by Libby Howard
He had a point. Yes, Robert Chen might have hired someone to do his dirty work for him, but if Judge Beck said it wasn’t the guy’s style, then it wasn’t. Besides, Buck Stanford was the much better suspect at this point. But the judge’s comments did bring a question to my mind.
“Why didn’t Robert Chen do all that when everything happened with Ashley back in high school?” I asked. “Why not sue Holt, or find some way of making him and his family’s life so miserable that he had to leave town? Isn’t that what rich people do when someone wrongs them? Throw lawyers and bury someone in a legal mess?”
Judge Beck shot me a narrow look. “Yes, that’s what a lot of rich people do, but not Robert. First, they were all kids, and although Holt had done something horrible, he was still a teenager. Bullying a teenager and his family isn’t Robert’s style. And then he had his daughter to think about. Ashley has been in treatment for depression and other mental health issues since she was a child. She was fragile then. She’s still fragile. Robert’s primary concern was to get her safely away from the scandal, somewhere she could heal and recover. He wanted it all to die down and be buried forever, not rake it all up again.”
“If that had been Madison?” I asked.
“Madison would have punched Holt in the face, rallied her friends around her for support and faced it down, then come home and cried on my shoulder. But Madison doesn’t live with the demons that Ashley Chen does. And I’m not Robert.” A steely glint flashed in the judge’s eyes then died. “Actually I would have done the same as Robert. As much as I would have wanted to crush the boy that hurt my daughter, I wouldn’t have wanted the shame and scandal exacerbated by lawsuits and arrests. Although I would have been tempted to do something sneaky in revenge.”
“But not six years afterward.”
He sighed. “No, not six years afterward.”
“Well then, Robert Chen is out. And I’m pretty sure Swirly Maury is out. And I know Kendra Witt is out. That leaves David Tripp and Buck Stanford, and my money is on Buck Stanford.”
“In the conservatory with a candlestick?” Judge Beck teased.
The microwaved dinged and I took out my mac in cheese. “No, in the parking lot of Stanford Paving with a cutting torch.”
Chapter 21
Miles met me at work the next morning, and this time he was the one who brought pastries. They might have been a box of glazed donuts from the gas station quick-mart down the street, but I appreciated the gesture.
“I passed everything over to the detective last night,” he told me as he handed me a donut. “All my notes on what you found out as well as a statement from Doug at the tow yard and pictures of where the tie rod was cut through. They think there’s enough to look at this as a potential homicide, even if Holt was drunk.”
“Judge Beck says there’s not enough for an indictment,” I warned him.
He nodded, stuffing half a donut in his mouth. “No, but there’s proof of tampering, and it’s strong enough to make the argument that Holt Dupree wouldn’t have wrecked if his truck hadn’t been messed with. Hopefully his blood alcohol level won’t be too high. You can be a witness that although he was driving fast, he wasn’t weaving all over the road, and was in control of the vehicle until the tie rod went.”
I wrinkled my nose because I had no idea exactly when that tie rod had failed. Hopefully there would be an expert they could put on the stand for that one.
“So will I be seeing an arrest for Buck Stanford in the papers sometime soon?”
“Hopefully you’ll be seeing an arrest of someone sometime soon, but it’s too soon to say anything besides the fact that several individuals are persons of interest in the case.”
“It’s going to be hard to prove Buck did it,” I lamented. “I’m sure there are cutting torches at the paving company, and it wouldn’t be a big deal for his prints to be on them. Even the scorch marks in the grass can be explained as part of their normal business operations.”
“Somebody saw something,” Miles said confidently. “They just didn’t realize it, or know what they were seeing. I’m sure someone at that party saw Buck, or whoever, dragging a cutting torch out of one of the garages, or saw someone crawling out from under Holt’s truck. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he bragged to one of his friends, or got careless and burned a hole in his shirt, or got snapped in the background of someone’s selfie. Holt was a big deal in this town. Once the word goes out that we’re looking for someone who tampered with his truck at the party, someone will come forward.”
I believed him. David was excited for his fifteen minutes of fame, and so were Kendra and the others. Someone out there would be thrilled to have their picture in the paper, or their interview on J.T.’s show, as the guy who helped catch Holt Dupree’s killer.
It might end up as a manslaughter conviction, but I still considered it murder.
“What can I tell Peony?” I asked Miles. “I don’t want to screw up your case, but she left a message last night and is pushing me for an update. I really want to be able to at least tell her she was right about something being wrong with the truck.”
“Keep it general,” Miles warned. “Just let her know for now that there was something wrong with the truck and that the police are investigating it. Don’t let her know that you consider Buck a suspect. We’ll want to interview her again since she was at that party. Hopefully she saw something.”
I nodded, wanting to make sure this all went off without a hitch. I didn’t think Buck Stanford was the kind of guy to flee the state, but if he had any inkling that the police were coming after him, he might hide or destroy evidence.
“Will do. I’ll meet with Peony this afternoon and let her know.”
