaming and running outside my door. By that time he was gone.”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Beverly’s position was even worse than I had thought. “I’m sorry,” I murmured for the second time.
“So am I. On top of everything else, it would seem that I’m the only suspect the police have.”
“Beverly, about our duty of confidentiality to Edgar, don’t you think this situation fits an exception? If only the police knew about the blackmail threats.”
“Not yet,” she said. “Didn’t you say you were onto something?”
“Possibly,” I hedged. “But, I’m missing some key pieces of the puzzle.”
“Well, see what you can do. I’m hoping Rhinehardt will leave me be until after Christmas.”
“You mean the day after tomorrow?”
“Right. Well, if anyone can uncover the truth in that amount of time, I’m sure you can.”
With that note of confidence, Beverly told me good-bye and good luck. I turned to Crenshaw and relayed all she had said. When I told him that Beverly had been jilted, and then blacked out, right before Edgar was found dead, Crenshaw’s eyes bulged.
“Good Lord! You don’t think she actually—?”
“No! Absolutely not,” I said. “There was someone else. Edgar confronted the blackmailer that night. I’m sure of it.”
Straightening to his full height, Crenshaw set his jaw. “What can I do to help?”
* * *
After Crenshaw left, I paced my living room like a caged tiger. Someone had gotten away with murder, and now it seemed that Beverly, already brokenhearted and miserable, would face the blame. It was so unfair. I wanted to help her—had led her to believe I could help. But what could I do? All I had by way of leads were a couple of shifty-acting people who might have had something against Edgar. Oh, and some unknown stalker who might have something against me.
I had asked Crenshaw to explore the investment side of the Cornerstone project and see what he could dig up on American Castle Fund. He vowed to leave no stone unturned. I believed him, though I didn’t know how much luck he’d have getting people to talk to him the day before Christmas.
And what about me? I had told Crenshaw I had an appointment at Stag Creek Lodge this afternoon, which is not far from Edgar’s ranch. If I had time, I would stop by to see Edgar’s widow. I had avoided bothering her the past few days, because I didn’t want to seem insensitive to her grief. Besides, I really didn’t think she had anything to do with the blackmail scheme. However, the stakes were higher now. Plus, I was out of ideas and running out of time. I would be leaving town in less than twelve hours.
I looked out my living room window at the gloomy sky. I hated the thought of being away during Beverly’s arrest. That is, if she was going to be arrested. I still found it hard to believe Rhinehardt would actually do that. I wished I knew what he was planning. If only I could see into the future.
Wait. What was I saying? I could see into the future. Or at least see a hint of what was to come. I had dozens of divination tools at my disposal: tarot cards, runes, I Ching coins, tea leaves. As I had mentioned to Mila, I communicated with the Divine best through visual means. Of course, one of the clearest m
ethods of seeing the future was to gaze into a crystal ball. I didn’t have one of those, but I did have something close. I could use my scrying bowl.
I ran up to my room and opened the chest at the foot of my bed. I shifted aside my spell books and seasonal altar cloths and pulled out a black metal bowl. After closing my curtains to darken the room, I filled the bowl halfway with water from the bathroom tap, then set it in the center of my altar. Next, I added three drops of sandalwood oil and placed a quartz rock crystal in the bottom of the bowl. I stood before the bowl taking slow, purposeful breaths to ground and center my being. Finally, waving my hands above the bowl like a magician—because the motion helped put me in a magical frame of mind and was also fun—I uttered a spontaneous spell:
I stared into the bowl of water and waited. And waited some more. I saw nothing but water.
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my hands and tried again. This time, I said:
Once again, I peered deeply into my scrying bowl . . . and saw nothing but water. I kept at it, as patiently as possible, until finally the edges began to blur. I still saw water, but it was different. I seemed to be seeing it from a distance. Now the water appeared to be frozen. And it was surrounded by land: a snowy field, trees, and . . . a parking lot.
What is this place?
