I resisted the urge to ask what her methods were, and banished images of medieval torture chambers from my mind. “So you hatched the plan . . .”
“To ruin Gordon like he ruined us.” She curled her fingers into her palms. “It was only what he deserved.”
“Getting thrown off the roof?”
“Yes.” The word ended with a drawn-out hiss.
I had a sudden vision of her standing on the pub’s roof, arms upraised in triumph, hair whipped by the wind, as Gordon’s body tumbled into the Dumpster. I added a couple of bolts of lightning and a rumble of thunder to the scene for atmosphere. “Where were you Friday night?”
“Where am I always?” she asked bitterly. “Here. We don’t have enough money to even go to the movies, and it’s not like any of my old friends are going to drop by here to have a cocktail.” Ice clinked as she jiggled her glass.
I took a stab in the dark, hoping to scare her into revealing something. “I saw you at the pub. In the parking lot. You’re very striking, easy to remember.” I hadn’t really seen her, but she might have been there.
Confusion and what I thought was a flash of fear flitted across her face. “You’re mistaken. I wasn’t—well, of course I had to drop him off. We can only afford the one car now. I didn’t go in. I’ve never been in the pub. Frankly, I was afraid of what I would do to Gordon Marsh if I came face-to-face with him.” She crossed one lovely leg over the other.
Her pseudo-openness left me unconvinced. “So how did Foster get home?”
“He didn’t come home.” She lengthened her neck so she could peer down her nose at me. “I called the police and tried to report him missing, but they wouldn’t do anything. Said he was a grown man and would come home in his own time. It’s not the first time. Since he was let go, Foster stops by a bar now and again and . . . well, you know.”
I remembered the police report that said Foster had turned up, dead drunk, in the gazebo at Lost Alice Lake. “That must have worried you.”
My sympathy made her eyes shimmer. “Of course it did! This . . . this”—she gestured at the apartment in a way that said she was encompassing their entire life—“is almost unbearable, even with Foster. Without him, I don’t think I could stand it.” She set her glass down with a trembling hand and the ropy blue-green veins twining across the back made me think how hard it must be to start over from scratch at almost sixty. I tried to envision my parents near penniless, having to give up our family home and most of their belongings, cooped up in a small apartment. Somehow I knew there’d still be flowers and open windows.
I believed Anita and felt sorry for her, sort of, but also suspected that she and Foster together were more than strong enough, and motivated enough, to have clonked Gordon over the head and flung him off the roof.
“Look, Miss Johnson, nothing Foster did was intended to hurt your brother—it was all aimed at Gordon Marsh—so I hope he, your brother, will take that into consideration. Foster didn’t do any real damage, after all.” She stood and looked down at me, a supplicant, yet unable to totally shed her lady-of-the-manor air.
Anger burned away my pity. “He’s collateral damage, not your target, and so he should be okay with that?” I asked, standing so quickly I knocked over my half-full glass.
“My Bokhara!” Anita Quinlan ran for the kitchen and began unspooling the paper towel roll.
Without even apologizing (my mother would lecture me if she knew), I let myself out, closed the door, and trotted down the stairs and back to my car, ignoring a wolf whistle from the pool area. I drove halfway back to my office in an angry blur, but then my brain started working again. Anita Quinlan had been at the pub Friday night, even though she’d initially denied it. She’d also said something about people not being disposable, something about “after all we—” and cut herself off. I couldn’t help thinking that she was a darn attractive woman, only a few years older than Gordon, and wondering if all her anger at Gordon was on her husband’s behalf. Maybe she’d been one of Gordon’s all-too-disposable women, wanting the kind of revenge that joining up with WOSC wouldn’t supply.
