A few minutes later, the two of them stood, wrapped their arms around each other, and took off toward the door.
Really?
I suppose this visit hadn’t really told me anything except that Dewey actually was the womanizer he had shown himself to be.
But maybe all wasn’t lost.
I grabbed my water and wove between people line dancing and tables full of tipsy patrons singing along with Garth Brooks and his two Piña Coladas. I stopped at the eighties blonde, leaning casually against the bar like it was natural for me to be here when it clearly wasn’t.
Eighties Chick glanced over at me and scowled, as if I was intruding on her alone time. Or maybe she’d been hoping another man would hit on her—someone other than Dewey. Either way, I needed to make this work because I was running out of ideas on how to find answers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, her laser-like scowl still fixed on me.
Okay, so she was blunt. I should be used to blunt people since I’d been around Evie so much lately. But it was so much easier to get answers when people liked you. That was the challenge.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I started.
“Yet you are.” She shot back a glass of some kind of alcohol. When she looked at me again, her eyes were glazed.
“I have a question about the man you were just talking to.”
She flickered her eyebrows up. “What about him?”
“Do you know him?” I took another sip of my water.
“What’s it to you?” Her voice sounded cool and skeptical.
Oh, she was just peachy. Or maybe I was losing my touch as someone who was relatable. And that would be a shame because it was the one thing I had going for me.
“I’m investigating him for a murder,” I said.
Her face paled. “What?”
I shrugged. “I’m not insinuating that he’s guilty. I’m just trying to fact-check.”
“Well, I don’t know him. Just talked to him tonight and told him to get lost.”
That might be the truth. But it might not be also. “What was he doing over here?”
“Trying to pick me up.”
“You weren’t interested?”
She snorted. “Of course not. Why would you even ask that? Do I look like his type?”
“I saw you giggle.” My argument sounded lame, but it was true. People giggled when they flirted.
“He showed me a cat video. Who doesn’t giggle at cat videos?”
“Oh.” I didn’t even know what to say about that. Cat videos could be very entertaining, especially the ones with the Roombas.
“I know who you can talk to,” someone new said.
I looked up and saw the bartender eavesdropping. He’d been faithfully wiping down the counter not too far away since I’d arrived. “Who’s that?”
He nodded across the room. “Her name is Wilma. She’s a friend of Dewey’s. And, last I heard, she’s cousins with the woman who was Dewey’s alibi on the night of those murders.”
Of course, I made my way over to Wilma. She had a petite build, short red hair—obviously dyed—and premature wrinkles. She was smoking in the corner, munching on some pretzels, and scowling.
People did that a lot lately. Or maybe it was just me that brought that out in people.
But she didn’t yell at me when I sat across from her, so I figured that was a good sign. How many people came to bars to sit alone and smoke, though?
“What do you need, honey?” she asked, blowing a puff of smoke in my face.
I slapped away the gray plume so I could breathe. “I heard you were friends with Dewey.”
“I don’t know if friends would be the right word. What do you want to know?” Her beady eyes looked at me.
I squared my gaze with hers. I might as well be direct. That was obviously her style. “I’m investigating the murder of Ron and Margie Simmons,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “Now, those are two names I haven’t heard in a very long time.”
“You were in the area when they died?”
“Of course I was. Ron, Margie, Dewey, and I . . . we were all in school at the same time.”
I added that to my mental list. Dewey had gone to school with Ron and Margie. It seems like someone should have mentioned that fact to me. “That’s interesting.”
“You’re beating around the bush,” she cackled, her voice raspy from what was probably years of smoking. “Get to it.”
Since she said it that way . . . “People have suggested Dewey as the culprit. What do you think about that?”
She didn’t break her gaze. “I’d say it was a possibility.”
Surprise—maybe satisfaction—rushed through me. “Why would you say that?”
“He’s a little unhinged, if you can’t tell.” She took another long drag.
“But is that enough reason to suspect him of murder?” I needed to get her to flesh out her thoughts. “What about motive, means, and opportunity?”
She blew another puff of airborne cancer in my face. “Let’s just say that Dewey was the awkward redneck nerd in high school, and Margie and Ron were both on homecoming court. They weren’t dating, but they were in the popular crowd. Maybe Dewey was jealous.”
That didn’t sound entirely plausible to me.
