by Tegan Maher
I smiled a little at that. "I bet Carly was freakin' out over that."
Shelly grinned. "I'm pretty sure she had to go change her drawers when he left. And I was proud of Gwenny; she played it up a little to get back at her. Clifford's not a bad-looking man, and he flirted back a little, too."
"Well, well," I said. "The sweet ugly duckling bit the mean ole swan on the backside. Good."
Now just to find out what was causing all that spousal tension.
"Would you mind pulling Carly off the register for a few minutes so I can talk to her?"
Shelly snorted. "It's the slow part of the day when most other folks are cleaning their areas or helping restock, so it's not like she's doing anything else right now."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I WAITED IN SHELLY's office while she went to fetch Carly Sue, and the quasi-employee's nasally whine echoed off the hallway walls as my friend escorted her back. It seemed Shelly hadn't told her why she was being brought to the principal's office because I heard several If this is becauses, accompanied by a creative array of excuses, each of which pointed the finger at somebody else.
"I'm not actually the one who wants to talk to you," Shelly said as she opened the door, "but thanks for all the extraneous info. I'll check into it and get back to you."
A sputtering Carly Sue turned, and when she saw me, her lip curled. "What do you want?"
She hadn't liked me since I punched her in the nose when I was a freshman and she was a senior. She'd walked by my table at lunchtime and grabbed my bag of Fritos for the second time in a week. The first time, I'd let it slide because I was one of the good kids in school and didn't want to fight. My brothers saw it and I took all kinds of hassle from them for it. So, the second time, she wasn't so lucky.
Plus, it's a basic rule of survival; you just don't lay fingers on somebody else's food unless you're willing to fight over it.
And I hadn't done anything horrible. I'd just gotten up and told her to give them back. When she refused—not so politely, I might add—I punched her in the face and snatched my Fritos back before she could bleed on them. I didn't even get in trouble, because she was so hideous to so many people that nobody would rat me out.
Before she came in, I stepped around to take a seat in Shelly's chair.
"What do I want?" I asked, cocking a brow at her and pointing a finger back at myself. "World peace. People like you too stop being ... people like you. But what I'll i are answers to a few questions."
I motioned for her to take a seat.
She did, and when she bent forward to do so, I couldn't help but notice she'd had some bodywork done. Mostly because I was afraid one of the new boobs was going to spring out of the top of her tank top and knock her out when she leaned down to put her bag on the floor beside her. I just hoped she didn't have a glass jaw.
She heaved a big sigh—more strain on the fabric—and examined a long, hooker-red nail as she crossed one leopard-print lycra-covered leg over the other. "Okay. Now I'm sitting. What do you want? I'm at work and can't leave my teammates out there to carry my load."
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, Okay. Charles Vanderveer."
Her eyes became hooded and she tilted her head. "Who?"
"Don't jerk me around, Carly. This is Castle's Bluff. You've been seen with him."
Scowling, she dropped the pretense. "So what if I have? Is it a crime to have friends in this town, now?"
"Noooo, but it is a crime to kill your friends, or if your husband kills your friends." Friends went in air quotes because ... really. We both knew they were needed.
She furrowed her brow. "What are you talking about?"
I studied her face to see if she was yankin' my chain, but she was such a gifted liar that it was hard to tell.
"I'm talking about the fact that your friend turned up dead in the alley behind the Hook last night. Where were you?"
I saw the minute she decided to shut her mouth. She smirked at me and I wanted to smack it off her.
"Home," she said. "Washing my hair."
I pulled in a breath. "Okay, then. Where was Clifford?"
She smiled. “Working, I'm sure, then home as usual where I cooked him tuna casserole."
Chewing on my lip, I debated the merits of choking her. Not worth it, though she escaped by a thin margin.
"What was your relationship with him?" When she opened her mouth to sass me, I glared at her. "If you say a friend, or that you didn't know him, or anything else that isn't the truth, I'm gonna go get my hair trimmed and tell Mable I saw you buying a pregnancy test and crab cream."
She narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't."
It was my turn to smirk.
"You would." Her face was beet red, but she answered with what felt like a semi-truthful answer. "He had money and liked to spend it. He bought me a few drinks—and a few other things—and showed me a good time."
"Did you sleep with him?"
A good imitation of self-righteousness crossed her features. "I'm a married woman."
"Yeah, I know, but you and I both know the latch on your knees is loose."
She leaned forward and snatched her purse off the floor. "If you have anything else to ask," she snapped, eyes blazing, "Ask my uncle Leon."
That would be the sleazy family lawyer in the polyester suit with the law degree from Cracker Jacks.
She turned in the doorway. "But you may wanna ask yourself this: why would I kill my golden goose? He said he was gonna take me outta this craphole of a town and show me the world."
She pulled back her hair and showed me teardrop diamonds—assuming they were real—big enough to choke a horse. "These were just the tip of the iceberg."
I didn't say anything else as she stomped out the door. Shelly came back a couple minutes later. "Well it looks like that could have gone better."
I sighed and stood up. "Probably not, being who she is."