Miles saluted me with a donut. “Sounds good. And, Kay? If you ever want a change in careers, the academy is always looking for good lady cops.”
I laughed because I doubted the police academy would be approving an application from a sixty-year-old woman. But Miles’s comment brought to mind something I’d been thinking about the last few days.
“Actually, I’m thinking of getting my P.I. license. Maybe J.T. could use me for more than just skip tracing.”
Miles grinned. “Absolutely. Then his show can be Gator and Gatorette, Private Investigators.”
I’d had enough of cameos in J.T.’s YouTube videos. No way was I going to star in any of them.
“Uh, no. That is not going to happen,” I told Miles.
The deputy left the donuts behind, and I helped myself to two more, practically vibrating with the sugar high as I pulled credit reports and ran arrest records. Holt’s ghost appeared once more. I ignored him as he tossed a few file folders on the floor and tipped over the trash can next to J.T.’s desk. When he started kicking one of the filing cabinets, I stuck my earbuds in and kept working, hoping that they arrested somebody soon for the truck sabotage. This ghost’s poltergeist activities were annoying the heck out of me, and I wanted him gone. Two days. Two days and if there wasn’t an arrest, I was calling Olive.
The ghost was gone by lunchtime. I righted the trashcan and picked up the file folders before heading out to the coffee shop to meet Peony. The July heat had ramped up and even with the air conditioning in my car, I was sticky with sweat by the time I got to the coffee shop. Peony waved at me from a table over in the corner, but I headed to the counter and got two frozen mochas, sliding one over to Peony as I sat across from her.
“So I can’t tell you any details, but rest assured that the police are investigating. And you were right—something was wrong with the truck. If you hadn’t brought that up, I don’t think anyone would have checked.”
My words didn’t do much to reassure the girl across from me. Peony played with the cardboard sleeve on her coffee cup, her other arm in its cast resting on the table.
“Should I get a lawyer?” Her voice was tense. “If someone messed with the truck maybe I could sue them for endangering me.”
I stared at her a minute, perplexed
by her question. “Holt’s insurance company should take care of your medical bills. Is that what you’re worried about?”
“I was going to have money. I was going to have lots of money, and they ruined it for me. Holt was going to make me rich, but now he’s dead and someone is to blame. I want to know if I have any recourse.” Her shoulders slumped. “Probably not. I should have known. My one chance and it’s gone. I’ll never get a chance like that again.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. “Peony, I’m not a lawyer. I suggest you wait until the M.E. gives a definitive cause of death and the police wrap up their investigation, then if you think you have something, go talk to a lawyer.”
She nodded, her hair falling forward to drape across the cast.
“How was Holt going to make you rich?” I asked, wondering if they’d concocted a scheme of some sort. Holt hadn’t seemed all that bothered with Peony this weekend. Yes, they grew up in the same neighborhood and he used to date her sister, but I didn’t get the indication that they were close enough to be working on a project. Holt had been all about Holt. I couldn’t see him doing anything to lift a fifteen-year-old girl out of poverty, even one he’d grown up with.
“He always said I looked just like Violet, that I looked exactly like she had at my age, then he’d get this sappy expression. He still loves her, you know. She was stupid and broke up with him, but even though she dumped him, he still loves her. At the party he asked her to come with him, said he’d marry her and she wouldn’t have to drive that old rust bucket or worry about her student loans or work in some stupid office all day for crappy money. He was going to give her everything even after all these years, even after she’d dumped him back in high school. She could have had everything.”
I caught my breath and reached out a hand to gently touch Peony’s cast. Oh, poor Violet! Engaged, only to lose her fiancé hours later. But why had it been Peony in the truck that night and not Violet? And although I’d seen affection in the girl’s eyes after the concert in the park, I hadn’t seen love. But she wouldn’t have been the first girl to mistake affection and nostalgia for love. Or the first girl to let the promise of a life of ease and riches weigh in her decision making.
“Your sister was going to take you with her, but now that Holt’s gone… I’m so sorry Peony.”
Her eyes flashed up at mine, and I saw they sparkled with tears. “No! She turned him down. Stupid idiot! She could have had it all but she turned him down. Gave him a hug and told him they couldn’t revive the past or some crap like that. How could she say ‘no’? How could she?”
I was so confused. “But you said Holt was going to make you rich. If your sister turned him down, then how was he going to make you rich?”
Her mouth set in a stubborn line. “He wanted Violet and couldn’t have her, but I look just like her. He told me I looked just like her. And I’m not stupid enough to turn him down.”
A chill ran through me. “Peony, you’re fifteen. And although you might look like your sister did at your age, you’re not her. I didn’t know Holt Dupree that well, but I don’t think he would have risked his entire career to marry an underage girl just because she bears a resemblance to a childhood love.”
“We would have kept it quiet until next month when I’m sixteen,” she argued. “It’s not against the law once I’m sixteen.”
“It still would have harmed his career,” I told her. “Football fans across America aren’t going to support someone who takes a child bride, legal or not.”