I imagined a little scenario. She could have snuck onto the roof without anyone noticing, maybe even before the party got going, and waited for Gordon to come up for a smoke. Foster could have told her that was his habit, or if she really had had an affair with Gordon, she could have known. She could have texted Foster, busily plugging up toilets, when Gordon appeared. Foster could have crept upstairs and beaned Gordon with—what?—his mop or some other weapon, taking him by surprise if he was already arguing with Anita. Together, they could have heaved him up and over the wall. Foster could have returned to the first floor, pretending he was mopping up a mess or something if anyone caught him in the elevator or on the stairs, and Anita could have waited on the roof until after the party—
I wrinkled my brow. No, she couldn’t know how long it would be until Gordon’s body was discovered, so she’d have had to escape quickly. The fire! Foster blew up the microwave to set off the fire alarms so she’d have the opportunity to blend in with the exiting crowd and escape. I caught my breath. Then he confessed to the sabotage, hoping it would distract from their real crime. I didn’t have any proof, but Foster and Anita had motive and opportunity. It all fit. I banged the steering wheel with excitement. I needed to tell Hart.
Chapter 22
“That’s a whole boatload of ‘could haves’ you’ve got there, and not much proof,” Hart observed twenty minutes later.
We were seated in his office and I had blurted my theory out, barely stopping for breath, when he invited me back and offered me a chair. His office in the Heaven Police Department was a small room with windows on two sides. Paint, flooring, and furniture were all institutional blah and utilitarian, but a full set of Sherlock Holmes novels and short stories were bookended by a plaster deerstalker cap and pipe, a bag with bat handles peeking out slouched in one corner, and Ugga, the University of Georgia’s bulldog mascot, perched atop the printer, wearing a red jersey. A vinegary odor confused me until I noticed the remains of a take-out salad in his trash can.
“But it all fits,” I said, leaning forward to convince him. “They had motive, means, and opportunity. You should have heard her—she hated Gordon. And Foster does, too. I was nervous of him in the kitchen, how gleeful he was telling me about his sabotage.”
“That doesn’t make either of them killers,” Hart said, eyeing me, not without sympathy. “Look, we can reinterview her, focusing on her whereabouts rather than her husband’s, but even if she wasn’t home, that doesn’t prove anything.”
“What do you want?” I flashed. “Another blood-spattered shirt?” Even as I said it, I knew I wasn’t being fair. He was a police officer, trying to build a case that would earn a conviction.
“That would be a strong piece of physical evidence, yes,” he said, remaining calm in the face of my attack. “The murder weapon with their fingerprints on it would also suffice. I could even pressure them if a witness saw her inside the pub. I’ll ask some questions.”
I must have made a doubtful face, because he reiterated, “I will. You know Derek’s still the strongest suspect, but that doesn’t mean I’m not open to evidence that suggests otherwise.” His expression was sympathetic but firm; I was only going to piss him off if I pushed more.
“Thanks,” I muttered, standing. Hearing how ungracious I sounded, I smiled ruefully. “No, really. Thank you. I know you don’t have to look into it, or even listen to my theories—”
“Like you’d let me ignore you,” he murmured.
“—but I really think I’m right about this. The Readaholics were all talking about how there was probably more than one person involved—”
“There’s no proof of that, either.”
He was sure fond of the P word. “—and we were looking at trying to pair up people who don’t have an obvious connection, but this ma
kes so much more sense. Anita and Foster hate Gordon with a passion, whatever their individual reasons, and I could see how they would spur each other on, how every time Anita had to forgo a manicure she probably said something nasty about Gordon, and how whenever he heard about his old buddies playing eighteen holes without him, Foster would add it to his tally against Gordon, until it felt right to them to go after him.”
“I saw that dynamic at work once in Atlanta,” he admitted. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, just that we need to get—”
“Proof. I know.” I grinned at him. “That’s why I channel Annie Laurance Darling or Stephanie Plum when I’m investigating, rather than Jane Rizzoli or some other cop who has to be all hung up on proving things in court.”
