by Norah Wilson
I looked at him as if he were an idiot. Mostly because I enjoyed looking at him as if he were an idiot. But also for the dramatics of the thing. “Wrong again, Detective. Jeremy Poole is a pretty smooth talker. Pretty good with the lawyer-ese. I’ll give him that. But there’s one word—one particular word that gives him away. He used it in this newspaper interview and he used in when he posed as Jennifer in my office.”
“What would that be, Dodd?”
“The f word.”
“Oh for f—” Detective Head stopped mid rant as he glanced toward the judge. “I don’t think Jeremy Head is the only man to use that f word, Dix Dodd. If that’s all you’re going on, you’re pretty much f’d yourself.”
I shook my head. “That’s not the f word I’m referencing.”
“Tell him, Dix,” Dylan said.
“Floozy,” I blurted. It took every bit of restraint I had to bite down on an inappropriate laugh. “Jeremy used the word floozy when he was in my office posing as Jennifer Weatherby. And he used the word floozy again in the newspaper interview. Nobody uses the word ‘floozy’ anymore. Certainly not that much.”
“So you have a coincidence, Dodd,” Dickhead informed. “Nothing more.”
“I do have more.”
“I... I have to go to the bathroom,” Jeremy said. Judging by how pale he now was, I believed him. He stood, wavered sideways, stood straight.
“Oh no you don’t, Poole,” Dickhead said. “I’m not falling for that one again.”
An officer grabbed Jeremy by the arm and sat him down again.
“It was you who came into my office that day, wasn’t it, Jeremy? You threw me off there for a while, dressed as a woman. You were very clever. But I should have known you were a man all along. No woman carries that many different tubes of lipstick. Nor that many different brands of tampons in her purse.” I turned to Dickhead. “Do they, Detective? You were married, you know all about these things, don’t you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Just keep going, Dixie.”
I did. As if reading my mind, Dylan handed me the picture—the one with Jeremy and Ned coming out of the tennis court. The one where he was bent scratching his left leg under the white tube sock. “See this, Jeremy?”
Getting paler by the moment—so pale now I could see the stubble of beard on his white cheeks—he looked at the picture and nodded.
“This proves that you were posing as Jennifer.”
“I hardly see—”
I smiled. “You shaved your legs before you put on that purple dress and came into my office. You had to have just shaved your legs for them to be this smooth. And for them to be this glaringly white, you’d have to have not shaved them before, or at least not in a hell of a long time.”
“How... how would you possibly know that?”
“I just do, okay!”
Jeremy Poole crossed the legs under discussion and set his hands over his knees. “This is craziness. You’ve proven nothing here.”
Judge Stephanopoulos spoke up. “Well, maybe I can prove something here, Mr. Poole.”
All eyes turned to the judge as, shoulders back, she strode into the center of room. “I have here a restraining order, Mr. Poole. One taken out against Ms. Dodd advising her to stay away from the Weatherby house and Weatherby Industries. Ms. Dodd was kind enough to provide it to me this morning.”
Ned shot a look to Luanne, she shot one back at him. It was obvious that neither of them knew about this.
I didn’t think it was possible, but Jeremy turned even whiter. I imagine those legs of his would have the potential to blind now if exposed to the light of day.
“And, Mr. Poole,” the judge continued. “What most strikes my attention is the signature on this restraining order.” Judge Stephanopoulos stood before him now, towering over him as he sat cowering in the chair. She snapped the restraining order open under his nose. “You spelled my name wrong.”
“Oh shit.”
“And I would wager, Jeremy,” I said, “that when we manage to get a search warrant for the car and residence of a certain sweet little old lady—”
“I don’t know any sweet little old ladies,” he said.
He had me there.
“Okay, then if we manage to get a search warrant for the car of one cranky old woman with a broken ankle, a yappy dog and a sharp tongue, a.k.a. your aunt, we’ll find evidence you’ve been a very bad boy.”
Now it was Rochelle’s turn to jump into action. “I just happen to have a search warrant right here, Dix. Typed up and everything.” She turned to the Judge. “Your Honor?”
