by Anna Castle
“Flyers,” Krystle said. “You’ll have to tell this story a hundred times.”
Tillie said, “I was so worried. I locked up after you left and went to Dolly’s salon, but then Barb McDowell came in and told us the sheriff had taken you away and so I came back here because I thought you might call, you know, with your one phone call?”
“Thanks.” I reached out and squeezed her arm. “I appreciate the thought, but they didn’t get anywhere near the one phone call part. We talked, that’s all. Everything’s more or less fine.”
“Nothing’s going to be fine until we get those files.” Krystle opened the refrigerator. “Oh, dude, you were not kidding! We got us a feast. I wonder if there’s any of those stuffed mushrooms left?”
Tillie dashed out to the front desk to call her husband while we laid out the buffet. We decided the occasion called for the good dishes, so I stood on a chair to reach down three of my mint condition Flintstones glasses and some Fiestaware plates. We unwrapped foil packages and popped open plastic containers and set everything on the table. Krystle grabbed the mushrooms. Tillie went for the scalloped potatoes. I started building mini-Dagwood sandwiches out of sourdough, cheese squares, pickle relish, and other odds and ends. They were tricky to bite into, but very tasty. We munched in comfortable near-silence, chatting a little about the food and who had brought what.
After a while, Tillie said to me, “Were you scared?”
“When Greg died at my feet? Oh, yeah.” I swilled some fruit punch to wash away the memory of those horrible few moments. “That was gruesome in the extreme.”
Tillie and Krystle both shuddered. Tillie said, “I’m so sorry you had to be there. It must have been awful! But I meant later, with the sheriff. Was it scary to be interrogated?”
I pulled pieces together for another mini-sandwich while I thought about it. “At first I was, like, wait a minute: why are they putting me in this so-called consultation room if I’m not a suspect? But the sheriff was almost friendly. Well, not friendly, exactly. He didn’t believe me about the blackmail. But he didn’t grill me or act antagonistic or anything. He seemed more like, let’s all see if we can’t get to the bottom of this.” I wrinkled my nose at Krystle. “Deputy Finley was decidedly not helpful. I think he was deliberately undermining the blackmail story.”
“Sorry.” She frowned. “I wish I knew what he was up to.” She ate a carrot stick, chewing it as thoroughly as if auditioning for a carrot commercial.
Tillie said, “So, they don’t think you’re a suspect?”
“I don’t know if they do or they don’t.”
Krystle pointed a carrot stick at me. “You don’t seem very worried. Shouldn’t you at least be worried?”
I hummed a little and wobbled my hand in the yes-and-no gesture. “I’m not really the worrying kind. Plus, I’m innocent, which I think counts for a lot. And it shows: I’ve been cooperative, letting them dust my studio and everything. I’ve answered all their questions as well as I am able. And I haven’t yelped for a lawyer.”
“Bad guys always call for a lawyer first thing,” Tillie said. A fact gleaned from television, no doubt, but possibly based on true life.
“Besides,” I said, “how stupid would I have to be to use chemicals from my own darkroom? Poison only I would have, out of all the citizens of Lost Hat.” They shrugged, which was not the rousing cry of support I was hoping for. I narrowed my eyes at them. “Furthermore, why would I be on the spot if I knew what was coming? I could stay away and let Greg’s nature take its course, instead of putting myself in the middle of the scene at the critical moment, to make sure the authorities spotted me right off.”
Tillie and Krystle made pouty faces at each other, nodding their heads. “OK,” Krystle said. “That sounds pretty convincing. You really would have to be way stupider than you are.”
“Hey!”
She flapped her hands to erase the remark. “I meant, yes, you would have to be very stupid and you’re not stupid. You own your own business, Penny. You have a college degree.”
“And you don’t look stupid at all,” Tillie said. “The sheriff can probably see that.”
“Thank you!” This was more like it. “Personally, I think I look like someone who’s being framed, which is the opposite of a suspect.”