He rolled his eyes and made shooing motions. “Go. I have to give a talk to a middle school class about the joys of serving the community as a police officer. Maybe I’ll channel T. J. Hooker.”
I stuck my tongue out, blew him a kiss, and left in a better mood than I’d been in for a week. I knew that if Hart looked into Anita and Foster’s story, it would unravel and he’d find the proof that they had killed Gordon. Derek would be freed, I would no longer have to bartend, and life would go back to normal.
• • •
I needed a distraction that night, and the bachelorette party I was in charge of was just the ticket. It was for a sorority sister of Brooke’s and was being held at another friend’s house. I’d ordered the custom invitations for fifty of the bride’s closest friends, coordinated with the caterer and the party-supplies rental company, ordered party favors for the attendees, planned games, and, yes, booked a male stripper. The hostess, a thin blonde who still looked like she could be living in the Kappa Delta house at CSU, had insisted that she wanted a “tasteful” stripper. “Good-looking and built, of course,” she’d said, “and a good dancer, but nothing dirty. Tasteful.”
“Of course,” I’d said, nodding as if that made sense. It made as much sense as painting the town’s gazebo pink. I’d immediately called Tom Smith, whose stage name was Raven, and booked him. He was my go-to guy for parties of this nature; he was reliable, had a wide repertoire of numbers ranging from cop to doctor to cowboy to Tarzan, and was smokin’ hot. He wasn’t shy, like Derek, about strutting his stuff in front of strange women. Also, he had a sense of humor, which I appreciated even if my clients were more appreciative of his other—ahem—assets.
Brooke waved to me when she came in, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to her until after the women had giggled while playing the silly bridal games, tossed out bawdy remarks worthy of a Hangover movie while opening the presents (all lingerie somewhere on the scale from tasteful to hooker), eaten, and consumed an entire case of champagne. When the doorbell rang and Raven entered to hoots and catcalls in his fireman’s outfit, Brooke managed to draw me aside.
Beside the horse sculpture in the entryway, she whispered, “There’s a girl who wants to meet us. Tuesday!”
It took me a moment to switch my brain from strippers to adoptions, but when I caught on I hugged her hard. “Oh, Brooke, I’m so happy for you.”
“It’s not a done deal,” she said, twirling a strand of hair. “She could decide she doesn’t like us, or find a couple she likes better, or decide to keep the baby.” I knew she was managing her own expectations more than mine. Raucous hoots and a loud rendition of “I’m Your Fireman” blasting from the living room made it hard to hear her.
“Still, it’s a start. A good sign.”
Her green eyes sparkled with hope. “Keep your fingers crossed, okay?”
“My toes, too,” I promised.
“And don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to be answering lots of questions about it, especially if it falls through.”
I mimed zipping my lips. She hugged me again with a little squeal. “This is it, A-Faye. I can just feel it.”
Someone called to her and she slipped back into the party. I gave Raven his check when he finished, standing on the front stoop while the partiers finished drinking themselves into a coma. Frat boys had nothing on thirty-year-old women freed from their toddlers and husbands for a night. The night air was pleasantly cool and three moths bumped the glass porch light. Raven was sweating from his exertions, and his long black hair was damp at the temples. He had the fireman’s jacket draped over his shoulders, so I could still admire his tanned and oiled six-pack and pecs. We talked about his day job as a piano tuner and how my business was going. I watched as he counted the ones and fives that had been tucked into his G-string. I’d supplied them, of course (after suggesting it to the maid of honor hosting the party and getting her approval to bill for it), in a Ziploc baggie, and passed them out before he arrived, so I knew he’d made something in the three-hundred-dollar ballpark. Not bad for half an hour’s work.
He kissed my cheek before he left. “When am I going to be dancing at your bachelorette party, Amy-Faye?” he asked, teasing.
“Not in this lifetime,” I said. Not because I was never getting married, but because I didn’t plan to be ogling other men on the eve of my wedding, or ever again, hopefully. My husband would be my one and only oglee.