She pulled a pen from her purse. With a flare of pen to paper, Judge Stephanopoulos signed the order, and handed it to Detective Head.
“McGrath, Barnable.” Two officers stood straight. “Get yourselves over to Mrs. Levana Fyffe’s place.”
“Er, what are we looking for, Detective?” Barnable asked.
I answered; Dickhead let me. “Check the car for fibers and fingerprints. And oh, check the house for some flashing fashion.”
“Huh?”
“A purple dress that Jeremy here might have worn when he dressed up as Jennifer. Wide glasses. Fake boobs. Big floppy hat.”
“Wait a minute,” Detective Head said. “That still doesn’t explain the gun. We found the gun that killed Jennifer in your possession, Dix.”
Now it was Dylan’s turn to act. “Let me take this one, Dix.”
I smiled. “Go for it.”
He cleared his throat. It looked like he enjoyed being the center of attention too. “I did some checking around myself, Detective. That gun you found on Dix was used by Talbot K. Washington in that double murder years ago. If you recall, during the trial, it was discovered to have gone missing.”
“Holy hell, Foreman, tell me something I don’t know.”
“Okay, then I will. There was a young law student clerking at that firm when that gun went missing. He wasn’t on the regular company payroll, only worked one afternoon a week for one of the senior lawyers who paid him under the table. I guess the old guy felt sorry for him.”
“Let me guess,” Detective Head said. “That would be our friend Mr. Poole who was clerking there.”
Dylan nodded. “I went to law school with one of the lawyers who works there now. Apparently, Jeremy Poole was a poor, starving law student, but then quit working all of a sudden just after the Washington trial ended. Came into some fast cash somehow. And plenty of it.”
“You bastard,” Detective Head said. “You stole the gun didn’t you? Or caused it to be stolen. Washington could have walked because of you.”
“I... I think I need a lawyer.” Jeremy wiped a hand across his brow.
Detective Head snarled, “I know you do. Get this...”—with a glance at the Judge, he adjusted his language—“... gentleman downtown. Let him call his lawyer, then leave him for me.” The disgust in Dickhead’s voice was evident. And for a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. Then I realized the disgust was probably over the fact that I wouldn’t be going to jail after all.
“Why?” Ned croaked, his voice thick with emotion, eyes filling with tears. “Why did you do it, Jeremy?”
Out of courtesy, the two officers escorting Jeremy Poole from the room stopped long enough for the question to be answered.
Jeremy’s bottom lip began to quiver, and his voice became that throaty voice he’d used in my office—his Jennifer voice. “Because... I love you, Ned.”
Collectively, we all did a double take.
“What’d he say?” Mr. Weatherby, Sr. asked.
“I think he said he loved him,” Mrs. Weatherby answered.
“Loved Jim? Who’s Jim?”
“No, not Jim. Him.”
Yeah, it was getting confusing. Not even I saw that one coming.
Unprompted now, Jeremy continued. “I’ve loved you for so long. When Jennifer got involved with Billy, I thought maybe... maybe then you’d throw her out for good. But you didn’t, you took her back.�
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“But why? Why’d you have to kill her?”
“She was livid when she found out that I’d cancelled the caterer. It was a stupid thing to do, I know, but I was jealous. And I didn’t think Kenny Kent would call her about it. I thought he’d call you, and you’d finally, once and for all, just end it with Jennifer. I hoped. But it didn’t work that way. And when Jennifer found out, she called me. I went over to apologize but she wouldn’t hear anything of it. I begged her not to tell you, Ned. Begged her. And eventually she agreed.”
“But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it, Jeremy?” I said.
“I... I couldn’t take the chance. What if... what if someday she changed her mind, and did tell him? Ned would turn against me. I... I couldn’t have that. So I posed as Jennifer, and went to Dodd’s office. I was looking for a not-so-bright private detective, and given the dive she works out of, I thought I’d hit pay dirt. Dammit! All I wanted was for her to follow you around for a week! I did it to protect you, Ned.”
“Protect me? Protect me from what? From Jennifer?”
