by BJ Bourg
“Nice try, detective.” She flashed that smile again. “Now, if you’ll give me a list of items you hope to find, I can either assure you I don’t have it or I can bring it out to you, just as I did with the insurance policy.”
“Is that your final answer?” I asked, smiling myself.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want you searching my house while my mom is here. That would just be embarrassing.”
I questioned her for about thirty minutes longer, pressing her a bit more on the information she’d provided, but I couldn’t detect a crack in her armor of a story. Finally, I thanked her for her time and left, wondering if she had indeed killed the man.
CHAPTER 20
I drove home for lunch, hoping to learn what information Susan had obtained about my family, but she waved me off because my mom was milling around. Susan’s mom was also there and the two mothers were hitting it off. Surprisingly, they were discussing plans for the wedding and a fistfight hadn’t broken out yet. It seemed they were all in agreement over the location, the date, the preacher, and the attendees. They also seemed to agree that I was only along for the ride. My new slogan was, “Yes, honey.”
“I’m getting spoiled,” Susan told me as I sat down to a plate of fried pork, rice, and potato salad. “Your mom insists on cooking—claims she loves it—and I can’t stop her from cleaning everything.”
“I do love it,” my mom called from the living room, where she and Susan’s mom, Lisa, were looking at wedding dresses. “I won’t want to go back home.”
“But you will,” I said under my breath.
Susan playfully socked my shoulder with her fist. “Be nice!”
As I ate, I went over the details of the case with her. “I’ve got three potential suspects—Chris Jenkins, Connie Taylor, and Brandy Lewis—but none of them stands out more than the others.”
“Didn’t y’all recover a pistol off of Chris Jenkins?”
I nodded and waited while I chewed on my food. Once I swallowed, I told her about his possible alibi. “I have to go to Old Man Pat’s this evening to see if his alibi checks out.”
“And if it does?”
I sighed. “Then the next best suspect would be Connie. She’s the only one who stood to gain something if he died, and she admitted to wanting him dead.”
“What would she get?”
“The bar and five hundred grand in life insurance money.”
Susan whistled. “That’s enough to put anyone’s life in danger.”
“Whose life is in danger?” my mom asked from the living room.
“No one.” I wanted to confront her again about my dad, but decided against it. She seemed really upset last night and I didn’t want to ruin our Thanksgiving visit.
Once I’d finished eating, I grabbed a few chunks of meat and walked out the back door, where Achilles was sitting in the shade of a tree. His ears had perked up long before he saw me and he sat at attention, watching me walk across the yard toward him. I could tell he wanted to jump up and rush over to me, but he was exercising restraint. It was almost as though he knew he would be rewarded for being patient.
“Come,” I said when I was halfway across the yard.
He yelped in excitement and rushed toward me, stopping and dropping to a seated position at my feet. I was always impressed with his stopping abilities. It often looked like he would crash right into me and knock both of us sprawling, but then he would dig in his heels and come to an abrupt stop mere inches from my legs.
I told him to shake. When he extended his paw up to my hand, I rewarded him with a piece of meat. He swallowed it without taking the time to chew it. I played with him for a few more minutes and then trudged back to the house, bummed that I couldn’t take him to work with me.
“Do you have to go back so early?” Susan asked. “It’s Sunday. You should take some time off and spend it with your mom while she’s here. Besides, Old Man Pat’s won’t be open until later.”
“I have to interview the other worker from the Corner Pub—some guy named Foster Blake—just to cover all the bases.” I shrugged. “He might know of some beef someone had with Mitch.”
“Or, he might be the killer,” my mom offered from the living room. “Why don’t you tell me about this case? I might be able to help.”
“I can’t discuss open investigations,” I explained.
“Excuse me?” She looked up from the wedding dress catalog and a frown fell across her face. “I heard you discussing it with Susan earlier.”
“She’s the chief of police,” I explained. “She gets to know everything that happens in town.”
“But what if she’s right?” Susan asked. “What if he is the killer?”
“He can’t be. His alibi is rock solid.”
“How’s that?”
“He was having an affair with the only other employee from the bar, Joyce Reynolds.”
“Maybe the dead guy was sleeping with this Joyce character, too,” my mom said. “You want to get two guys fighting, put a girl between them.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, waving. “I’ll keep that in mind as I’m questioning him.”
Susan kissed my cheek and entered the living room. “I’ll tell you about a major case we worked about a year ago,” she told my mom. “It’ll help pass the time while we look for the perfect wedding dress.”
“Just as long as it doesn’t involve you getting shot with an arrow or breaking your leg,” Lisa Wilson said from her perch next to my mom. “I don’t think I can tolerate hearing about any more violence directed toward my baby girl.”
CHAPTER 21
Lacy Court was on the western side of Main Street and a couple of miles from Paradise Place, so it didn’t take long for me to reach it. I cruised down the paved road and scanned both sides of the street, searching for the correct address. I finally found it and parked on the shoulder. The driveway was crowded and it looked as though they were also entertaining company for the Thanksgiving holidays.
