by Sammi Carter
The urge to argue with him rose up inside of me, but it was an old habit I was trying to break—especially when the other person happened to be right.
“You know,” Richie said as he went after another cluster of glasses, “if the two of you ever want to stay here, Dylan and I would give you a terrific deal. I know you probably don’t want to spend the money on a place right here in town, and I understand that. But the offer’s there, just in case.”
“That’s really generous, but I don’t think that’s going to happen—at least not for a while yet.”
Richie stopped walking and spun around to gape at me. “You don’t mean to tell me that the two of you haven’t—”
“I don’t mean to tell you anything,” I said with a laugh. I was growing more comfortable with having friends to confide in, but I hadn’t quite reached the point of talking about my sex life—or lack thereof.
“Are you serious?” Richie came closer and leaned on the island that stood between us. “What are you doing hanging around here then? Go on. Get out of here. Drag that handsome hunk of a policeman home and have my way with him.”
I laughed and shook my head. “When the time is right— and it’s not right yet—I’ll have my way with him, not yours. And that’s the end of that discussion.”
Richie made a face and dumped a handful of trash into the can. “All right. Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
I didn’t hesitate to ask the question that had been on my mind all through dinner. “How much do you know about Ginger?”
“Ginger? From the antique store?” Richie came around the island and picked up a towel, waiting for a glass to dry. “Not much. Why?”
“Do you think there’s any chance she could be connected to the guy who was murdered the other night?”
“Is that a serious question? I want to talk about sex, and you want to talk about murder. Girl, you have some real issues.”
Grinning, I handed him a dripping crystal goblet. “That’s old news, I’m afraid. And yes, it’s a serious question.”
“I have no idea if she’s connected to him. Why?”
“I don’t know. Just a hunch, I guess. Do you remember seeing a man with a limp hanging around her store?”
Richie thought about that for a second, then shook his head. “Not while I was there, but that doesn’t mean much. I don’t care what Dylan tries to tell you, I haven’t been at the shop that much.”
I smiled and washed another glass. “I believe you. It’s just that there have been several strange things going on in Paradise lately, and I’m starting to think they’re all connected. I just can’t figure out how.”
Richie’s smile faded slowly. “What things?”
I shook soap and water from my hands and slid two more glasses into the sink. “I thought I saw the dead guy get shot, out by Dwayne Escott’s house a few nights before he was actually killed. And in between, I saw him hanging around Kerry Hendrix’s truck. And someone else saw him getting into a car with Quentin Ingersol. I saw Kerry and Dwayne arguing the other night, and tonight they’re working together to unload a truck. There’s a connection between all four of them; I just don’t know what it is.”
“Have you asked any of them?”
“Everybody denies knowing the dead guy. Believe me, none of them are going to tell me anything, especially not about the murder.”
Richie’s entire face lit up with victory. “So you do think Quentin has something to do with the murder.”
“Maybe. I heard that the dead guy, using the name Lou Hobbs, met with him several times, and they had some kind of conversation just minutes before he was found dead. Of course, Quentin denies everything.”
Richie hooked a glass onto the rack overhead and frowned thoughtfully. “That’s odd.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, I think I saw them together.”
“Where? When?”
“It was at O’Schucks in a booth near the back of the bar.”
“You’re sure it was Quentin and Lou Hobbs?”
“Well no, but Quentin was with someone I’d never seen before, and I know just about everyone in paradise, at least by sight. Ask Dylan. He saw them, too. And they were way into whatever conversation they were having. Dylan and I wondered if maybe Quentin had switched teams . . . if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t suppose you heard what they were talking about?”
Richie shook his head. “Sorry. They were way in the back, like I said.”
“Can you remember who was sitting near them? Anyone who might have overheard their conversation?”
“I wasn’t paying that much attention. They weren’t there long, though. I can remember that.”
“How long?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
I rinsed a glass and handed it to him. “Did they leave together?”
“I think so. They were both there one minute and both gone the next. I didn’t notice them leaving, though.”
I chewed my bottom lip and tried to shove this new piece of the puzzle into the jumbled picture I already had. It had to fit somewhere, but I sure didn’t know where. The only thing it did was to back up Elena Whitehorse’s claims that Quentin spent time doing something with Lou Hobbs.
Growling in frustration, I tackled the next goblet in line. “This is making me crazy. Nothing seems to bring me any closer to figuring out what’s going on.”
Richie swept crumbs from the island into the trash. “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
“Or maybe I’m not trying hard enough.”
“I doubt that. What do you have so far?” I opened my mouth to answer, but he held up a hand to stop me. “What you have is a murdered guy who everybody knew but nobody admits to knowing. Why do you think that is? I mean, I can understand the murderer lying about knowing him, but according to what you’ve told me, nobody claims this guy as a friend.”
I stopped working and turned to look at him, dismayed that I hadn’t made that connection for myself. “Why would they do that? To protect themselves from something?”
Richie nodded. “Probably.”
I could feel something dancing just out of my reach, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. “Yeah, but what? Why would admitting that they knew Hobbs be dangerous to anybody?”
