by Lynn Cooper
“Did you ask him why he would say that?”
“Yeah. He said, ‘I’m in love, partner, and it’s love that makes the world go ‘round.’ Then he winked and said, ‘But a buttload of money surely does make that sucker spin easier.’”
I notice Zeke puts both feet on the floor when he hears this part. I can almost see the wheels turning in his handsome head. “He didn’t mention any names, did he? Tell you who he was in love with?”
“No. He just went back into his house.” Tug stares into the cup. “This tastes like Sanka. Can I at least have something with caffeine?”
Darren pounds the table with the side of his fist. “Stop playing games, Sizemore. You lost a lot of money to your business partner in a poker game. You were angry. Embarrassed. Witnesses heard you yelling and arguing with him afterward. And that wasn’t the first time you two were at each other’s throats.”
He frowns. “Bluff and I had our business differences. He could be pretty ruthless sometimes, and I always favored playing things straight up and above board. Maybe that’s why we were so successful. We balanced each other out. But, we never argued over cards. Besides, I won just as many hands as he did.”
“Who else was at the game?” Zeke asks.
Tug scratches his chin. “Besides me and Bluff, there were the McCraven brothers and some guy who is a business associate of theirs. His name is Johnny. No, Ronnie. Or maybe it’s Donnie. He’s a big guy. Long, blond hair. Wears Clark Kent glasses. He looks like he might have been a weightlifter at one time.”
Which would make him plenty strong enough to choke a man and hang him on a hook, I think.
“But he sure couldn’t play poker worth spit. He lost at least seventy-five hundred to Bluff alone. Now, there’s you a motive for murder. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts he’s the one who called Sheriff Rice with that phony-baloney story.”
Darren appears triumphant. “You fool. You just put yourself in the electric chair. How did you know somebody called the sheriff with a tip?”
“Archie told me when he arrested me.”
The lawyer’s face reddens. “Oh.”
“And before you start thinking there was a limited witness pool,” Tug says, “there were other people out there in the neighborhood besides the five of us. The guy next door was still grilling hamburgers and drinking with three of his buddies when our game broke up. And a man across the street was in the back seat of his car making out with some woman.”
I watch Zeke rub his temples even harder. I can only imagine how frustrated he’s getting with this case. Those big, broad shoulders are all bunched up with nerves. My prescription for that would be a visit to the hot tub followed by an expert application of Madeline’s magic fingers—
“So, Miss Madeline,” Archie says, startling me. “Did you get any sort of vibe from all that?”
“No. But, if Tug is telling the truth, we’ve learned some pertinent things about Bluff. It would appear this other character—Johnny-Ronnie-Donnie or whatever his name turns out to be—also has a good motive. He’s certainly sounds formidable enough to commit the crime.”
“Do you think he’s the one who called me with the tip?”
“Impossible to say. My nephew has one of those voice-disguisers. The way those things distort, it could have been anybody, man or woman.”
“Well, I’m working on that angle, Miss Madeline. I’ve got some smart cookies trying to triangulate towers and get pings or whatever it is you do nowadays to figure out where cellular calls come from.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find the killer to be an even smarter cookie, Sheriff. He or she has gone to great, extremely-elaborate lengths to muddy up the water, cover their tracks and cast the spotlight on others. I’m betting you’ll find whoever it was used one of those untraceable burner phones.”
He nods. “What do you make of this stuff about Bluff giving away his money and talking about love?”
Continuing with my gambling metaphor, I assume a poker face and decide to play it close to the vest. I don’t necessarily feel I’m withholding evidence from the sheriff—namely, what Yvonne Ellsworth told me about her affair with Bluff.
Someone once told me, “Know all you say, but don’t say all you know.” Let’s just say I’m following that sage advice.
I shrug. “Hard to say, Sheriff. But if Bluff found love just before he died, I feel even worse about his death than I already did.”
“Poor guy. We never know when it’s all going to be over, do we?” He presses an intercom buzzer beside the two-way mirror. Zeke and Darren glance up, rise and head toward the door.
