“Yes, Celia talked to me yesterday,” Brad replied. “Not sure I’d call it an interview, exactly. More like an accusation.”
“Sounds familiar,” I said.
We’d crossed the street and were now walking north on Fate Street. We weren’t far now from the Lucky Dog, but I didn’t want to end this conversation.
Accordingly, I added, “Look, you already know I’m considered one of the top suspects. Maybe the top suspect.” I half waited for him to say something acknowledging this, but then went on. “Flora damaged your shop, too. If I go there now, can you show me what she did and where? I assume you’ve fixed it up by now, but I’m still trying to learn all I can in case it somehow helps me to clear myself.”
“Sure, come on,” he said, not sounding at all thrilled about the idea. As a result, Pluckie and I crossed Destiny Boulevard with him.
“How long ago did she vandalize your place?” I continued. No one crossed with us, so I wasn’t too concerned about any eavesdropping.
“A couple of weeks,” Brad said.
“Oh, then your wife was still in town then?”
“No, she and the kids left before that.”
“Then your poor mother-in-law has been ill for a long time. That’s a shame.”
He came up with another “Mmm-hmmm.”
We reached the Wish-on-a-Star shop and its quaint Gold Rush architecture. I recalled having wished on the display in the front window right after I’d reached Destiny a few months earlier—a large star-shaped light that zoomed across the top of the window like a shooting star. The window also displayed good-luck-themed children’s items, mainly toys and clothes.
I considered stopping to wish on the star again, just in case it actually did produce good results—like getting an innocent person out of the spotlight of being a murder suspect. Previously, I’d wished on it to help me make the decision about whether to stay in Destiny. I’d decided to stay, and until recently I’d believed it had been the right decision.
Not so much now.
Instead, I decided I’d better try to ask Brad my last question, since talking in front of his staff wouldn’t be a good idea. “Just one thing,” I said to him, maneuvering a bit so I stood in front of him at the door. “I’ll want you to point out what Flora did, like I said. But I’m also trying to figure out why she chose only particular shops to vandalize. Had you met her before?”
He glared at me, then looked down at the bag of food in his hand and back up at my face, clearly trying to convey that he wanted to get inside and feed his staff. But I just stood there, an expectant smile on my face. Or maybe, in fact, it was just a hopeful smile. He might choose not to respond.
“Sure I’d met her,” he said after another beat. “She came to my shop in her real estate guise, trying to get me to list this property with her. Of course I said no. Wish-on-a-Star isn’t for sale, period. I assumed, when she admitted she was the person who’d trashed the place, that that was the reason why—revenge for my not wanting to sell it and give her a commission.”
That made sense, I figured. Or as much sense as anything else about why Flora chose to exact her revenge on some shopowners in Destiny but not others.
“I see,” I said. When I moved out of the way, he held the door open for Pluckie and me.
There were only a few customers in the shop and none of them appeared ready to decide what they wanted. They browsed along shelves that, like mine, held a variety of toys, but unlike mine had games and many kinds of clothing—all for kids. Brad distributed the sandwiches and wishbones to his helpers, a guy and girl who both appeared college-aged. Maybe they were here visiting Destiny to do research for school papers and happened to want jobs while they were in town. Or maybe they’d just fallen in love with the place and decided to move here. Or maybe none of the above; I might just be allowing my imagination to run wild.
When the assistants walked off behind some of the tall shelves, most likely to eat their lunches, I looked at Brad. “Tell me about the vandalism,” I said, and he did. Some of the wooden shelves had been thrown to the floor, scattering children’s toys such as several board games of tic-tac-toe, where the pieces to be placed on the board consisted of green shamrocks and white horseshoes.
“They were all salvageable, fortunately,” Brad said. “So were the T-shirts and luck-themed baseball caps, which were tossed all over the place.”
“And was anything unlucky left on the floor?”
“Yes.” It turned out to be the standard broken mirror pieces and salt.
“Did you have any idea, at first, who did it?” I couldn’t help asking.
“If what you really want to know is whether I killed Flora for doing it, do you think I would tell you that?” His expression looked both wry and irritated.
“I think that would be a no,” I said, and he nodded.
Twenty-Four
I didn’t stay much longer in Wish-on-a-Star. I’d gotten what I needed to—more knowledge about the damage Flora had inflicted and why she might have chosen Brad’s shop.
Although trashing it because she wasn’t hired to sell it seemed a bit much, so did her apparent reason for vandalizing the other shops. The fact that I’d told the cops about a threat she’d made against Destiny was evidently her reason for hating me at the end, according to her tirade, but why had she hated me before? Just because I didn’t want to buy or lease property she represented? And what about everyone else? Because she blamed them for not changing her luck a year ago? Just how had she expected them to do that, even though this was Destiny?
Had she simply been crazy?
No matter. She was dead, the victim of a homicide, and someone needed to pay for that.
The guilty party, whoever that might be. Not me.
I sighed as I rearranged the bag of food in my hand and opened the door to the Lucky Dog. I let Pluckie enter ahead of me.