I approached the two-story, barn-style home and knocked on the door. An elderly man answered and I asked if he was Foster Blake.
“No, sir, I’m Desmond.” The man stuck out a thin hand that trembled slightly. “I’m just visiting, but I can get Foster’s wife for you.”
I thanked him and waited. There was some shuffling from inside and then a woman wearing an apron over tights and a T-shirt answered the door. She glanced down at my badge and then out to my unmarked Tahoe, and her eyes widened.
“Oh, God, what is it? Is it Foster? Is he…is he okay?”
“I’m here looking to speak with him,” I said. “I have some questions about an incident down at the bar that took place Friday night.”
The woman’s shoulders drooped in relief. “Thank God! I thought something terrible had happened.”
“Why would you think that?” I asked.
“We got into an argument and he left.” She waved a wooden cooking spoon in the air. “Just regular family stuff, you know? Well, maybe not so regular, but it is what it is. Anyway, he told me he would be sleeping in a motel for a couple of days, so when I saw you, I was worried something bad had happened to him. You know how people get depressed sometimes and want to hurt themselves around the holidays.”
I nodded, remembering what Joyce had told me about them separating. “So, I take it you’re his wife?”
“Oh, yes, forgive my manners.” She switched the spoon to her left hand and held out her right one. “Pearly Blake. I am his wife.”
I was mildly curious about the family dustup that had taken place, but figured it wasn’t my business, so I didn’t ask about it.
“Would you know what motel he’s staying in?” I asked.
“No, but I can give you his cell phone number.”
I didn’t like alerting people that I was looking for them, but I took his number anyway and thanked her for her time. As I walked back to my Tahoe, I called Joyce Reynolds. When she answered, I asked for the name of the motel where she and Fo
ster had rented a room.
“Why do you need to know that?” she asked. “Is there a problem?”
“I need to interview Foster—same as I did with you—but his wife said he’s still at the motel.”
“He stayed there?” Joyce sounded surprised. “He hasn’t been home since Friday?”
“That’s what she said. So, which motel was it?”
She gave me the name of the motel and I headed toward Magnolia Parish. I’d always operated off the belief that one witness leads to another, who leads to another, and so on, until it leads to the suspect. I sure hoped Foster Blake would be the witness who led to the suspect, because if Chris Jenkins’ gun didn’t match the bullet and casing I’d recovered, I was out of luck…and out of suspects.
As I drove, my mind wandered to the information Susan had found on my dad. We couldn’t talk about it over lunch because my mom was around, but the curiosity was killing me. I wondered how reliable it would prove to be. Would the information lead to my dad, or would it lead to a dead end like the leads in this case?
Impatient, I pulled out my cell and rang Susan’s phone. When she answered, I asked if she could talk.
“Hey, Clint, we think we found the perfect wedding dress.” I could hear my mom’s voice in the background asking if that was me on the phone. Susan said it was and then asked me what time I thought I’d be getting home this afternoon.
Grumbling to myself, I told her I didn’t know and ended the call. I was starting to consider renting a motel room for Susan and me to live in until Thanksgiving so we could have a bit of privacy. We hadn’t even been able to have sex since my mom arrived, because Susan was worried she would hear us.
I loved my mom and was happy we’d reconnected, but I was about to sit her down and interrogate her. I wanted answers and I wanted them sooner rather than later…and I also wanted to make love to my fiancée again, so Thanksgiving needed to hurry and get here.
CHAPTER 22
I found Foster Blake in Room 224, just as Joyce had described. He answered the door wearing boxers, an oversized T-shirt, and dark sunglasses. He must’ve weighed 350 pounds and was a little shorter than me. Had I not run his name earlier and learned he was forty-three, I would’ve guessed him to be in his early fifties.
I extended my hand. “Clint Wolf. I’m a detective from Mechant Loup and I’m investigating the murder of your boss, Mitch Taylor.”
Foster frowned. “Yeah, I got a call about it. That’s messed up. He was a good friend and a good employer.”
When Foster turned his head briefly, I could see around the side of his glasses and saw a bruise on his left eye. There was also an abrasion on the bridge of his nose. It looked like he’d been in a fight.
He opened the door wider. “Come on in. I’ll put on some clothes and be right out.”
While he walked toward the bathroom, I picked my way through the empty beer bottles and cardboard pizza boxes that littered the floor and took a seat in one of the chairs near a small table. I repositioned the chair to face the bathroom and I kept my gun hand near my pistol as I waited. For all I knew, he could’ve killed Mitch.
I surveyed the room while Foster bustled about the bathroom. His clothes were strewn all over the floor and the place smelled like stale sweat and vomit. I didn’t know what had happened out at his house, but it must’ve been really bad to drive him to want to stay in this depressing little dump.