My pulse quickens to know Zeke will be standing beside me any second. “Uh, no, we don’t. Thanks, Sheriff. For letting me be a part of all this.”
“Thank you, Miss Madeline. I’m not saying we couldn’t solve these cases without you. But it wouldn’t be nearly as fun or as fast. Isn’t that right, Lawyer Darren?”
Coming out, the D.A. straightens his tie and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’ve just about broken him, Sheriff. Five more minutes, and I’ll have him singing his fool head off.”
The sheriff grins. “Probably not. We’re all out of cream and sugar.”
Darren frowns at me. “What’s she doing here? This is legal business, and she’s still a suspect in three murders. If we need a cross-eyed turtle with painted toenails, Miss Shore, we’ll call you.”
I have to smile. He’s just given me an idea for a new craft. And I know he hasn’t had time to copyright it. Sucka.
“Hush up, lawyer,” Sheriff Rice says. “She made us all look like dolts the last two times she was down here. I’m betting she’ll do it again. How about it, Detective Zeke? Is Tuggle our killer?”
I notice he’s been avoiding eye contact with me since he came out of the box.
“Doug just finished his forensics report, Sheriff. He didn’t find any of Tug’s prints inside the dressing room. Then again, there were no prints whatsoever on the knob or anything else.”
I ask, “What did he say about those faint, black smears on the wall and on the door below the hook?”
Zeke barely glances at me before addressing Archie. “It’s nothing. Doug said one of the construction crew probably bumped into them with the rubber handle of a hammer or screwdriver. Sheriff, for what it’s worth, I agree with Mr. Sparks. Miss Shore shouldn’t be involved in this.”
“Duly noted. Do I hold onto Tuggle or not?”
“I’d keep him on ice. I’m not ready to rule him out even though there’s a certain ring of truth to his story. Especially the part about Mr. Burrows being in love. I think I’ll take another run at our saleslady.”
“Why?” Darren asks. “Bluff’s murderer is sitting right there behind the glass.”
Actually, Tug is no longer sitting. He’s crawled up onto the table, curled into a fetal ball and closed his eyes.
The sheriff puts his arm around Darren’s shoulders. “Come on. We’ll get Trish to make us up another batch of confession coffee.”
They trudge up the corridor, leaving me and Zeke alone. He puts his hands on his hips. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here this morning. What brings you down?”
I wanted to see you, silly. “I heard Tug was arrested.”
“And you wanted to tell us all we were just wasting our time with another dead-end suspect who couldn’t possibly have committed the murder.”
“No, Tug’s as good a suspect as anyone at this point.”
“But?”
“But, just because he alleges Bluff told him he was in love—and you and I know he was he talking about Yvonne Ellsworth—doesn’t mean the feeling was mutual. She told us both she wasn’t in love with him.”
“Which could mean she duped us both. At least she’s keeping that part of her story straight. First, she says she doesn’t know Bluff. Then, she says she does. Then she says it was nothing more than just a physical relationship. Apparently, Mr. Burrows felt it went much deeper than that.”
> “For him, Detective.”
“He’s dead, but I’ll take his credibility over hers any day.”
“Yvonne told me she loves her husband and wants to stay married. She said she told Bluff that, and he agreed to back off.”
Narrowing those dark eyes at me, which is enough to give a girl the vapors, he folds his masculine, hairy arms. Mercy, but his biceps stretch his sleeves taut. Those guns look like they’re going to burst through the seams. “Yvonne, is it? I see you two have gotten pretty chummy. Miss Shore, are you familiar with obstruction of justice?”
I hold up my hands. “Hey, she approached me. At any rate, I told her right up front I couldn’t withhold anything she might say about the case. But she went ahead and spilled her guts anyway. She wants me to convince you of her innocence.” I smile modestly. “Yvonne’s got it in her head I have some sort of influence over you.”
“Oh, she does, does she? And just what makes her think that?”
I suddenly don’t like his tone. “I don’t know. Maybe she saw you take me to breakfast.”