“Maybe they’re afraid that the killer will come after them.”
“Just for admitting they knew him?” I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It would if he’s the one thing that could link them all together.”
My hand stilled as Richie’s suggestion sank in. “You mean that Hobbs isn’t the key to finding the next clue, he is the clue?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Richie found an open bottle of wine and poured what was left into two clean glasses. He handed one to me and perched on a barstool in front of the island. “Maybe you’d find out something horrible about all of these people if you could just connect them, and maybe the only thing that can connect them was Hobbs.”
I smiled slowly. “Hobbs came back to town and threatened to expose whatever they’re hiding—”
“So one of them killed him.”
I laughed softly, warming to the idea a little more with every word. “Because they assumed that if he was dead, that would be the end of it. The police would write him off as some homeless derelict who didn’t matter to anyone, and they’d all go on about their business as if nothing had ever happened.”
Richie held up his glass and touched his rim to mine. “Instead of focusing on Hobbs, maybe you should be trying to tie the suspects together.”
It sounded so simple standing there in the kitchen of the bed and breakfast after a scrumptious dinner and an evening spent with friends. All I had to do was expose what someone had already killed once to keep hidden.
It should be a piece of cake.
Chapter 34
Thick, dark clouds moved into the valley overnight, and as I opened the doors to Divinity the next morning
, I suspected we’d have snow before nightfall. The prospect of another storm filled the whole town with restless energy, and a steady stream of customers kept all three of us busy all morning.
About one o’clock, the stream slowed to a trickle and finally dried up altogether. As the first flakes of snow drifted lazily past the shop windows, we collapsed at one of the wrought-iron tables to catch our breath.
Karen let out an exhausted sigh and put her feet on an empty chair. She ran a glance across the nearly empty display cases and shook her head in wonder. “Do we have any fudge left?”
“Not much,” I said. “I’m going to be busy tomorrow trying to replace what we sold today.”
Liberty sat with her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. “I can help, if you want. I’d love to learn how to make the candy.”
My first instinct was to refuse the offer, but I swallowed the words and smiled. In spite of my original reservations, she’d turned out to be a good employee, and I knew I should lower some of the defensive walls I’d put up between us. “I’m afraid Karen’s ahead of you in that line, but we can talk about working on some easy recipes one day soon.”
Karen rotated her feet on her ankles, alternately flexing and pointing as she did. “We won’t have much time between now and spring. When the skiers hit Aspen and Vail, we’re usually busy all the time.”
“Wow. No wonder you needed me. I had no idea.”
“Too much for you?” I asked.
Liberty shook her head quickly. “Absolutely not. I’d much rather be busy than bored.”
“Good answer.” I slid down on my tailbone and made myself more comfortable. “Since we have a minute, can I ask you a few questions about some of the people you went to school with?”
Karen stopped rotating and put her feet on the floor. “What’s this about? The murder?”
I nodded and said to Liberty, “I’ve managed to connect Lou Hobbs to Quentin Ingersol, Kerry Hendrix, and Dwayne Escott. Do you remember if they were all in your class at school?”
“The last three were. I don’t remember Lou Hobbs.”
“You remember them all?”
She grinned sheepishly. “I decided to look through my old yearbooks the other night. I didn’t know any of them very well, but they were all friends.”
“Thanks. That’s what I figured. Are you sure Lou Hobbs wasn’t in your class? How about Arthur Hobbs?”
“I don’t think so. I can bring in the yearbooks if you want to be sure.”
“Thanks,” I said again. “I might ask you to do that.” I stood slowly and slipped behind the counter, filling a cup with ice and Coke. “What do you remember about that group of kids? I understand Kerry Hendrix was popular.”
“Oh, he was. He always had kids around him. Boys and girls.”
“Do you remember any of the girls?”
She closed her eyes and kneaded her forehead gently. “I can just see one of them,” she said when she looked at me again. “Pretty girl with red hair. Oh, what was her name? She wasn’t in the yearbook, or I’d remember.”
“Take your time,” Karen said gently.
“I remember thinking the name fit because of her hair, but I can’t—” She cut herself off with a shake of her head.
“Was it Ginger?”
“Ginger! Yes, that’s it!”
“Ginger Ames?” Karen’s eyes grew wide. “She was one of them?”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Her brother told me the other day that Ginger had a huge crush on Kerry, but that he never gave her the time of day.”
“He’s wrong. She and Kerry had a thing for a while, but I’ll bet her brother didn’t know about it. Kerry didn’t really care about her. I don’t think he really cared about anyone. But Ginger was mad over him for a while.” She rolled her eyes at the memory. “Kerry was like that. The girls in that crowd would have done anything he asked them.”
I’d seen that happen before. It made me want to lock up Dana and Danielle and bury the key until they were thirty or so. “Ginger came back to town at the same time Lou Hobbs showed up. I’m betting that’s no coincidence.”
“Unfortunately,” Karen said, her expression grim, “I think you’re right.”