“No,” I answered. “He wanted to protect you from being blamed for Jennifer’s murder. I provided a rock-solid alibi, all week, in fact, until Jeremy had the opportunity to commit murder.” I turned to Jeremy, “You were protecting Ned, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Jeremy whispered. “Always.”
“Then it was premeditated,” Dickhead said.
Jeremy’s mouth snapped shut so fast and hard I heard his teeth snap together. “I... I think I need that lawyer now.”
“Know any good ones?” Mrs. P shouted.
“Downtown, boys,” Detective Head said.
Chapter 21
Certainly, a celebration was in order. Not right away, of course. There were a lot of loose ends that had to be tied up before we could officially celebrate. But eventually, we did manage to get out on the town to yuk it up. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of letting Dylan make the arrangements. My bad. Okay, my very, very bad.
He picked the Six Shooter. Now, it’s a decent enough bar, makes a wonderful Caesar, and the food is great. The problem? It’s a karaoke bar, and Dylan is a horrific singer, a fact that is painfully obvious to everyone but Dylan. We’re talking peel-the-paint-off-the-walls horrible. But what could I do? He really wanted to put this little soiree together. How could I say no?
But back to those loose ends. Like getting all the charges against me dropped. That wasn’t the slam-dunk you might think. As you can imagine, the police get a little testy when people escape custody. Even innocent people. But thanks to Judge Stephanopoulos (and, yes, dammit, thanks to Detective Head also), the charges were soon dismissed. I didn’t have to spend so much as a night in jail.
My being innocent of the charges—not to mention catching the real killer for the police—was certainly instrumental in getting those charges dropped. But I also suspect part of the reason for Dickhead’s cooperation was the fact that he bagged not just one, but two criminals.
Thanks to me.
Well, thanks to Jennifer Weatherby, actually. And yeah, okay, thanks to Ned Weatherby’s elderly mother. Mrs. Weatherby never did recognize me (thank you, Jesus!), but she did recognize Pastor Ravenspire. Or should I say Pastor Latray, of Richmond, Virginia? Pastor Slaunwhite of Toronto? Pastor Hanselpecker of Montreal? Well, then how about Pastor Ingles of Las Vegas, Nevada? (Turns out Ned’s mother had not only a good eye for faces but also was a pretty fair card counter.) That man had warrants out for his arrest in a half dozen states and two provinces. It just so happened that Ned’s mother was a huge fan of the blackjack tables in Vegas, and had seen Pastor Ingles’s picture in the paper down there about five years ago. He had been wanted on fraud, embezzlement, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor.
While Ned’s eagle-eyed mom had ID’d the Pastor, it was Jennifer, speaking from the grave, who’d allowed Dickhead to eventually haul Ravenspire’s unholy ass away. A message that I’d delivered to Dickhead for her. (See? I can be generous when it suits my purposes.) Turns out the good pastor was the reason why Jennifer was socking away money. She realized early on that Ravenspire was a fraud, but her husband would listen to no ill about his beloved pastor. So until she could get enough on the charismatic preacher to convince Ned that he was corrupt, she was protecting what funds she could, fearing that Ravenspire would bleed her husband dry with his constant appeals for donations. Which was pretty astute of her. As it turned out, that had been his modus operandi in those other cases. He’d pretend to be building a shiny new church, then leave town with the building fund.
How did I know this? Mrs. Presley found a package zippered into the cushions of the sofa she’d been sitting on in Jennifer’s study (“Something’s scratching my butt, Dix.”). The package had turned out to be stuffed with cash (nearly a hundred large!) and a note from Jennifer. The note had been tucked inside an envelope addressed to Ned. ‘I’m writing this in case I get hit by a bus or car-jacked or something equally embarrassing,’ it was prefaced. ‘If you should find this, I needed you to know it was for US, not for ME. And after the thing with Billy... well, I just need you to know I wasn’t squirreling this away to leave you.’ She’d gone on to state her suspicions about the reverend and her hope that he would heed the warnings in death that he refused to hear in life. ‘This is in case we need it to get back on our feet. We can do anything together.’
The tears had filled Ned’s eyes as he held the note tightly in his hands.
