by Anna Castle
So then I told them about how I’d confessed the whole thing to Ty and how he was going to put one of his experts on the job, as soon as he could. I told them about the Japanese moguls and the broken demo being the reasons why he hadn’t already gotten it done. I wished this was a normal week for Ty, so I could call him and let him call the sheriff and explain all this technical stuff in ways that didn’t rely so much on words like ‘thingamabob.’ But he was probably in the middle of a digital shitstorm right now. I was having a frustrating conversation; hardly a matter of life and death. Not for me, anyway. A few more minutes and it would be over.
I left out the part about sneaking into Greg’s office Monday night, although the drugged cookies could support my theory about Jim’s death. On the other hand, Finley might have eaten some of those cookies, too. I couldn’t tell that part without bringing Krystle into it as another blackmailee. Besides, they might arrest both of us for breaking and entering.
The sheriff scratched his chin, looking skeptical. He glanced at Finley, who raised his eyebrows and gave a tiny shrug. “And you say Greg Alexander was blackmailing pretty much everybody in Long County?”
“I don’t know about everybody—”
“Was he blackmailing you, Deputy Finley?” The sheriff put a chuckle under it.
Finley treated himself to a smile. “No, sir. Not that I noticed, anyhow.”
I glared at him. He ignored me.
Sheriff Hopper said, “I know everything that goes on in this county, Penny, and this is the first I’ve heard of any blackmailing scheme.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. “Maybe you were the only one being blackmailed, or feeling like you were. Maybe it was a little lover’s tiff that got out of hand.”
“Lovers!” I practically gagged. “No, no, no. Sheriff, I did not kill Greg Alexander. I hated the guy, yes, but I wanted to watch him get arrested, not watch him die.” I really hadn’t wanted to see what I’d seen. I hoped I never saw anything like that again.
The sheriff’s eyes were unreadable. “I’m afraid this just doesn’t sound very plausible, Penny. But then I don’t know how any of this Internet stuff works, do you, Finley?”
“No, sir. It’s Greek to me.”
“Me, too,” I said. “But not to Ty, Ty’s an expert. He’ll figure it out.”
The sheriff said, “And I will surely have a conversation with Tyler real soon. ’Course, even if your story checks out, there’s nobody left to prosecute for this supposed blackmail.”
“Oh, yeah.” I felt quashed. “But blackmail is the reason, Sheriff. It must be.”
“I appreciate your input, Penny. I think that’ll do it for now.”
The sheriff started to get up, but somebody rapped twice on the door and then opened it. Another deputy filled the doorway. “Sheriff, I think we got something, pushed down at the bottom of the trash can in the kitchen. Thought you’d want to see it right away.”
He had a clear plastic bag in his hand with a flat package inside it. I recognized the distinctive red, white, and black label: Pyrocat developer. My favorite for those ultra-sexy black-and-white photographs.
“That’s mine!”
All heads turned toward me.
“I mean, it looks like mine. I mean, I use that kind of developer. I have packages like that in my darkroom.”
The sheriff reached out a hand and the deputy passed him the bag. He turned it over, reading the label. “‘Pyrocat-HD. A semi-compensating high-definition developer. Contains Pyrocatechin.’ Then a boatload of warnings about toxicity. What the dickens is this?”
“It’s film developer,” I said. “For black-and-white film. It’s great stuff. It really brings out the edge effects, gives you a nice grain structure…”
Three law officers stared at me with stony faces. Possibly not the best time for a darkroom lesson.
Chapter 27
The sheriff regarded me with a stern frown. “How did your photography chemicals get into Greg Alexander’s wastebasket?”
“I don’t know. I swear I don’t. I don’t even know for sure that package is mine. Other people do photography. You can buy that stuff on the Internet. That’s where I get it.”
“There’s that old Internet again.”
“Well, I can’t help that part.” More likely, Greg’s killer had stolen the developer from my darkroom in a deliberate attempt to frame me.
So far, it seemed to be working.