They nodded at that, too, but had nothing to contribute to that germ of an idea. I ate another mini-sandwich. The best thing to do was to hang tight, like Ty said, and wait for him to prove the blackmail. A couple of days, he’d said. More like three or four, I’d bet, but during that time the cops would be tracking down other kinds of clues. By the end of the week, the two would converge.
Except Ty couldn’t prove Greg had been blackmailing people; he could only prove there was a Trojan horse in the security suite. And the cops might not be looking in the right direction, especially with Finley waving them away from the truth.
“You’re not out of the woods, yet,” Krystle said, reading my mind. “Until they track down the other blackmailees, you’re still Suspect Number One, on the grounds that you’re all they’ve got.”
I growled. Then a fresh angle perked me up. “No, I’m the least likely suspect. I’m the one with no motive, remember? Because I did the right thing and confessed my secret.”
“Except they don’t believe in the blackmail,” Tillie said. “So maybe they’re just being cautious?”
They both looked at me with twisty frowns and worried eyes, not the most encouraging expressions to see on the faces of your stalwart allies. I took a long swig of fruit punch from my Flintstones Snorkasaurus glass and contemplated the colorful figure. He looked strong and stalwart and ready for action. Where were the Snorkasuari when you needed them?
Krystle wasn’t wrong about me being Suspect Number One. So far, there wasn’t even a distant Number Two that we knew of, much less a rich field of Three’s and Four’s. Sheriff Hopper hadn’t bought my blackmail story and by now Finley had probably convinced him it was all a gigantic crock I’d cooked up to cover my ass.
Although, in fairness to me, my ass would fit nicely in your average-sized crock.
I knew from Law and Order that without the right theory, they might never find the right killer. “If they don’t believe in the blackmail,” I said, “they won’t be looking for those files. And without the files, they won’t find a list of other people with motives to want Greg dead. They could be looking right at the main clues and not recognize them. Perspective and context can totally alter your perception of an image.”
Tillie started rewrapping some of the food and putting it in the fridge. “I can’t believe this has been going on all this time without anybody knowing about it.” Meaning, anybody in her extensive gossip network.
“That’s how blackmail works,” Krystle said. “You pay up and your secret stays secret.”
“What happens when the blackmailer dies, though?” We hadn’t considered that timely topic yet.
“The secrets get out?” Tillie asked.
“Oh, ooh. Could be worse.” Krystle made a sour face, like she’d gotten a bad grape. “What if another sleazoid gets the files and decides to pick up where Greg left off?”
We all made sour faces. “That person would be in serious danger,” I said. “In fact, anyone besides the murderer will be in danger, if they get there first.”
“Unless it’s the sheriff,” Tillie said. “But then the secrets will totally come out. That department is the main source of gossip in the whole county.”
“All bad options,” Krystle said. “We’ve got to get those files first.”
I agreed. We weren’t really in danger because we were on our guard. No more cookies and no shots from stray bottles and we’d be OK. If we got the files, I could get in and delete Robbie’s thing and spare him the Wrath of Marion. I could prove to the sheriff I hadn’t made up the blackmail story, which rankled. And best of all, I could rescue myself from this predicament, instead of sitting around twirling my hair and waiting f
or Ty to charge in on a white horse.
“You know,” I said, “nobody’s home at Greg’s house anymore. And even if the cops do search the place, they won’t be there at night, surely. They’ll want daylight.”
“They’ll do it in the morning, I bet. If they do it at all.” Krystle clapped her hands together and rubbed them briskly. “Time for another little spot of breaking and entering?”
“Y’all’ve been breaking and entering?” Tillie sounded hurt, like we’d been to a great party and hadn’t invited her. “When?”
“Last Monday night,” I said. “It wasn’t fun, Tillie, honest.” I told her about how we’d searched Greg’s office without finding anything. I tried to imply that Krystle had just been helping me, but Tillie looked skeptical.