The place was busy, which made me smile. Everyone—Martha, Jeri, and Millie—were all waiting on customers who were mostly accompanied by dogs, and there were others who appeared as though they, too, might need help. I hurried to put the bag on the counter. I’d jump in and take care of at least one of these people right away.
Later, we might need to take turns eating our lunches.
The person nearest the door was an older gentleman holding a Jack Russell Terrier. My first, silent reaction was to wonder whether this older gentleman had enough energy to keep up with a Jack Russell. On the other hand, they were together and I’d no reason to believe they weren’t compatible, especially when the dog saw me looking at him and wagged his tail.
Pluckie, who stayed at my side, started to stand on her hind legs to greet the other dog. I didn’t know what the man might think about that so I said, “Sit, Pluckie.”
“Cute dog,” he said. Then, grinning at me, he continued. “So tell me what superstitions there are about dogs. Is my dog lucky or unlucky? If she’s unlucky, what can I buy her here to change that?”
“For one thing, black dogs are lucky, and those with white on them, like my Pluckie, are particularly good luck if you’re on your way to a business meeting.”
“Well, I suspect the same goes for white-and-brown dogs like mine,” the man said. “I’m in the tech industry and take Wiffle to work with me, and I have to say I’m pretty lucky.”
“Wonderful!” I said, and I meant it. That indicated he might have a lot of money to spend on stuff for his beloved Wiffle.
And in fact, Wiffle got a new collar and leash, both decorated with outlines of crossed fingers, as well as a variety of fun toys—including one of my Richy the Rabbits. I proudly told the customer that these were new and that I’d designed them.
I didn’t mention that one had been left at a crime scene in a compromising position.
They soon left, with Wiffle wearing his new collar and leash and walking proudly beside the
man. I’d already hooked Pluckie to the counter, so I was ready to help the next customer, and there still were enough of them that I didn’t want to break for lunch.
I had urged Martha to head upstairs to eat, though, and Millie had gone with her, carrying their sandwiches and wishbones and leaving Jeri to help me in the shop for now.
When Millie returned a while later, I figured it was time to let Jeri go eat—but then I noticed who was walking in the door.
I certainly hadn’t anticipated Celia Vardox coming here. She rarely did, and now that she and I were sort of conspiring together in an attempt to find Flora’s killer, I definitely didn’t want us seen together.
She must have anticipated that. She made her way around the nearest shelves and the customers oohing and aahing over some more cute dog toys and approached me.
“Hi, Rory,” she said stiffly. “I’d like to ask you a few questions regarding some matters that have gone on around here.”
“You want to interview me for a story?” I asked incredulously.
Glancing around, she seemed to make sure no one was close to us and gave a quick wink. “That’s right.” She wore a long blue dress today that was belted at the waist and, as always, held a pad of paper and a pen. The edge of a tablet computer extended from a pocket in the bag she carried over her shoulder. If she wasn’t here in her usual role of reporter, she certainly was giving that impression.
“Well … ” I began.
It turned out that Jeri wasn’t very far away. She must have overheard Celia’s request for an interview and sidled up to me. “Not a good idea,” she sang very softly.
“I get it,” I murmured back. “But—” I looked at Celia. “Look, I can guess what you want to ask me, and the answer is no.” I scanned the area near us.
She followed my lead. “I’m not about to accuse you of a crime, Rory. I simply want your perspective on some information I’ve gotten from our police department.”
Her grin told me what this would be about if she were actually serious: Could I prove that I didn’t kill Flora, since they were certain I had?
Okay, if I was right about things, she was joking. But whatever her real reason for coming here, I did need to talk to her. Had any of her probing interviews given her enough knowledge, maybe even evidence, for us to start going after one particular person?
Or was she simply getting frustrated with what we’d been up to and wanting to either rev it up—or tone it down?
Whichever, I needed to find out.
A few minutes later we sat in the back storeroom on a couple of folding chairs near the card table, which was laden with merchandise that hadn’t yet been shelved in the store for sale. We huddled close together as if we’d previously agreed on how to proceed with this conversation, which we hadn’t.
“So what’s up, Celia?” I asked softly.
She leaned even closer toward me, close enough that I figured if I inhaled deeply I might be able to figure out what she’d had for lunch. I didn’t, of course, although I did sense some soft floral cologne.
“I just want you to fill me in on what you’ve learned so far,” she said.
“Sure, if you’ll do the same for me.”
We both seemed to hesitate for a few moments, as if neither wanted to go first. A silly kind of standoff, I thought. We were aiming for the same goal, even if it was for different reasons. And we’d already discussed how to work together.
It even seemed to be succeeding … didn’t it?
“I’ve spoken with most of the people we’ve talked about, and probably even more than you’ve interviewed,” I began. “The ones who have talked with you seemed to feel you were accusing them of murder.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Celia interrupted, an expression of satisfaction on her attractive and perceptive face.