Sheriff Hopper twisted stiffly in the general direction of the second deputy. His well-padded frame was not very bendable. “Get on the horn to Doc Ladsworth and read him the label on that package. He might be able to tell right off if that’s what did the trick. And we’re going to want to send that package and the bottle to Austin with the body, so get on that and be ready when the Doc tells you.”
“Yes, sir,” the deputy said.
The sheriff shifted himself back square with the table. “We’re going to have to trace that packet, Penny. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Seems to me the first place we ought to look is right across the square there in your studio. What do you think?”
“I think you’re right.” I held his gaze. “I didn’t kill Greg and I don’t have anything to hide. Y’all can turn my studio inside out, if you want.”
“Thank you. Things go easier with the owner’s full cooperation.”
“I’m cooperating.” Was it stupid to be so cooperative? Maybe I should call Marion, except she would tell me to cooperate. “The thing is, sir, that you’re probably going to find out those chemicals did come from my darkroom. I don’t think anyone else in town develops their own film. At least, nobody’s ever come by to say howdy and talk about photography and you’d think they would if they did, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would.” Sheriff Hopper had followed that contorted sentence like a bloodhound. “What do you say we hop on over there and have a little look-see?”
Off we hopped. Someone had brought my truck from Greg’s office and parked it in the lot behind the law enforcement center. Sgt. Garza handed me the keys on our way out. Finley rode with me to make sure I didn’t race ahead, tires squealing, to dash into my studio and tamper with critical evidence. The sheriff and the other deputy drove the three blocks around the square in separate vehicles.
Small wonder the globe is getting warmer.
I parked in back like I always do, leaving the sheriff and the other deputy cooling their heels on the sidewalk while Finley and I walked through to the front. That was slightly passive-aggressive, but it helped me feel a morsel of control over the situation. An illusion, absolutely, but illusions have their place in our lives.
The sheriff introduced me to the other deputy, a fellow named Lester Millhouse. He was carrying a large metal case that I supposed contained his evidence-gathering equipment. I ushered them down the back hall, pointing out the changing room and the bathroom as we passed. I flicked on the bright overhead light as I walked in to the darkroom, then turned and spread my arms wide. “Welcome to my darkroom, gentlemen. As you can see, it’s quite the handy workspace. Over there is my enlarger, I beg you not to touch it. Here we have the sink, the paper safe, trays and storage bottles and so forth are under here. And, last but not least, the chemicals are in there.” I pointed to the cupboard set high over the double sink.
“No lock on it,” Finley commented.
“Why would I lock it? I’m the only one that’s ever in here.”
“You get a lot of visitors, though,” the sheriff said. “Clients and whatnot. Lot of folks at that wake on Saturday night.”
“Yes, sir, that’s true. But that cupboard is too high for kids. And why would anybody want to mess with stinky darkroom chemicals?”
They gave me those stony looks again.
“Well,” I said, “except for that.”
Chapter 28
I spent the better part of an hour after they left cleaning icky black powder out of my former
ly sparkling darkroom. There was cursing. Harsh names were directed at elected officials and members of their staff.
They hadn’t found anything, of course. Explaining that I’d scrubbed the whole studio with bleach only earned me more stony looks. The looks were not softened by my explanation that my father was an Army doctor and I always splashed a little bleach into my mop buckets. Had they never heard of these things called ‘viruses?’
The sheriff cautioned me not to leave town. No problem there: where would I go? Everything I had was here. I’d sunk my life savings into setting up this studio, including what I got from selling my gently used Kia Sportage and the bit of cash left over from settling Aunt Sophie’s estate. I had an emergency fund to keep me warm and fed for one year. After that, I had to earn my keep like any other hardworking artista. Besides, this was my dream, the life I had planned and built for myself. Was I going to run away from my dream because of a little bad patch?