Krystle bit her lip and gave her a long look. Then she shrugged and said, “You might as well know. Greg was blackmailing me, too.” We got past another round of omigods and then Krystle shook her finger at me. “You left out part of the story. The other burglar?”
So I told Tillie about hiding in the bathroom and smelling Deputy Finley’s cologne.
“Polo Black?” Tillie wrinkled her nose. “Good thing I wasn’t there, then. Patchouli makes me sneeze. Ben wears Leather.”
“I like Leather,” Krystle said. “I should get some for Michael, if he turns out not to be a murderer.” They bonded over men’s fragrances.
I felt very unwomanly. I had no idea what kind of cologne Ty wore. I only knew I liked the way he smelled. But then, I liked the way he smelled when he’d been out in the hot sun busting cedar stumps with a pickaxe, so I wasn’t exactly fussy.
“I still can’t believe y’all were being blackmailed.” Tillie unwrapped a package of homemade fudge and set it in the middle of the table. “Nobody’s ever tried to blackmail me.”
“That’s because you’re too smart to let your secrets out on the Internet,” I said.
“I don’t have any secrets,” she said mournfully. “I’m plain as pancakes.”
Krystle and I laughed, which made her sadder, so we had to do a round of patting and praising to perk her back up. “Not having secrets is a good thing, in our experience,” I concluded.
“Does everybody know what everybody’s secrets were?” Tillie asked, looking from me to Krystle.
“No, and we’re not going to,” Krystle said. “It’s not that I don’t trust y’all, it’s just that sometimes things slip out at the wrong moment and then whammo! I’m done.”
“I bet I know,” I said.
“You so totally do not know.”
“I can guess. It’s something to do with The Bachelor, right?”
She narrowed her eyes, making them look even bluer.
“It’s about your thing, remember? What you said at the history society meeting? ‘Your thing that you do.’ Which is being a seventh-generation Texan. Am I right?”
She relaxed a fraction, so I was probably wrong, but I went on anyway. “But in actual truth, you were adopted, see, so you’re not a seventh-generation Texan. You’re secretly the love child of a Yankee woman and a guy from France. Which I personally think makes you all the more interesting.”
Krystle and Tillie howled with laughter. “Have you met my mother?” Krystle wiped tears from her eyes with a paper napkin. “I’m practically a clone.”
“Your aunt, too,” Tillie said, her voice still giggly. “Plus, you and Mannix look almost like twins.”
“OK, OK,” I said. “It was just an idea.”
“A stupid idea,” Krystle said, “so give up.”
I was undaunted by the failure of my theory. The only way out of this circle of crime and suspicion and disbelief was to commit one more teensy-weensy crime. “We’ve got one more job to do.” I took another sip of fruit punch and put down my glass, filled with a new sense of purpose, new energy, new strength. The strength, one might say, of a Snorkasaurus. “Let’s get out there and get it done.”
Krystle nodded. “Impressive. Very G.I. Jane. Except for the little purple moustache.” She gestured at her upper lip.
I deployed my napkin. “OK, let’s get started. The mission is to break into Greg’s house. We need a plan. Ideas? Suggestions? Let’s think outside the box, ladies.”
Chapter 30
Tillie dropped us off at Greg’s house a few minutes after midnight. She’d told her husband that she and Krystle were going to hang out at my house until late, comforting me in my distress with chick flicks and ice cream. She would be back to pick us up in exactly one hour.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” she whispered as we swung down from her Dodge Ram truck.
Krystle shook her head. “We need you to be the wheelman so we can get away fast.”
“Wheelman,” Tillie echoed, getting into the role.
Krystle and I slipped into the backyard and huddled into the privet lining the garage. “We need to find an open window,” she whispered into my ear.
“Check,” I said, getting into the role myself. With luck, we’d find an external hard drive hidden among the boxer shorts and be back outside in no time. I was also hoping to find a labeled photo of a childhood pet or a sled named Rosebud. Anything with password potential.