I’d gotten a little teary-eyed, too. Mostly at the thought of a woman who’d been unable to outrun her past and the fear of sliding back into poverty that must have dogged her despite the poise and sophistication she’d acquired. If Jennifer had been thinking rationally, she’d have realized that no matter how much cash the reverend managed to weasel out of Ned, it probably wouldn’t have made too sizeable a dent in his overall wealth, the vast majority of which would not have been liquid enough to be at risk. And the sum of $100,000—so colossal to Jennifer—hell, to the rest of us—was pitifully small by Weatherby family standards. Not quite pocket money, but pretty close. To think of the contortions she’d gone through to amass it without alerting Ned and setting off jealous suspicions... all that buying and returning of merchandise... It was just so sad.
She’d loved him. Right to the end, she had loved her husband. Sure, she’d made a mistake with Billy Star, but so what? Life goes on. People make mistakes and then get up again and keep on going. I knew this. Jennifer knew this.
So yes, Detective Head’s arrest of Jennifer Weatherby’s murderer, as well as the infamous Pastor Take-Your-Pick, had made him less hell-bent to see me behind bars.
This time.
Last I heard, Dickhead was back on the toothpicks and just as irritable as ever. God help the criminal element of Marport City.
So it was that two weeks after my performance in the Weatherby study, we settled in for a celebration at the Six Shooter. My treat. Business was on the upswing. The publicity generated by the case kept me on the front pages of the newspaper (sans picture, thank you very much). I couldn’t have paid for that kind of exposure. Clients were calling. Clients were signing. Heck, clients were even paying. And as I sat there waiting for the arrival of my guests, I was feeling pretty good. I wouldn’t have to go back to the old firm. Ever. Jones’s and Associates and the old boys club could amuse themselves all they wanted. They’d been wrong. Not only could I survive in their ‘man’s world’, I could kick ass in it.
So, yes, a celebration was in order.
Dylan was late, but not by a great deal. Mrs. P caught me checking my watch and craning my neck to check the side door. For once, she didn’t say a thing. Just smiled her knowing smile as she tipped up her third draft.
But before my neck developed a permanent kink, Dylan did arrive. His eyes caught mine as he walked in the door. And so did his smile. We were both on top of the world.
I couldn’t help but notice the dropped jaws on half the female (and
quite a few of the male) patrons of the Six Shooter as he strolled in. But Dylan didn’t turn a glance toward any of them as he walked toward our table and pulled out the chair reserved for him to take, the one on my right.
“Hey, Dix. Sorry I’m late.”
I looked from his sparkling eyes to his forehead. The lump was gone, not so much as a bruise left. That war wound was officially behind us.
He plunked two packages on the table, and with a bent knuckle, knocked on the smallest one—a small white box. “Had to pick these up.”
Well, I knew what the smallest package contained. The business cards.
I’d let Dylan go ahead and order them. He told me he’d finally come up with the perfect slogan. So perfect, he was embarrassed he’d not thought of it before. He’d asked me to trust him.
And I realized—not without a little panic—that I did.
So I’d let Dylan order the business cards, slogan and all, without my sign off.
I moved a hand to open the white box.
And he placed his hand over mine. “Not yet.”
Well, hell! I was dying of curiosity.
With a casual signal to the server, Dylan ordered a beer.
“You... you going to sing tonight, Dylan?” the male waiter asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
The server walked away quickly, shaking his head all the way to the bar.
“Is it time for presents?” Elizabeth Bee looked quickly at the two packages Dylan had placed in front of me.
I was surprised she even had time to notice what was happening on the other side of the table. She seemed pretty happily occupied herself as she sat sandwiched between Cal and Craig Presley. Under the amused, watchful (and increasingly glassy) eyes of their mother, the two boys were each paying close attention to Elizabeth, and the young woman was soaking it up. Dylan had raised a questioning eyebrow when I’d announced I had invited Elizabeth to our little gathering. But I had a feeling about this young lady. She was smart, confident, and could lie like a rug—all qualities that came in handy in this business. And I just plain liked her. I wanted to keep her around.