Uprooting Ernie (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 2)
Page 15
“Also, I will not dig up a grave, whether to take something out or put something in.” I sent Kyle Kenneally a pointed look.
On the plus side, I was in negotiations with the Smithsonian regarding Romeo. I’d feared the whole thing would fall through when they asked for documentation about the Darwin connection. Kyle didn’t have official paperwork, but he did have an original letter one of his ancestors had written about Romeo in the eighteen fifties, which apparently is the next best thing. They must have liked what they’d read, because they were sending someone to inspect the frozen carcass.
“Do not contact me about mutilating a corpse, no matter how free one’s husband was in life with the body part in question. Haven’t you people heard of Craigslist? And for you gardening buffs out there, yes, I am willing to fertilize your tomatoes and zucchini with your remains after you die, but only—only!—if you have chosen cremation.”
I proceeded to the next item on my list. “News flash, folks: human taxidermy is illegal, even if you’ve planned the most awesome Halloween decoration ever. Ditto for any Weekend at Bernie’s scenarios.”
Ben Ralston called out, “Can’t you take a joke?”
“You assume you’re the only one who asked,” I responded. “Also, don’t contact me with any request involving unspontaneous human combustion that doesn’t involve a cremation chamber. If you promised your pal he’d go out in a blaze of glory, stick a sparkler in his mouth.” Or somewhere.
And now for the biggie. “Okay, I shouldn’t even have to mention this one,” I said, “but here it is. I will not be a party to murder, no matter how much you offer. So if you find yourself in need of—” air quotes here “—‘a nice, reliable hit man,’ do not come knocking on my door.” As one of Crystal Harbor’s most respectable matrons did this past week. I’d shared that particular request with Detective Hernandez, who’d arranged a sting by an undercover cop. The hopeful client, whose eye had wandered in turns from her hot young diving instructor to hubby’s life insurance, was now cooling her heels in the hoosegow.
The good news was, I had a waiting list of folks with legitimate assignments in mind. I’d increased my rates and they still kept coming. In the past few days, hiring the famous Death Diva had become something to brag about. I wondered how long my lucrative celebrity would last before the locals moved on to the Next Big Thing.
I ended my little presentation by stating how proud I was to be a small business owner in Crystal Harbor blah blah blah and setting a stack of my business cards on a nearby table. Sophie called the meeting to a close and the room was immediately alive with the sound of chairs scraping and scores of competing conversations.
Small groups lingered here and there, catching up with one another and gossiping—Crystal Harbor’s official town hobby. Martin was nowhere to be seen, but Dom was across the room talking to Bonnie. She gave him a teasing smile. They shared a laugh and she playfully smacked his chest. He bent to murmur something in her ear.
When last I’d looked, this formerly betrothed couple had been cautiously skirting around each other. Now... Now I didn’t know what I was seeing. I’d never known Dom to be a cheater, but in my book, messing around with your ex-fiancée while trying to convince your ex-wife to remarry you counts as cheating. Even if the ex-wife can’t make up her mind whether to give you another chance. I think. Then again, to be fair, Dom was on excellent terms with all his ex-wives, so why shouldn’t he be friendly with his ex-fiancée as well?
“There you are.” Sophie grabbed my arm. “I’m drafting you for trivia. Let’s get a move on.”
13
Skeleton Crew
“If you’re so intent on rehabilitating your image,” Sophie said, “try not living in sin with a couple of hot single fellas.”
I gave her a wry smile. She knew perfectly well how my ex and my… What was Martin to me? Friend? Does friend work? Anyway, how those two had ended up camped out at my place. Sophie and I were walking the half mile from the library to Murray’s Pub.
“Three hot single fellas if you count Sexy Beast,” I said. “Unfortunately, there’s no sin going on. Except gluttony—I’m eating better than ever. Those two idiots are playing TV chef, trying to outdo each other in the feeding-Janey department.”
“So they do have something in common,” she said.