We sneaked around the back of the house, pushing through shoulder-height shrubs to get to the windows. We tried to raise them by pressing our gloved hands flat against the glass, which was a strikingly ineffective maneuver.
We needed tools. We needed to be taller. And, if we were going to be doing this on a regular basis, I needed a warmer outfit. I was freezing in my black cotton hoodie, even with a thermal undershirt.
Krystle went first, giving each window a half-hearted push and then moving on, leaving the serious effort to me. She had gotten around the corner of the house when I heard her hiss.
I scurried over in a sneaky crouch. She had a found a window, hidden from the street by a mature mountain laurel, that was open a whole inch, enough for us to get our hands under the bottom edge and give a good, strong push.
It squeaked, but it opened. Krystle hoisted herself up and in like an acrobat. I placed my hands where she had and jumped up like she had, but only got high enough to flop my belly onto the sill. I had to wiggle and wobble to roll my body inside, landing upside-down. The flashlight in my pack dug into my back. I’d always prided myself on my physical fitness, but I was clearly not buff enough for a life of crime.
“How come you’re so strong?” I whisper-whined.
“My body is my instrument.”
We sat on the floor, letting our eyes adjust to the weak illumination of streetlight filtered through mini-blinds.
“Close the window,” she whispered.
“Check.” I scrambled to my feet, kicking over a metal TV tray that some careless person had left standing invisibly beside a dark chair. It clattered loudly as it fell. “Crap!”
“Shh!”
I lowered the window, leaving it cracked an inch in case we needed a speedy exit.
“Did you hear something, Doug?” A woman’s voice came from somewhere deep inside the house.
I froze where I stood.
“Shhh!” A man’s voice.
“I thought I heard something,” the woman’s voice said, at a nearly conversational level.
“For Pete’s sake, Julia, would you keep your voice down?”
“Who’s going to hear us?”
“Whoever’s making that noise you didn’t hear.”
A circle of light preceded the man’s voice, descending, as on a staircase. I saw the shadowy outline of a potbellied guy following the light into the entryway that lay outside our room. Both voices moved toward the back of the house.
Krystle materialized at my side and whispered, “We need to move out of here. What if they came in that window and they decide to go back out the same way?”
I nodded. She groped for my hand and gave it a squeeze.
Courage, Grasshopper.
I didn’t need it. I was having
fun, in an insane, overstimulated way. Could be the chill soaking into my brain. Could be the fact that we’d made it inside, which I hadn’t fully believed we would. Or it could be the presence of Julia and Doug, doubtless here for the same reason we were.
Competition always got me going.
We tippy-toed through the doorway into the entryway. The front door had three small windows across the top, letting in what now seemed like an abundance of light. We could clearly see the white risers of the stairs.
“This was a stupid idea,” Julia said.
“You’re the one that got us into this in the first place,” Doug said.
They were talking in that creaky voice that people use for arguing when they need to keep the volume down. Exactly like my parents bickering after they thought us kids had gone to sleep.
“I’m not the one who’s been selling fake breeding certificates on eBay. Champion Spanish water dogs? I mean, really, Doug.”
“Well, I wouldn’t’ve had to do it if you hadn’t squandered our life savings on that stupid piece of crap.”
“That statuette is a collector’s item.”
“You’d better hope there’s another collector out there, because when the sheriff finds that goddamned hard drive we’re going to need a mighty sharp lawyer.”
“He’s found it already. It’s not here, which means it must be at MIS, which means they’ve got it.”
“Which means we’re screwed.”
“Which means you’re screwed, my darling husband.”
“Julia, I’m warning you—”
A door banged shut. Then it banged shut again. We heard Doug croak, “Julia! Julia!” outside.
Krystle and I were huddled together at the back of the entryway, ready to duck into the closet under the stairs if necessary.
She moved away from me and clicked on her flashlight, aiming the pool of light at the floor. “Let’s get busy.”
“Busy, where? Those guys didn’t find anything.”
“How hard did they look? They were too pissed off at each other to think straight.”