Since I knew I had not killed Greg, I was confident the authorities would soon be aiming their hard looks at someone else. I was clean, both literally and metaphorically. Bad guys always leave hairs and buttons and unique brands of cigarette ash lying around. Failing that, they’d probably be able to trace the OxyContin that killed Jim.
I wasn’t really worried, but I wished I could talk to somebody who could help me get a grip on this whole weird day. Somebody like Ty, for choice. I suited deed to thought and punched in his code. His phone sent me straight to voicemail. While it was comforting to hear his rumbly basso drawling, “I’ll return your call as soon as I can,” it did not satisfy my wish for a confidante. I left a generic message: “Checking in, hope all is well.” I knew he would interpret that as a nudge to work on my problem or a plea to hurry up and forgive me, but I couldn’t bring myself to lay it on any thicker to an answer box.
I could call my brother Nick, but he would be so amused about me being the one in trouble with the law for a change that I wouldn’t get any clarity out of the conversation. I could call my baby sister Katie, except her husband had been posted to the Philippines this year and I had no idea what time it was in the South Pacific. Plus, who would call Katie for advice? I could call my folks — and wake them up — but I didn’t want to. I’d tell them, eventually, after everything got resolved. Maybe. If I talked to them now, my mom would go postal and my dad would start pouring out useless advice about dealing with the authorities.
I was always welcome at Marion’s house. Plenty of food in the fridge, a big comfy sofa, and two teenage boys to play video games with. But then I’d have to explain everything. Marion would relieve her worries by scolding me, which I was totally not in the mood for.
I needed somebody who already knew about the blackmail. Somebody in the same boat. Somebody who wouldn’t be freaked out by Greg’s murder, so we could talk the thing through without distracting reactions. Somebody like Krystle. I didn’t know where she lived, but she’d said she worked at the clinic. Maybe she was still there.
I hopped in the truck and drove out to the Long County Family Health Center. A gal in pink-flowered scrubs sat behind the information desk watching a miniature TV. Her name tag read Elaine Borden.
“I’m looking for Krystle Cameron,” I said.
“She works in the dispensary, but you just missed her.”
“Drat.” I gave her my most winsome smile. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where she lives.”
Elaine smiled winsomely back. “You could leave a message. She’ll get it first thing in the morning.”
I thought about trying a pout, but Elaine looked like she could out-pout me without missing one minute of Dr. Oz. “OK. Could you tell her Penelope Trigg was looking for her and would she please call me?”
“You’re Penelope Trigg? Omigod! The one they arrested for killing Greg Alexander?”
“What? Where did you hear that?”
“Judy Crumley was getting her hair cut before her shift and she said Barb McDowell came in and said she saw the sheriff put you into a squad car in handcuffs.”
“No. No handcuffs. They didn’t arrest me. They just wanted to take my statement at the station. I did not kill Greg.”
She nodded sympathetically. “Nobody blames you. Everybody hated that guy.” She looked right, then left, and then leaned forward over the counter, lowering her voice to a whisper “Did you get the files? It must be a flash drive, right? With all of our stuff on it?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again, like a fish still tasting the hook.
* * *
When I drove back down 331, I passed Krystle on her bicycle, pumping along at a respectable fifteen miles an hour. I did a 360 and caught up with her again, hollering through my passenger window. “We need to talk.”
She nodded and pedaled harder, turning into an empty parking lot. We hoisted her bike into the back of the truck and she directed me to her house. The sun was setting in front of us, a big orange ball on the horizon. Krystle lived in a small trailer on an unfenced half-acre lot at the western edge of town. It belonged to her aunt, who had moved to Lubbock to live with a guy she’d met at a livestock auction.
“It beats living with my folks again.” She gave me the ten-cent tour. More like a nickel, since the place only had one bedroom and a miniscule bath.
“Where’s Jason?”
“How would I know? I’ve been at work all day. He called and said there was something wrong with his stupid car, so maybe he’s doing something about that. Or not. I’m never going to get rid of the guy.” She opened the refrigerator, holding on to the door while she studied its contents. “Plus, he’s eaten everything.”