“Of course they will. They don’t care about players who beat their girlfriends, or who beat up reporters, or drive drunk. They don’t care about players who run dog fighting rings, or do drugs. As long as they play well and win the game, they’re heroes.”
“That’s not true,” I replied, wondering about the use of continuing this argument with a girl who was clearly going to believe what she believed, regardless of what I said. “Those players lost sponsorship contracts, lost playing time, some of them lost their jobs entirely. Holt knew that. You said it yourself about him not drinking. And from what I’ve been told, he was very careful about not crossing the line with anyone even close to being underage. Peony, I know you’re hurt and grieving, and that you’re angry that Violet didn’t say ‘yes’ and take you off with her to live in a big mansion, but Holt was not going to risk everything he’d worked so hard for to be with a girl who just looked like someone he loved.”
“He would have.” That stone set was back in her jaw again, her expression making her seem much older than her fifteen years. “But now he’s dead.”
I sighed. “Peony, you’re welcome to talk to a lawyer, but I really don’t think you have any sort of civil case here. Your injuries weren’t severe enough to claim permanent disability as a result of the accident, and you’re not in a position to put forth a wrongful death claim. That would be his next of kin—his mother.”
“I know.” Tears left tracks in her make-up as they rolled down her cheek. “I know. I just… I thought that I had a chance. I thought something was finally going to go my way. I’d get out of Trenslertown, never have to worry about a thing the rest of my life.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe in his grief over losing Violet, Holt would have settled for the little sister who looked just like her. It would have been like a fairy tale come true for Peony for a few weeks or months, but then she would have found herself cast off just like Kendra.
She’d dodged a bullet. Holt’s death had stopped them from something that, whether it affected Holt’s career or not, would have only ended in sorrow for Peony. His death might seem like the end of an opportunity for her, but I liked to think it saved her, that it gave her a chance to have a better future—one like her sister Violet would hopefully have.
Peony wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “Thank you for helping me. Madison was right. You’re smart, and you’re nice. And I really appreciate you helping me.”
It was genuine. And I was touched.
“They’ll find who did it, Peony. The police will get justice for Holt.” I reached out again and touched her cast. “And I’m so glad you survived that accident. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Your whole life.”
Her smile wobbled. I got the feeling my words were small consolation. In her mind she’d missed out on a pro-football player and a fortune, and nothing I said was going to make her feel any better about that.
Chapter 22
Violet Smith sat across from me, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was wearing a navy blue skirt and a short-sleeve, button down striped shirt. Her blonde hair was in a neat, low ponytail, her make-up understated, her only jewelry a thin silver chain. It all made her look young, like the girl next door was playing dress-up for mock interviews in high school.
“I appreciate this, Mrs. Carrera.” Her voice held a slight country-girl drawl that she was obviously trying to smooth out. “I don’t have many references outside of my professors at college.”
Daisy had been pestering me to help her with mock interviews at the high school next month as part of their career preparedness program, but I was surprised when she asked if I could provide a reference for a recent college grad. I was even more surprised when she told me that college grad was Violet Smith. Daisy thought highly of the girl, and that alone would be worth me writing her a reference on official Pierson Investigative and Recovery Services letterhead, but I was uncomfortable writing a reference when I hadn’t even met the girl.
And the interview was a good excuse for me to satisfy my curious nature. Or nosy nature.
I eased back in chair and gave her a reassuring nod. “Why don’t we start with you telling me what your major was in college as well as your career aspirations.”
Her smile widened, then faltered as she twisted her hands nervously on her lap. “I majored in accounting with a criminal studies minor. I want to get into forensic accounting, but that’s not really a job someone gets right out of college, especia
lly someone like me with no experience or connections.”
I was already impressed. The girl was well-spoken, clearly had realistic goals and a plan for her future in place. “So what are the steps you’ll need to get that job in forensic accounting?”
She told me all about entry-level accounting positions, eventual audit jobs with financial firms, positions that involved research of companies that were declaring bankruptcy, possibly even firms that perform tax audits. As she spoke, she grew animated, her cheeks flushed pink and her hands coming off her lap to wave around emphatically.
“But that’s all in the future,” she confessed. “Right now I’m trying to get a job at the county tax assessor’s office as an assistant. But I don’t know anyone in county government.”
I didn’t either, but I knew people who did, and I was determined to put a bug in their ear about a very promising candidate.
“Well, I’ll write up a reference letter for you tonight and e-mail it to you,” I told her. “And I know it’s none of my business, but how are you doing? I know you and Holt were close.”
It was a rotten trick, extending the carrot of a recommendation and attaching a nosy question to it, but Violet didn’t seem to mind.
“It’s hard,” she confessed. “We grew up together. He was my boyfriend back in high school, my first love. It was so good to see him this weekend and catch up. I just can’t believe that I’ll never see him again.”
“Everyone thought you two would end up married,” I said.
She laughed. “Who would think that? Besides Holt, I mean, and even that surprised me. We broke up when we were sixteen. I hadn’t even heard from him in four years.”