I looked up when the door to the bathroom opened and carefully watched as Foster lumbered toward me. He still wore the same shirt, but he had pulled on an oversized pair of dirty sweat pants. He also removed his glasses and I whistled when I saw his raccoon eyes and the gash between them.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“A disagreement out at the house.” He waved his hand around the room. “That’s why I’m spending Thanksgiving here. It’s better than being around evil in-laws.”
“What was the disagreement about?” I asked in a matter-of-fact tone, trying not to sound as curious as I was.
“Nothing important.” He shuffled some boxes around on the table and found one with a slice of pizza still inside. He grabbed it and took a bite, then mumbled, “Want some?”
“No thanks.” I waited until he swallowed. “What can you tell me about Mitch Taylor?”
“He was a nice fellow. Such a good boss, you know? He’d let me take off whenever I wanted to and he’d still pay me my base rate. I missed out on tips, but he always made my hourly wage good.” He took another bite and continued, talking around his food. “I moved down here about five years ago and no one would give me a job. I went in the Corner Pub one day to get a drink and we got to talking and I told him I was having a hard time finding work.” He snapped his fingers. “He agreed to hire me on the spot. Told me I could start the next day.”
“Have there been any problems out at the bar lately? Drunks who had to be thrown out, fights broken up…things like that?”
He shook his head. “We’re usually busy around the holidays, but we don’t have much trouble. Everyone’s usually happy around this time of the year.”
I pointed to his nose and took a second stab at it. “Someone wasn’t happy with you.”
“That’s old news.” He swallowed the last of the pizza and searched through the pile of boxes on the table for more. Thankfully, there was none.
“What do you know about his wife, Connie?”
Foster shrugged. “She’s bossy and controlling. At least, that’s what Mitch used to say before he left her. Said she was always trying to tell him how to spend his money.”
“Has she ever threatened him?”
“I don’t know. Not in front of me.”
“Was Mitch seeing anyone else?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’s dating this girl named Brandy Lewis. They’ve been together for a couple of years now. I know they broke up a while back, but they got right back together.”
“Do you know of any reason Brandy would have for wanting him dead?”
“Oh, no, she loves him. I called her earlier today to see how she was doing and she’s still all tore up about it.”
Considering she’d only found out about Mitch’s murder yesterday morning, I would’ve expected her to still be “tore up”. Anything less would’ve raised some red flags.
I pointed at Foster. “So, what about you? Would you have any reason to want Mitch dead?”
His eyes widened. “No way! How does that saying go? That would be like shooting myself in the foot. I don’t have a job now. I don’t know how I’m going to pay my rent or buy food or pay the insurance on my truck.” He shook his head. “I’m screwed.”
“Where were you Friday?”
“I was here.”
“What time did you get here?”
“It had to be early in the afternoon.”
“Did you leave here at all Friday night or early Saturday morning?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t left since I got here. Well, except to walk to the corner to get more booze.”
“What about the pizza?”
“Delivery.”
I nodded and studied him. He seemed to be telling the truth so far, but it was time to test him. “Can anyone verify your whereabouts for Friday night and Saturday morning?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, was anyone here with you Friday night?”
He hesitated ever so slightly, then shook his head. “I was by myself.”
“All night?”
He nodded.
“Foster, did you kill Mitch Taylor?”
“No!” He shook his head violently from side to side. “I already told you I would never hurt him.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Positive.”
“Are you as sure about not killing Mitch as you are about being here alone?” I raised my hand to stop him before he could speak. “Before you answer that, I want you to know that lying about one is as good as lying about the other. If you lie abo
ut being here alone, I can’t believe you didn’t kill Mitch.” I pointed to him. “Now, go…”
Foster hesitated. “I mean, someone might’ve come over to see me.”
“And who would that have been?”
“A friend.”
“Does that friend have a name?”
“I…I don’t really want to get her involved.”
“She’s already involved,” I said. “Spill it.”
He stared down at his beefy hands. “Is this confidential?”
“Sure.”
He took a labored breath and then nodded. “Okay, her name’s Joyce. Joyce Reynolds. She was with me all night.”
“What’s the nature of your relationship with Joyce?”
“We were seeing each other.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “You won’t tell my wife, right? You said this was confidential.”
I shook my head. “I won’t tell your wife or her husband. That’s between the two of you.”
“Thank you!” He took a breath, but then froze. “Wait a minute—how’d you know she had a husband?”
“I already spoke to her.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms in front of my chest. This interview would lead me nowhere. I had hit a brick wall. My only hope was that we’d find a match on the pistol we recovered from Chris Jenkins. “Foster, was Mitch also sleeping with Joyce?”
“No…I mean, not that I know about.”
“If he’d been sleeping with her and you had found out about it, how would you have reacted?”
“I…I mean, I guess I wouldn’t have been happy, but I also wouldn’t go around shooting him.”
“Do you own a gun?”
“No, sir. Never.”
I nodded and stood to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “Hey, do you know Chris Jenkins?”
Foster shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“I didn’t think so,” I mumbled, digging one of my freshly-printed business cards from my pocket. “Well, if you hear anything or think of something you didn’t tell me, I’d appreciate you calling.”