Shelly sat back at her desk and pulled the pen from her hair. "But I'll guarantee you lips'll be flappin' in the break room over the next day or two. Shoot, they probably already are. I'll keep you posted. If nothing else, it's entertaining to hear the theories."
"Thanks, Shell." I started toward the door. "We're doing a girls' night soon. You should come. We haven't hung out in forever."
She smiled. "I'd like that. Now that my divorce is final, I'm kinda at loose ends."
We made sure our numbers were current, and I left. I couldn't help but notice on my way out that Carly was tapping furiously on her cell phone. I tried to decide if she looked guilty, but I wasn’t sure she had it in her to feel guilt, or shame, or any other emotion that required feelings for somebody besides herself. She just looked pissed.
It may have been a waste of time, but I was glad I'd come and felt her out. She was a self-serving byotch, which meant she probably didn't cut off her own gravy train, much as I’d have liked to arrest her for it.
I was back to square one, but at least I'd knocked one pawn off the board. Or I thought I had.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT when I left the Winn Dixie was how big Vanderveer was and how he'd ended up in the alley. I was still convinced he'd been killed somewhere else and dumped, so that meant I needed to find out where.
There were only so many construction places in town, so I took a shot at the most popular one first. When the foreman answered directly, I figured I'd lucked out. There I went thinking again. He'd laid solid black flooring in two places over the course of his career—the funeral home, and the restaurant at the golf course. Another dead end.
I called a couple more on the list and got the same results. Not much laid at all, and when it was, the location was off the radar for one reason or another.
Why couldn't psychic visions have neon signs, or at least instruction manuals?
I texted Alex to see what he was doing since I still had a couple hours until Clifford got home. While I waited for him to answer, I called Sam. He was chasing down people who'd been at t
he Hook the night of the infamous card game. We figured with stakes that high, Cliff may not have been the only one holding a grudge because Vanderveer was so great at cards.
When it came to money, the term a lot was subjective. The few grand Clifford lost may have just been money he was putting back toward a boat, but the couple hundred somebody else foolishly threw in the kitty may have been rent. Desperation makes even good men do stupid things, and it makes bad men flat-out evil.
He answered on the third ring.
"Hey, Sam, any luck?"
"Not so's you'd notice. He's siphoned off quite a bit of cash from the locals, but nothing anybody would consider killing for. Most folks were smart enough to steer clear of Vanderveer after the first few nights he was in town because just sitting down at his table signaled an impending losing streak."
"Did he piss anybody else off? Maybe by hitting on a wife or girlfriend?" Just because he had Carly at his beck and call didn't tie him to her. Womanizers were, by definition, fickle.
"Nope, though Tara Mackey had an odd reaction when she saw him. She was in with a couple friends. When she saw him playing cards, she waited for a break then approached him. The two guys who saw it go down said it started out as if she was glad to see him, but she wasn't so glad when she stormed out a few minutes later.”
I racked my brain trying to place her but came up empty. "Tara Mackey ... never heard of her. What's her story?"
"Yeah, you probably wouldn't know her. She's around fifty and has always kept a low profile. Married, three kids, Susie Homemaker. At least after she settled down. Her husband recently hit his mid-life crisis and traded her in for a newer model. He's now the ex."
"So what does she have to do with Charles Vanderveer?"
"That's where things get interesting. According to Sully, it would seem the last time Vanderveer spent any real time in town was twenty years ago, and she was his flavor of the week that time around."
The pieces kicked into place. "Ah, so she was the last Carly Sue Barker."
"You got it. From what Sully overheard, she was looking to rekindle the flame, but she had two strikes—she's single, and she's over thirty-five, which seems to be his cut-off."
"Hell hath no fury." I wondered how much of a torch she carried. "Have you talked to her?"
"No. I was thinking another woman may have a better shot at getting her to talk. From what I gather, she's the newly elected president of the man-hater's club."
"Any kids left at home? Does she work?" If she had nothing better to do than stew, that made her a prime candidate for murder. Plus it would explain the recognition I picked up in my vision.
"No, and no. She lives in that two-story Victorian at the end of Pike Street."
That was the swankier side of town, over near where Sean lived. "Nice digs. The hubby saw fit to leave her set?"
"From what I gather. He left the house and most of the money. Though from what Sully says, he probably had his own nest egg stashed away where her lawyers couldn't find it. He made his money in the stock market."
Wow, a woman scorned for a younger woman not once, but twice. That had to sting. I turned the Jeep in that direction. "I'm on my way."
"Oh, and Cori? Just FYI, She's a fox shifter."
I pulled in a deep breath and let it out. That meant she’d probably known he was a vampire. "Lovely. I'll let you know what I find out."
Tara Mackey's house wasn't far, so I drove slow, trying to decide how best to approach her. I decided in the end to feel her out and see which way the winds were blowing before settling on a tactic.
When I pulled up her drive, I was surprised to see an expensive red two-seater sports car rather than a middle-aged soccer-mom mobile. If she was going through a midlife crisis of her own, it looked like she had the cash to do it in style. The top was down on it, so since it had rained the night before, she'd likely been out already and was planning on leaving again.