I don’t know how long we sat there in silence, digesting information, but Karen finally broke the silence. “So the fake antique scam is also connected to the murder?”
I nodded reluctantly. “I’m starting to think it must be. Are you sure there wasn’t anyone else in that group? Anyone who might be in town now?”
Liberty tilted her head to one side. “Well, there was Davey.”
“Davey? Do you know his last name?”
“Mendoza.”
I sat up a little straighter, convinced that she’d handed me the missing piece of the puzzle at last. “Do you think Davey Mendoza could be Lou Hobbs?”
Liberty shook her head without even taking time to think about it. “Impossible.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Davey Mendoza is dead,” Liberty said with an apologetic smile. “He died right after graduation in a car accident.”
My flame of excitement sputtered and died away. “He’s dead?”
“And has been for the past nine years. There’s no way he could have come back to Paradise as Lou Hobbs.”
“Slow down, slugger. Start again, and this time talk a little slower so I can understand you.”
We sat in Jawarski’s cramped office, staring at each other over the lamp on his desk. Outside, the storm clouds had darkened, making it look more like twilight than early afternoon.
“Listen faster,” I snapped. “I was talking to Liberty a few minutes ago, and she told me about something that I’m sure is important.”
Jawarski perched on the corner of his desk, putting my face level with his stomach. “Something about a kid named Davey Mendoza.”
Admirable as his flat stomach is for a man in his early forties, I lifted my eyes to meet his. “Yes. He was killed in a car accident shortly after that whole group graduated from high school.”
“And you’re sure this is related to Hobbs’s murder because . . . ?”
“It’s a gut feeling.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Don’t dismiss me without even hearing me out,” I complained. “First, you have a whole group of kids centering around Kerry Hendrix. Quentin Ingersol and Dwayne Escott are with him everywhere he goes. They’re practically inseparable. There’s a fourth kid in the group: Davey Mendoza.”
“Okay.” Jawarski folded his arms across his chest. “Go on.”
“Then you’ve got the girls—girls who’d do just about anything for these guys. You know how some young girls can be. One of them is Ginger Ames—the same Ginger Ames who showed up back in Paradise a couple of months ago and opened an antique shop that we both know is selling phony antiques.”
Jawarski inclined his head slightly. “We don’t know anything.”
“All right, we suspect that she’s selling phony antiques. Probably just enough phony stuff mixed in with real pieces so people don’t get suspicious right away. I have no idea why she’s doing this, except that she’s still insecure enough to do what people ask her to.”
“Who would ask her to do this?”
“I don’t know. Apparently, she was head over heels for Kerry Hendrix back in high school. Maybe she’s still trying to please him.”
“Or maybe Hendrix knows something about her she doesn’t want anyone else to know.”
I thought about that for a second, then shook my head. “I don’t think so. Those men I heard arguing at the recreation center were talking about a woman and the proof she had. I think they were talking about Ginger.” I hadn’t forgotten that Liberty could have been the mystery woman, but an unexpected surge of loyalty kept me from saying so. I just hoped that loyalty wasn’t misplaced.
Jawarski stood and walked around his desk slowly. “But why do that? If you’re right, and Davey Mendoza’s deat
h is somehow at the heart of all this, why is it suddenly an issue now?”
“I think Hobbs was blackmailing the others.”
Jawarski’s gaze shot to mine. “You think what? Why?”
“I was at the bank the other day. Dwayne Escott was trying to cash a check, but the teller couldn’t do it. His account was overdrawn.”
“That doesn’t mean he was being blackmailed.”
“It doesn’t prove that he was being blackmailed,” I corrected him. “But I have a hunch that he was. The teller said that this wasn’t the first time he’d been overdrawn, and Hobbs always made deposits of cash.”
“Well, hell, if that’s the case, half the population’s being blackmailed. Come on, Abby.” Jawarski dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk and picked up a file folder. “I’ve gone through the report on the kid’s death twice. It was an accident, that’s all. He was driving under the influence, and he lost control.”
“You’re sure?”
“I knew the cop who had the lead in the investigation. He was a good man, and an even better cop. If there was anything to find, he’d have found it.”
Disappointed, I sank back in my chair and racked my brain for answers. Liberty had filled me in on the details she could remember about Mendoza’s accident. He’d gone off a cliff a few miles northwest of town, halfway between Paradise and Aspen. The road was narrow and winding, much of it running along steep cliffs that fell away to a narrow river valley far below. By the time they’d recovered the car and body, there wasn’t much left of either.
“What about suicide?”
“I don’t think so. Everything in this file indicates that Mendoza had an accident. According to McMillan’s notes, there were skid marks all over the road going up that hill. Mendoza might have been drunk, but he was working the brakes, trying to stop the car. If Davey Mendoza had been intent on driving himself off that cliff, he’d have aimed straight.”
“You don’t know that,” I argued without conviction.
“The evidence doesn’t support any other answer—not well enough to take to court. And that’s what I have to think of, Abby. You were a lawyer—you know that. I can suspect someone all I want, but unless I can find evidence that will stand up in court, I’ve got nothing.”