“Speaking of men and sin,” I said, “where’s Porter living while he’s out on bail? I can’t see Lacey letting him back into the house.”
“His mom lives in town. He’s staying with her.” Sophie might appear out of shape, but I had to hustle to keep up with her. It was close to eight p.m. and still light out, this being one of the longest days of the year.
“I’d hate to see those slippery lawyers of his get him off on self-defense,” I said.
A born politician, Sophie waved and offered greetings to everyone we passed on both sides of the street. “Don’t be so fast to convict Porter. He’s not a shoe-in by any means.”
I looked at her. “He confessed.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Okay, spill,” I said. “What else do you know?”
Sophie glanced around to ensure no one was within earshot. “For one thing, I know that Bonnie kept making him repeat his story.”
“Isn’t that Interrogation One-oh-One?” I asked. “Trying to trip up the perp by making him repeat his story?” My knowledge of law and order came mainly from, well, Law and Order. Give me a rainy day, some Buffalo chicken pizza, and a Law and Order marathon, and I’m a happy girl.
“My deep-throat source in the department says there are questions about the murder weapon.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “What else did Howie tell you?”
She gave me a sideways smirk, letting me know my guess was on the mark. I wasn’t surprised to learn Howie had shared inside information with onetime suspect Sophie. He was an accomplished, seasoned cop with good instincts. I doubted he ever thought she was guilty. But if it turned out Porter didn’t do it, then Sophie could find herself in the spotlight once more.
“Try this one on for size,” she said. “Cops went over my property real thoroughly, looking for heavy objects that had been there back when Ernie died.”
“Like what?” I asked, visions of baseball bats and cast-iron skillets dancing in my head.
“They took the rack from my brick barbecue. That thing was built sometime in the fifties, and the rack’s never been replaced.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” I said. That barbecue rack was a ponderous cast-iron thing, more than capable of doing the job. I sincerely hoped it didn’t turn out to be the murder weapon. Sophie’s locally famous grilled pizza wouldn’t be half as crusty and delicious made on a brand-spanking-new rack.
“And large rocks from the edge of the pond,” she added.
“They took all those rocks?”
She shook her head. “Only the blocky ones with some kind of edge. Left the round ones alone.” She gave me a significant look.
“Ah.” I was beginning to get it. “Interesting.”
“Went through all the old tools and gardening stuff. Same deal,” she said. “Anything heavy with an angle or corner, they took for forensic analysis.”
“So they’re testing for...” I wished I hadn’t begun that sentence, but Sophie had no problem finishing it for me.
“Blood, hair, and tissue. They can detect the presence of blood even after all these years, depending on how the item’s been cleaned and stored—which as far as those old rocks go...” She gave a dubious wag of the hand. “But get this. Bonnie asked about my patio. Whether it’s the same patio from back then.”
“Is it?”
“Nope. It was brick back then,” she said. “Had it changed to slate about twenty years back. Were there any loose bricks the day Ernie died, she wanted to know. Asked a lot of questions about the bricks.”
“Were there?” I asked. “Loose bricks?”
“Nope. That patio was solid. Ernie kept the place up.”
“Okay, so what are you thinking?” I asked. “That Porter’s version of events involved slamming Ernie’s head into the patio?”
Sophie nodded. “I think that’s precisely what he told the cops. Only problem, they seem to think the murder weapon had some sort of edge or corner.”
“Then the examination of Ernie’s skull must have shown that kind of injury, which is not consistent with getting his head slammed on a flat patio.” I remembered something. “Teddy told me the cops took Ernie’s typewriter. To test it as the weapon, she thought. It has an edge, and a heavy old antique like that could do a lot of damage.”
Sophie gave me an enigmatic look. “You spoke with Teddy?”
I told her about my dropping in on Ernie’s mom that morning. I filled her in on Lacey’s visit to her the day Ernie died and speculated that Lacey might have dropped in on Ernie after getting the brushoff from his mom.