“With all the business you’ve thrown my way, I’d do it for free. In fact”—he took a step closer until I could feel the heat coming off of him—“I’d dance for you privately, anytime.”
I flattened my palm on his rock-solid chest and pushed him back. “Sheena break up with you again?” I asked.
He shrugged and gave a “you caught me” smile. “Yeah. She says she’s done with me forever this time.”
I was unimpressed. “She said that the last three times, too. To everyone at the salon. I heard some of her clients were running a pool to guess when she’d take you back.”
Nodding, he said, “Yeah, that’s why I thought I’d put the moves on you quick, while I’m still unattached.”
Laughing, I pushed him off the stoop and said good night.
Chapter 23
I groaned and rolled over, burying my face in my pillow when my alarm went off at six o’clock the next morning. Saturdays were for sleeping in. Why, oh why, had I agreed to organize the Cherubim Glen community garage sale? Because the HOA president had asked me to and I foresaw a fair amount of business from future HOA functions and Cherubim Glen homeowners, I reminded myself. After dragging myself to the shower, I felt almost human when I emerged fifteen minutes later. I snagged a boiled egg from the fridge and a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and snarfed them down standing at the counter. Then I gathered my supplies and hit the road.
I’d actually enjoyed the garage sale challenge, right up until I had to roll out of bed before the early birds were patrolling for worms. This was the first one I’d been hired for, and I’d had fun contacting homeowners to see who wanted to participate, drawing up a map and having it printed, arranging advertising, suggesting parking and a shuttle from a nearby middle school so heavy traffic wouldn’t disturb shoppers walking from sale to sale, contacting local high schools to see if they had any clubs who wanted to make some money selling concessions on various street corners, hiring an off-duty cop to direct traffic, and more.
Cherubim Glen was a community of about a hundred homes and fifty patio homes located on the southwest corner of Heaven, not too far from the country club. It had its own landing strip, and some of the homeowners kept small planes parked out in back of their homes, as casually as I parked my van at the curb. Usually, a rolling gate barred entrance, but today it was wide-open, inviting shoppers and the merely curious into the exclusive enclave. I waved at the gate guard as I drove through and was relieved to see that many of the participants were already lugging stuff from their houses to their driveways, as I’d recommended. The sale was set to start at seven. I recognized Axie Paget with three friends, busy setting up a baked goods concession on one side of the most traveled intersection. I gave her a thumbs-up and she grinned. I made a menta
l note to stop by later, buy some cookies, and ask if she was interested in working for me a few hours a week.
The HOA president, a retired admiral, lived in a four-thousand-square-foot home he called a “cottage.” It was built to resemble an Adirondacks lodge and was decorated in what I thought of as “early-modern Hemingway,” with animal or fish trophies on every wall. Notwithstanding his penchant for killing any critter that swam, snarled, or had antlers or horns, Admiral Beaubridge was a nice guy who volunteered at the library and the hospital, and turned his powerful leadership abilities to many town projects. He had hired me with the approval of his HOA board, given me an idea of the kind of event he wanted, and left me to it. My kind of client. He awaited me on his porch, hands on hips, looking like a fireplug in a crisp white shirt and khaki slacks that managed to suggest the uniform he had given up twenty years earlier. Iron gray hair was slicked back from a high forehead, making his Roman nose even more prominent. I always got the urge to hum “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General” when I spent time with him.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Miss Johnson,” he called. “Lovely day for a tag sale.”
“Good morning, Admiral,” I answered, smiling. “I think we’re all set.”
“Come aboard, come aboard,” he invited, gesturing me inside. “Coffee’s on. You can brief me once we’ve been properly fortified.”
Gratefully sipping his superb coffee in a kitchen that was, of course, shipshape, I briefed him on all the arrangements.
“Excellent work, excellent work,” he said, beaming. “You’d have made an outstanding executive officer.”
The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle Page 20