“You were a person of interest. I was asking you about your involvement in the murder, after which the mayor wanted me to drive you to her office.”
“Or, she found out you called me right after you talked to her.”
“It was simply a courtesy call. I’ve made those many other times during an investigation.”
Uh, ouch. Looks like I am reading something more into our relationship than is actually there. Still, it’s no reason for him to be mean. I feel the sharp shards of hurt crystals in my heart, and when I begin to feel those, I tend to get my panties in a wad. “And when you make those many, other, simply-courtesy calls, Detective Worthy, do the callers provide you with theories about the case which you then turn and use as your own?”
His arms drop. His stern expression fades.
Busted.
I don’t even try to hide my victorious smirk. “Yvonne says you’re brilliant. She’s amazed at how you figured out how she’s just had wrist surgery and how it makes it doubtful she’s the killer. You think maybe that’s what she means by my having influence on you?”
He’s breathing solely through his nostrils now. I watch his eyes, wondering which way he’s going to go—apologetic or defensive.
“Fine,” he says, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. “Where is she?”
Defensive it is. So be it.
“Make up your mind, Detective. You tell me to stay out of your police work. You tell me I have no influence on you. Now, you want me to find another one of your persons-of-interest for you?”
He bares his teeth and laughs sarcastically. “Boy, you women sure do stick together, don’t you? Your friend cries a little, gets her lies straight and she’s suddenly as pure and innocent as a newborn babe.”
Mad as I am, I still manage to hear he’s not just talking about Yvonne and Tug now. Something else is going on in his handsome but stubborn head. I take a deep breath and soften my voice. “Look, I’m not saying she’s not involved somehow. She just doesn’t want her husband to find out she cheated on him.”
He gives me a bitter smile. “They never do, do they?”
So, that’s it. I glance at the ring tan line on his finger. Zeke’s wife stepped out on him. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it yesterday. The wound is still fresh.
As he storms past me into the corridor, I don’t know what to say. So, I just stand there like a bump on a log and say nothing.
Chapter Nine
THE LIGHTS ARE OUT in Mayor Kwan’s office as I open the door and peek inside. The heavy, purple drapes are drawn. With her bright-yellow high heels turned over on the floor, she’s lying on the leather sofa in a pink-and-white striped business suit. There’s a wide compress covering her forehead and hooding her eyes.
In low-rise jeans and a white, cropped top, Sadie sits in the mayor’s chair, holding onto the arms and whirling from side-to-side as if it’s a carnival ride. As soon as she sees me, she gets her laptop off the desk and starts typing.
“Knock, knock,” I say, stepping into the office. “May I come in?”
Patsy groans. “I see you made bail. I suppose they figure you aren’t a flight risk because you would never leave that crazy little craft shop.”
I don’t even bother to tell her a person only needs bail money if they’ve been arrested.
“The sheriff has Tug Sizemore in custody.”
“Did you not tell them you were the murderer?”
“I took the fifth. Bad migraine?”
“Is there any other kind? Sit down and, for heaven’s sake, stop shouting.”
I sit down at the end of the sofa, squinting sideways at her bright purple-painted toenails.
“Closer,” Patsy mumbles. As I comply, she lifts her legs and rests her ankles in my lap. “Now, why are you bothering me?”
“Mayor, yesterday in this office—when Tug was singing Bluff’s praises and talking about them being best friends—you arched your eyebrow as if to indicate you thought it was a load of hooey.”
“First, Madeline, I’m not comfortable with you watching my every move so closely. But, you’re right. That sentimental drivel Tug was spouting almost made me lose my breakfast. The two of them bickered and fought constantly. Last week, they nearly came to fisticuffs right here in this room.”
“What was the fight about?”
“Your guess is better than mine. They were always disagreeing about one thing or another. This time, apparently, something really had Tug riled up. He grabbed Tug by the collar and drew back his fist.”
“You mean he grabbed Bluff by the collar.”
“What did I say?”
“You said Tug grabbed Tug.”