“Exactly. And it’s been working out pretty well. I’m commiserating with them, since we’re supposedly in the same position—being accused by you. Lots of empathy in those conversations. I’d like to get your impressions on a couple of them, actually.”
“That’s nice. But here’s what I really want to know.” Celia leaned even closer toward me. “Are you zeroing in on any particular person as the most likely killer yet? I’d love to focus on that person, do a surreptitious background check, then be ready to pounce with a great reveal-all article”—at my glare, she backed down just a little—“but only when you and I agree. Or,” she added with more of a conniving cat’s smile, “when it’s clear the cops are ready to make an arrest.”
“And you have a contact at the department who’ll let you know that?” It wouldn’t be Justin, I was sure of that. But he might want to know who on his staff Celia could be referring to.
She was too smart to make that revelation. “Well, sure, I’ve got a few connections,” she said, the epitome of innocence in her slight grin.
Was it true? And if so, who was she alluding to?
And should I at least hint about it to Justin?
Not yet. Maybe not at all. I didn’t have enough to go on, even for this.
And what if Celia was just exaggerating, or simply trying to fool me about her insider access to the police department? Or perhaps indulging in wishful thinking?
Well, I’d play along for now, act as if I fully believed her.
“Great!” I said. “Please let me know when one or more of the cops tells you I’m finally about to be let off the hook—which is the correct result of all this, of course.”
“Of course.” But her tone was wry, as if she was humoring me.
Was that what this was all about for her—a way to stay close enough to me to check out how I was doing and keep tabs on when I’d actually be arrested? Horror flowed through me, but I quickly got it under control. I needed to continue as if all was well between us and we were actually making progress to clear my name.
In fact, that still appeared to be a good potential outcome of our inquiries.
“In the meantime, though,” Celia continued, “I’d really like to know what your thoughts are. Who you’re really suspicious of at this point.”
I wasn’t about to tell her that now. “Not sure,” I said. “I haven’t really zeroed in on any of them. Nor have I eliminated any.” I didn’t choose to share that the person on the list with the worst attitude was John O’Rourke of Wishbones-to-Go, or that he was my number one suspect because of it. I wasn’t even about to tell her the order in which I was considering people as viable suspects.
“That’s too bad,” she said. “Even so, I’d like your thoughts on each of them.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Okay, I’ll tell you, but I’ll want to hear your suspicions, too. Maybe we should both write down who we think is most likely to have done it.”
Celia’s expression changed from innocent and interested to disgusted. “I don’t think we’re going to get over this ‘you show me yours, then I’ll show you mine’ mentality, are we?”
I shrugged. “Maybe not.”
“Wonderful. Well, are there any people on our list that you haven’t talked to yet?”
“I don’t think so. Are there any new suspects you’ve added to our list?”
“Nope.” She didn’t elaborate on her response and I believed her … kind of.
I sighed. “Okay, here are the people I’ve talked to so far, each the day after you confronted them.” I pondered the order for a moment, then told how yesterday I’d pretended to sympathize with Padraic Hassler of the Shamrock Steakhouse, and today I’d met with Kiara Mardeer of Heads-Up Penny Gift Shop, John O’Rourke of Wishbones-to-Go, and Brad Nereida of Wish-On-A-Star Children’s Shop. I didn’t mention Serina of the Rainbow B&B or Carolyn Innes of Buttons of Fortune, partly because they were my friends, but also because Celia hadn’t had them on her list to interview. I’d spoken with them more informally than the
others, or at least that’s the way I considered it.
“So who do you think is guilty?” Celia’s expression was once more the picture of innocence.
“Why don’t you tell me your thoughts about it first?” I said.
She laughed. “Okay, Rory,” she said. “We already went through all of this when we decided to work together, didn’t we? Well, I can tell you this: so far, no one seems to stand out to me as being the clear guilty party. Their attitudes were similar about not really wanting to go on the record in an article I was writing, but they all denied doing anything to Flora no matter how angry they might have been with her.” She paused. “And they got angry with me for pushing them, which actually was fun.”
“It certainly seemed to encourage them to talk to me,” I said. “Although part of that appeared to not entirely be sympathy, but maybe attempts to get me to reveal things to them.”
“Like admit you did it?” Celia grinned.
“Right,” I agreed glumly.
“Okay. I’m not sure any of this is actually getting us anywhere,” she said.
“I’m not sure either.”
Even though our conversation hadn’t led to anything I could pursue as evidence, at least not yet, I figured it would be good to complete this non-investigation of everyone we deemed possible suspects, and then decide what to do after that.
Perhaps I would even share whatever suspicions I had, so that Celia could use her media resources to push a bit harder for the truth.
“Well,” Celia said, “I’m planning to go grab some coffee early tomorrow at Beware-of-Bubbles, when both Marypat and Dan Dresdan are likely to be there. I’ll put my pushiest and most accusatory demeanor on and see where that gets us.”
“And I’m sure I’m going to need a cup of coffee soon after so I can ask how they’re doing,” I said.
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