Sophie exchanged greetings with an elderly couple out for their evening constitutional. When they were a half block away, she said, “Did you share this with Bonnie?”
“Yep,” I said. “She requested that I stop interfering in the investigation.”
“Well, I’m the damn mayor of this burg and I say that as a private citizen, you can talk to whoever the hell you want to.”
“I’d keep snooping around with or without your official approval, Your Honor,” I said, “but I do appreciate it.”
“So,” she said. “Porter’s story is falling apart. A lot of time has passed. You think he forgot the details?”
“You mean could Porter remember slamming Ernie’s head on the patio when in reality he clocked him with a two-by-four? I can tell you that if I bludgeoned a guy to death, the particulars would remain sharp and clear. I’m guessing that’s not the kind of memory that fades with time.”
“Good point,” Sophie said. “I read somewhere that people tend to recall the minutest details about events that trigger a surge of adrenaline. Like when you’re scared, excited, whatever.”
“So let’s say Porter didn’t do it. Why would he try to take the blame?” I answered my own question. “To protect someone. Who’s he trying to protect?”
“That’s a no-brainer.”
“He’s deeply in love with Lacey,” I said. “You should have seen him when she found out he was behind Tim’s death. He was literally on his knees, begging for her forgiveness.”
“Yet she turned around and accused him of killing Ernie,” she said. “That loving feeling doesn’t seem to go both ways.”
“I don’t think it ever did. He was smitten from day one, while she was still reeling from Tim’s death when they met.”
“But here’s this handsome, wealthy young man who’s eager to marry her and legitimize the child she’s carrying,” she said.
“You basic White Knight,” I said. “An irresistible offer no matter how much you’re mourning the love of your life.”
“So here’s where it gets interesting,” she said. “Porter might have been guessing about the murder weapon, but he accurately described what Ernie was wearing the day he died. Scraps of material found with the skeleton match up.”
“Hmm…” I said.
“And get this.” Sophie glanced around and lowered her voice. We were almost at Murray’s. “So did Lacey.”
“So did Lacey what? Oh! You mean she knew what Ernie was wearing too?”
“Yep. Bonnie asked for as much detail as she could recall. Shirt, pants, shoes. Lacey got it all right. Which means maybe she really did see Porter move Ernie’s body, like she says. Either that or she killed him herself.”
“Or,” I countered, “she was nowhere near Ernie that day, but Porter told her all about it.”
“What, like, honey, I’m home. I picked up eggs and bread and killed my old buddy Ernie. He was wearing a plaid sport shirt and gray high-tops.”
“I’m just saying we can’t assume—”
“Hold up!” a male voice called. We looked back to see Ben Ralston jogging to catch up with us. “Stevie and I want to team up with you for trivia.” He addressed this comment to Sophie as he held open the door for us. Everyone wanted to be on her team.
“Fine with me,” she said as she preceded me into the pub. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
All of the dozen or so battered wooden tables were occupied, as well as most of the barstools. I recognized many of the customers. I searched for, and did not see, Dom or Bonnie. I tried not to wonder what they were doing, whether they were doing it together, and if so, whether they were doing it horizontally.
Stevie Borden, Martin’s mom, motioned to us from the booth she’d staked out. A pitcher of beer and four glasses already sat in front of her.
“Nachos are on the way,” Stevie said. She was sixty-one but could pass for forty-five, thanks to an active lifestyle and good genes. She had long blond hair and, unlike yours truly, was expert at styling it and applying makeup.
It was hard to believe that not only was this attractive, energetic woman a grandmother, but her granddaughter—Martin’s daughter, Lexie—was a married woman capable of turning her into a great-grandmother at any time. Which meant forty-two-year-old Martin could be a grandfather. That was definitely too bizarre to contemplate.
We exchanged air kisses all around as Ben filled our glasses. I spied plenty of people I knew in the crowded pub, some of whom I’d seen a few minutes earlier at the town meeting. The padre detached himself from his table-mates to give Stevie a hard time.