“Just take me out and shoot me then. You try being coherent when your head is pounding like a tribal drum.”
Sadie stopped typing. “Tug—I mean, Mr. Sizemore—told Bluff—I mean, Mr. Burrows—‘So help me, if you go through with it, I’ll kill you.’ Or, maybe it was, ‘I’ll end you.’ Anyway, it was something like that. I can go back and find the exact transcript if you want.”
“I’m sure you can, honey,” Patsy says, looking at me and shaking her head.
“Go through with what?” I ask.
She shrugs and moans, gingerly pressing the washrag against her forehead. “Please use your library voice, Madeline. The rumor was, Bluff was planning to leave their consulting partnership and take all the clients he brought in with him. Tug was furious. He’s a sound businessman, but he’s always ridden on Bluff’s coattails. Together, they’ve had a profitable enterprise, but Tug may have felt he couldn’t make a go of it without his partner around to take the lead. I heard through the grapevine Tug had tried unsuccessfully to sue him. Bluff being Bluff, he tended to always come out on top in such matters.” She groans. “Whatever it was that had them so agitated, they were discussing it just as they came through the door—just like these two cutthroats.”
I turn, sit up straight and hold my shoulders back when I see two dark-haired, extremely handsome men in the doorway.
The clean-shaven one holding the doorknob wears a red golf shirt, light-beige khakis and brown-leather boat shoes without socks. The man with the mustache behind him has on a faded-blue denim shirt, crisp Levis and cowboy boots. All his western ensemble is missing is the giant belt buckle. About his tight, taut waist (it’s not hard to imagine ripped abs) is a thin, retro dress belt circa 1960.
“What is it we’re supposedly discussing?” the one in front asks with a charmingly-crooked smile. He’s not as tall as the one behind him, nor as broad across the shoulders, but they share enough strong, rugged, model-like facial features to lead me to believe they’re related.
Patsy readjusts her compress. “Probably how you’re going to overcharge us another couple of million dollars. Gentlemen, this is Madeline Shore. She owns a craft store in which she makes stuffed things, and she’s a known murderess. Madeline, these are the McCraven brothers.
That’s Tom in front and Stan behind.”
“Actually, I’m Stan,” the man who’s been doing the talking says as he takes my hand. Even in the low light, I can see his eyes are a mesmerizing hazel. “Madeline, you’re lovely.”
“The three people she’s killed probably thought so, too,” the mayor mumbles.
While Stan frowns, his more muscular brother steps forward and shakes my hand. His eyes are also hazel, but have darker shades of brown than green and are just as engaging as his brother’s. “I’m Tom. I know one thing: she’s killing that sweater dress.”
“Thank you both,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you. The town of Slocomb absolutely loves the new mall.”
“Merci, Madeline,” Stan says. He blinks his pretty eyes. “Madeline Shore. That’s right: you’re the young lady who discovered Bluff’s body. I read it in the morning paper. A terrible tragedy. Just terrible. We got to know him well over the past couple of years. Bluff was a great guy. A heckuva businessman.”
“I’ll second that,” Tom says. “He did such a slick job of getting us down on the price, we’re lucky we made any profit at all. In fact, we offered him an executive position with us. If you can’t beat’em, try to get’em to work for you. Right, Stan?”
“Yep. But he turned us down flat.”
“Did he say why?” I ask.
Stan says, “Bluff told us we were his last deal. His swan song. Ironic, huh? He said he was going to retire, buy a place at the beach and spend the rest of his days riding the waves on a schooner with a beautiful wife.”
Patsy snorts. “Not on the paltry commission the town was able to pay him and Tug to broker the deal. It wasn’t exactly the kind of money you put in a Swiss bank account.”
Not to give away too much of my own hand, I say, “He must’ve won a big pot playing poker. Tug told the police you boys had a high-stakes game going Sunday night.”
“Yeah, we heard on the radio he’d been arrested,” Stan says. “Do they really think he did it?”
“He and Bluff seemed really close,” Tom adds. “I mean, when they weren’t fighting.”