“I’ve got mountains of party leftovers at the studio.”
She closed the door and leaned against the fridge, eyes dancing with excitement. “Dude, you are way more serious than I would’ve thought. I can’t believe you killed him. I mean like, Whoa, Nellie! You’re totally dangerous!”
“I didn’t kill him!”
I told her the whole story, including the part about Art Gone Bad and showing Ty the picture. I tried to keep it light, but she winced, feeling my pain. Then she made a yuck face when I got to the part about Greg. “Yeah, watching a man die of poisoned mezcal is not pleasant, believe me. Also, that’s not how I wanted this to end.”
“It isn’t over. Not until we get that flash drive or whatever. The sixty-four thousand dollar question now is, who’s going to get those files?”
We held each other’s eyes for a long moment. Then I said, “We need a plan.”
“A plan with food, please. It’s been a long day. Your place?”
We were on our way out when the front door opened. Jason tripped over the top step and stumbled inside. “Hey, hey, Special K.” He sounded drunk.
“Oh, lovely. My guest has returned.” Krystle glared at him.
Jason made it all the way into the living room before noticing me. Granted, I was stealthily dressed in khaki cargo pants and an olive drab corduroy coat, a good outfit for prowling through the woods with a camera. At the moment, however, I was standing in an eight-by-ten living room done up in yellow and white stripes, which made him a shade slow on the uptake.
He nodded his unshaven chin at me. “I’ve seen you before. You were at that thing Saturday.”
Krystle waved a hand from me to him and back. “Jason, this is Penny. Penny, Jason.”
“Penny.” He nodded again. Then his eyes popped wide open. “Whoa, you mean, Penny? The chick that killed that guy today? They were all talking about it at the bar. One guy said the dead guy tried to rape you and you like broke a bottle and took half his face off.”
“No! No raping! No bottle! Or, OK, yes, there was a bottle, but it wasn’t broken and I didn’t kill anybody.” I scowled at Krystle. “Do I have to say it all again?”
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “You could make a flyer.”
I told him the story, keeping it short. I stumbled a little on the reason why I’d gone to talk to Greg, not s
ure if Jason knew about the blackmail business or not. But Krystle had slipped behind him and was waving both hands back and forth, mouthing No blackmail, No blackmail, like a lip-reading teacher, so I skipped ahead.
Jason didn’t seem to notice. He was not the noticing kind. Although I noticed he was wearing a plain gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. Married, was he? No wonder Krystle was so eager to get rid of him.
“They said you got arrested.” His lip curled in a sneer that would have been ironic if he hadn’t been so drunk. “Man, I guess it’s true what they say about these backwoods cops. It’s who you know. Are you like the sheriff’s daughter or something?”
“Of course not. They didn’t arrest me because I didn’t do it. I’m innocent.”
“Yeah, right,” he said. “I’d stick with the bottle fight version. More action. Too bad you didn’t get the video.”
Krystle was watching him the way you watch a giant cockroach crawling across the counter in the house of a person you distinctly do not like. She picked up her bag and tweaked my coat sleeve. “Leftovers?”
Chapter 29
We left Jason stranded in the trailer with nothing but a can of chili and beans. He wasn’t happy about it, but he was no match for Krystle in a snit.
“He could hitch a ride up to the Trick if he really wanted to,” she said. “Except I think he’s afraid of cowboys.”
The Hat Trick Saloon was Lost Hat’s all-purpose pool and dance hall. “Maybe he’s afraid he’ll catch Mad Cowboy Disease.” That didn’t even rate a chuckle.
We barely made it inside the back door before I was struck by a Tillie-shaped missile that wrapped its soft arms around me and sobbed onto my shoulder. She smelled like cocoa butter and mango shampoo. Muy tropical. “Penny! I thought I’d never see you again!”
“Tillie, Tillie, it’s OK. Everything’s OK. I wasn’t arrested and I didn’t kill anybody.” I sat down with her at the table and told the story all over again.