As soon as I thought the question, the answer popped into my head: Ryker’s Pond. The drop-off location mentioned in the blackmail note.
I blinked and the image disappeared. Bowing before the bowl, I thanked the Goddess and promised to follow her lead.
I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I intended to find out.
Chapter 21
Ryker’s Pond was one of several natural water bodies in Pine Bluffs State Park, about fifteen miles outside Edindale. Easily accessible by car, it was a popular spot for fishing and picnicking in the spring and summer months. Now, as I drove slowly along the one-lane road that bordered the pond, I was struck by how peaceful it was. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
Using the compass on my phone, I made my way to the northwest side of the pond and pulled into the empty parking lot. I sat in my car for a minute and looked around. The scene was remarkably similar to the vision in my scrying bowl. And just as stark. Between the gray of the pavement, the gray of the sky, and the bare trees set against the snow-packed ground, I felt like I had dropped into the middle of a black-and-white movie. Maybe an early Hitchcock film, I thought, as I stepped out of my car and walked over to the lone trash bin at the edge of the picnic area.
The extortion letter I’d lifted from the mailroom at Harrison Properties had directed Edgar to leave the money here. I couldn’t imagine how coming here now was going to do any good, but I trusted the Goddess. It was pure curiosity that made me lift the lid on the trash bin.
As I expected, it was pretty much empty. There had been no campers, hikers, or fishermen out this way all season. The only thing in the can was a folded-up newspaper at the bottom. To confirm my hunch that the place hadn’t seen visitors in months, I grabbed the paper to check the date. The moment I moved the paper, I saw what was hidden underneath: a fat brown envelope.
No way.
I stared into the bottom of the trash bin trying to make sense of what I was seeing. I glanced at the top of the newspaper and honed in on the date: December twenty-third. Someone had been here yesterday. Or earlier today.
With a quick look over my shoulder, I reached inside and grabbed the envelope. It was sealed shut with clear packing tape. Based on its shape and bulk, I was pretty sure I knew what the envelope contained. Still, I had to see it for myself. I tore off the tape and looked inside. Yep. Just as I thought. Cash. In one hundred dollar bills, it was easily several thousand dollars’ worth.
Holding the package in my hands, I suddenly began to shake. What did this mean? Who left the money here? Edgar couldn’t have done it. The letter I saw demanded the money to be left by 5 a.m. on December twenty-first. Edgar was killed in the wee hours of December nineteenth. Surely the money wasn’t sitting in the bin all that time. Impossible. Besides, Edgar never received the letter. It was unopened in the mail room.
Of course, there had been other letters before the one I found. Beverly had said Edgar destroyed them. I wondered if any of those letters had mentioned the drop-off location. Could someone else have found one of those letters and decided to proceed with the payoff ?
That didn’t make sense. Based on the date of the newspaper, this money was left a couple of days after the deadline in the letter. So, that must mean . . . someone else was being blackmailed?
I stared down the quiet road and fretted over what to do. My instinct was to take the money directly to the police station. Let Rhinehardt figure it all out. He could send some cops out here to watch the bin.
But then I thought about the possible consequences of this move. What if the blackmailer came to retrieve the money and it wasn’t there? The blackmailer would think the person who had left this money didn’t pay up. Wouldn’t that expose the person to having their secret revealed? Or, worse, would they end up like Edgar?
I was jarred from my paralysis by the rumble of an engine. There was a car on the other side of the pond, heading my way. I tossed the package back in the bin and dropped the newspaper on top. Then I ran to my car and peeled out.
* * *
By the time I arrived at Farrah’s house, I was so frazzled I could hardly put two words together. She took one look at me and put her hands on her hips. “Spill it.”
I proceeded directly to her living room and sprawled out on her sofa as if it were a psychiatrist’s couch. “Give me a minute,” I said.