“What kind of mother are you?” he demanded, stealing a nacho as she tried to slap his hand away. “Your rightful place is on your son’s team.”
“I’m sure you and your little admirers will do fine without me,” she said, nodding toward the gaggle of pretty young ladies sitting at his table and sipping an assortment of colorful frozen concoctions. She reached over and squeezed Ben’s thigh. “Besides, I prefer to spend the evening with my sexy young lover.” Ben was about six years older than the padre.
“Mo-om...” Martin mock-whined. “Don’t say things like that. You’ll warp me for life.”
Sophie spoke up. “As if you could get more warped. Now, go back to your harem and prepare to be humiliated.”
Martin looked me over, from the businesslike French twist to the sensible pumps, his gaze lingering here and there. “You were wearing that outfit when I first met you, Jane. I like it. You look like a very strict librarian.” The way he said “very strict” let me know he wasn’t talking about late fines. “Maybe undo one more button.”
Stevie turned to me, her tone cheerful. “Just so you know, Jane, I’ve long ago stopped apologizing for my son’s behavior.”
Ben yanked the nacho plate out of reach as Martin tried to snag another. “Am I going to have to chase you away with a stick? Buy your own snacks.”
“He can’t afford to,” I said. “He’s already paying for all those girlie drinks.”
“They’re paying for my drinks,” the padre said. “So there.”
“You make me prouder every day,” Stevie said. “Now, git.”
Maxine circulated among the tables, handing out packets of stapled answer sheets and pencils as the young waitress who worked only on trivia Wednesdays took drink and food orders.
“We’ve got to name our team,” Sophie said. “Put on your thinking caps, guys.”
Team members generally chose a name drawn from current events. Ben threw out, “Janey and the Divettes!”
“Divettes?” Stevie wrinkled her nose. “Too furniture-sounding for me.”
Nina Wallace also made the rounds of the tables, setting out paper plates laden with chocolate-coated sugar cookies decorated with little white-icing skeletons. She was an avid baker and never went anywhere without bringing home-baked yummies. The first time she’d played trivia, she’d set out a platter for her table only, prompting Maxine to set her straight. I hope you brought enough for everyone, Nina. From then on, all contestants could look forward to free dessert.
“Okay, this gives me an idea,” she announced. “We’re the Skeleton Crew.”
This was greeted with oohs of approval from our teammates. I gave Sophie a wink.
Maxine brought the festivities to order. A self-described loudmouth, she eschewed a mic and hollered out the rules, reminding everyone that if she even glimpsed a cell phone, the offender would be barred from trivia Wednesdays for life. There would be four rounds of ten questions, each round based on a specific theme. Tonight the categories were foodie knowledge, classic movies, world geography, and local current events.
Hmm... local current events. Suddenly I wished I’d gone straight home from the town meeting.
As soon as Maxine was satisfied that all tables had ordered enough drinks and food, she commenced the game, lobbing a softball question. That is, it was a softball for anyone with an interest in the culinary arts, which did not include moi: “What year did Julia Child’s cooking show The French Chef premier?”
Sophie and I blinked at each other while Ben and Stevie, both apparently card-carrying foodies, argued good-naturedly over the answer. It was either 1963 or 1964. Ben prevailed, and Sophie, our de facto leader, wrote 1963 on the first line of the answer sheet.
The questions kept coming, with teams huddling and whispering and drinking and laughing. After question ten, Maxine collected the answer sheets to score them, after which she announced the correct answers and the teams’ rankings.
“Round One goes to Skeleton in the Closet, with all ten questions answered correctly.” Nina Wallace and her gal pals hollered and clapped.
Meanwhile I cringed at the team’s name, a not-so-subtle reference to Ernie’s homosexuality. Scanning the players, I witnessed a few disapproving head-shakes and furtive glances toward Sophie, whose only response was to bestow on Nina the kind of stare usually associated with the word withering. For her part, Nina appeared oblivious, toasting her teammates with her fetus-friendly orange juice and whooping it up.