I took the steps up to the veranda two at a time and rapped my knuckles on the hand-carved oak door. They just didn't make houses like that anymore. It only took a few seconds for her to answer, and I was surprised again to find an attractive woman wearing linen slacks and a sleeveless silk shirt smiling at me, an expectant look on her face.
"Yes? May I help you?" he tone was pleasant and I had to wonder if she was the Jekyll-and-Hyde type, an utter sociopath, or just innocent.
"I'm Cori Sloane, Castle's Bluff Sheriff's Department."
She stepped back. "Of course, Sheriff. Please, come in. May I get you something to drink?"
I stepped into a tastefully decorated foyer and noticed that though there were dozens of pictures of her and kids on just about every wall and surface, there were none of the philandering former mister.
"Thank you, no. I just need to ask you a couple questions that may be a little awkward. Understand, I'm just covering the bases."
She scrunched her forehead, then smoothed it back out when she realized what she was doing. I wondered if it was because it had been ingrained in her that frowning causes wrinkles, or because she was trying to keep a blank expression.
"I'm not sure what you mean by awkward, but my life's an open book." She gave a self-deprecating huff. "A super-boring, short, lonely open book."
I had no idea what to say to that, so I said nothing. She led me to a sitting room off the foyer and motioned to a grouping of armchairs placed around a round, cherrywood coffee table that was probably as old as the house. The place was compulsively clean. I dusted our house using magic, and this place put mine to shame.
"This won't take long,” I told her. “I should start by telling you I'm a werewolf, so we can get that out of the way and speak openly."
She dipped her head. "I'd heard that. It's nice to have a shifter running things. I've always said it was silly to have a human in charge when they didn't have a clue about who three-quarters of their citizens really were."
I gave her a small half-smile and found myself liking her. That didn't mean I didn't think she might be a killer; it just meant if she was, I thought she was a personable one.
"I need to ask you a few questions about Charles Vanderveer." I watched her face for any subtle I killed the bastard nuances, but mild disgust was about all I got. That and maybe a little self-loathing mixed in for good measure.
"The only thing important about Vanderveer is that he was a womanizing asshat that got off on hookin' up with young married women so he wouldn't have to worry about commitment."
Wow, that was a mouthful. And she talked about him in past tense.
"Is that what you talked about at Sully's the other night?"
She huffed through her nose. "Yeah. That's what we talked about. Or rather, I talked about. We had a good time the last time he was in town. But I was younger, tighter, and married. His trifecta. Now I'm none of those, and he wasn't as interested in reliving the glory days as I was."
"You're talking about him in the past tense."
She raised a brow at me. "C'mon, Sheriff. This is Castle's Bluff. People don't spit on the sidewalk without making front-page news some days. Surely you can't believe a murder hasn't already made the rounds."
I couldn't argue that.
"So did you see Vanderveer after that night? And can you account for your whereabouts last night?"
"I was right here, alone as usual. And no, I didn't see him," she said, her tone bitter. "Trust me—the last thing I wanted was one more reminder that I'm washed up. Just look around at the empty house. I have all the reminder I need."
My gaze followed her hand around the room, skimming over portraits, souvenirs from all over the world, and expensive knick-knacks and sculptures.
A set of double doors, one of them slightly ajar, led to what I guessed was the library. My gaze slid over it, but something caught my eye and jerked it back. A sliver of gleaming black granite tile glinted at me through the crack.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"MRS. MACKEY—"
"Please, call me Tara
."
"Tara." My mind raced trying to decide how to play it. I wasn't worried about her hurting me, though fox shifters fought much like their animal counterparts: they were cunning and ruthless. Still, I had size and magic on my side and was confident. Also, she didn’t seem like the fighting type.
No, what I was worried about was tipping my hand without any proof.
"Is that a library through there?" I asked, finding it easy enough to inject interest into my tone since I loved to read and had a soft spot for old books. The craftsmanship that many old-time builders put into libraries was often impressive, too.
She looked a little confused. "Yes. Why?"
"Not to be invasive, but may I see it? I have a love of books combined with Victorian architecture, and I'd love to take a look if you don't mind."
"Sure," she said, her tone clearly implying she thought I'd gone off my rocker. "This way."
I didn't know what I was looking for; it's not like she was likely to have left a bloody wooden something-or-other just lying around. But I figured I'd know it when I saw it.
The floor gleamed, gold flecks in it reflecting the sunlight splashing through the tall windows that ran the length of the room. As I'd expected, the architecture was sheer art, from the intricate curves of the crown molding to the carved trim work around the shelves built into the walls.
There was a stone fireplace on one wall, and the scrollwork on the mantle was one of the prettiest I'd ever seen. What I didn't see was anything remotely resembling a murder weapon of convenience. A big pool of dried blood on the floor would have been nice, too, but no such luck.
"This is just ... wow," I said, meaning it.
Pride shone from her eyes. "Thank you. This is my favorite room in the house." She glanced around, then added almost under her breath, "Or it used to be, anyway."
I whipped my gaze to her. "Why do you say that?"