She sat down on the coffee table and looked at me with concern.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Here’s the deal. You’re an attorney. In that capacity, I am officially bringing you on as a researcher for a client matter my firm is working on. Got it?”
“Uh, no. What are you talking about?”
I sat up and looked her in the eye. “I’m bringing you into the fold, so I can share some confidential information with you. You’ll be bound by the attorney-client privilege.”
“Ah. Now I get it. And Edgar is the client?”
“Exactly.”
For the next several minutes I brought Farrah up to speed about the secret reason Edgar had hired us for the legal audit. I felt immensely better afterward.
Farrah clasped her hands together. “So, if we can figure out who the blackmailer is, we’ll have solved Edgar’s murder.” She was a quick study.
“That’s my assumption,” I said. “And I might have just blown my opportunity to meet the blackmailer face-to-face.” I told her about my experience at Ryker’s Pond.
“Jeez, are you a magnet, or what? Your timing these days is uncanny.”
“Well, I may have been led there by a little magical tip-off.”
Farrah shook her head in wonder. “Crazy,” she murmured. “And scary. I think you did the right thing by fleeing the scene.”
“Yeah, but what do I do now? I’m not sure how going to the pond helped me.”
“Are you kidding? It looks to me like you’re about to crack this case wide open. I think you also learned something about the blackmailer.”
“What did I learn?”
“The creep isn’t very smart. I mean, who tells somebody to leave sixty thousand dollars in a trash can? Edgar could’ve staked out that park and caught the blackmailer red-handed.”
“True. But then the blackmailer might’ve spilled his secret. Maybe anonymity wasn’t as important to the blackmailer as getting the money.”
“Hmm, maybe.” Farrah rubbed her palms together and stared into space. “I wonder who the blackmailer is. How about that IT kid? He could have hacked into Edgar’s private computer files.”
“He probably could have,” I agreed. “But it could just as easily have been Edgar’s assistant, Allison Mandrake. She also had access to Edgar’s files.”
“Oh! How about that Fern Lopez wo
man? She was snooping around, trying to bug his office at the hotel, right? She might have found some incriminating information. I guess that was a few years ago, but she could have been saving the info for the most opportune moment—such as Edgar’s candidacy for mayor.”
“Yeah, possibly. But remember, we’re also looking for someone strong enough to push Edgar over the fourth-floor railing.”
Farrah grimaced. “Ugh. What a horrible thought. But you’re right. I’m not sure if Fern could’ve done it. However, if Edgar was as drunk as all that, and she caught him off guard . . . that might be a different story.”
I stood up and checked the time. “I need to think about this some more. Now, though, we need to head out to the lodge. I’ve got to carry out this non-date with my ex-boyfriend.”
* * *
Stag Creek Lodge was a year-round destination for outdoor enthusiasts of all stripes. Day-trippers could enjoy the scenery and the trails, while overnight guests had the benefit of a nice restaurant and comfortable amenities in the rustic inn. One of the most photographed indoor locations at the lodge was the large central common area. It was decorated like the living room of a luxury log cabin, complete with massive stone fireplace and all the obligatory stuffed animal heads.
When Farrah and I arrived, she took off to go find Tucker. I entered the common room and spotted Mick waiting for me on a love seat next to the fireplace. As I walked up to him, I did my best to avoid the glassy stare of the boar’s head mounted on the wall behind him. I must have flinched, because Mick let out a hearty laugh.
“You always did hate hunting, didn’t you? Are you still a vegetarian?”
“Yep. Still a vegan. So, do you have my book?”
Mick’s face fell. “What’s your hurry? I thought we could catch up a bit. I mean, c’mon, we were so close back in the day. I have no idea how we lost touch like we did. I feel bad about that. I—I’ve missed you.” He clasped his hands on his knees and flexed his fingers in a nervous gesture. I had the sense that he’d just blurted something he hadn’t intended to reveal so early in the conversation. I couldn’t help feeling a teensy little tug on my heartstrings.
Yuletide Homicide Page 17