“Jealous enough to murder?” I was still trying to reconcile this. Plenty of people were jealous. Plenty of people weren’t killers because of it.
“People have murdered for far less.” She snubbed out her cigarette. I’d bet she was far wiser than she appeared. Beneath those nicotine-stained eyes, nails, and teeth was a Judge Judy wannabe.
“But he did have an alibi,” I reminded her.
She laughed—more like cackled. “You mean Jennifer Blake?”
I searched my memory. Thinking wasn’t my strongest suit right now, not when my body was screaming for rest. “Yes, I think that’s the name I saw in the file. She’s your cousin, right?”
“She is. She’s not in the area anymore, but, believe me, that alibi wasn’t airtight.”
“What do you mean?” My heart raced with anticipation.
“Dewey paid her off to say they were together.” A smile curled her lip. “He knew how it would look. You ask me, he’s as guilty as sin.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I walked into our room just in time to see Evie quickly stuffing some papers back into her bag.
Weird.
I stopped in the doorway and eyeballed her a moment, hoping she’d explain.
She didn’t.
But I felt certain she was hiding something. What in the world could she be so secretive about right now? Did it pertain to this case?
“That took a long time.” Evie straightened her back and acted as if she hadn’t been behaving strangely.
Which made it feel even stranger.
“Dewey was at the bar,” I told her, realizing I’d forgotten my ice bucket. I wasn’t going to go get it at this point. “I followed him, and it turns out that his airtight alibi isn’t so airtight.”
That got her attention, and she paused. “What do you mean?”
I told her what I’d learned.
“This just keeps getting more and more interesting,” she muttered.
“Doesn’t it? Too bad it’s still so hard to solve, though. We reach what feels like the cusp of a break and then nothing.”
“Go figure.” The air of condescension around her nearly made me want to go ballistic.
But I was the leader of this team, and I needed to set a good example. That would require using a lot of self-control.
Like, a lot of it. Every ounce of my strength kind of self-control.
Why did I have to keep reminding myself of this?
Just then, Sherman knocked at the door. I only knew because he yelled his name. I supposed with everything that had happened, it was a good idea for him to do so.
I let him in, and he took a seat in one of the old orang
e armchairs near the window by a laminate table that was chipped at the corners.
“You beckoned,” he said, popping a salted peanut in his mouth.
He’d obviously stopped by the snack machine.
“Who beckoned?” I asked.
“Evie.”
“You guys decide to have a party without me?” I dropped down on the edge of the bed.
I was still so tired from everything that had happened. But sleep still felt like it would be a long time coming.
“I thought you should know that I finished my profile.” Evie grabbed her laptop and took a stance near the TV stand. “I didn’t think you’d want to wait any longer for me to share the results.”
A touch of my exhaustion blew away like a rain cloud on an otherwise clear day. “I’d love to hear it.”
Maybe that would be just the thing to perk me up.
She let out a breath and stared at the computer in front of her. She made no effort to sit but instead stood in front of us as if she was doing a presentation at the FBI Academy or in front of a local taskforce.
Whatever worked for her.
“Based on what I’ve learned about both the area and the Simmons, I’ve pieced together a basic profile of the unsub. That’s ‘unknown subject,’ in case you didn’t know.” She glanced at me.
Irritation pinched at me. “I know that, Evie.”
I didn’t have all her degrees, but I did have years of experience.
She shrugged and continued on, unbothered by the fact that she’d offended me. “It’s my theory that this murderer did not choose his victims at random. Not only is that probability slim when you look at all the facts, but there is other reasonable data to rule out that assumption.”
In other words, it was her best guess. She had to say it all fancy-like. Was it to make herself feel more important? Or was this just who Evie was? I wasn’t sure.
“I’ve ruled out various types of crimes this could be,” she continued. “It doesn’t appear to be gang-related. There were no kidnapping demands. Drugs were not found in either of their systems or on their persons. There were no insurance claims or any evidence of sexual crimes. That leaves this murder as what I would classify as a personal one.”
Interesting. I supposed I had been thinking the same thing all along. I just didn’t know the mumbo jumbo to make it sound professional, snooty, and like an episode of Criminal Minds.
She clicked on her computer, and the light from the monitor flooded her face with a purplish-white glow. “There are several things that I’ve taken into account. The time of day the crime was committed being one of them. Also, the method of transportation to the death scene, which is still unknown. The location of the crime was another consideration. I also asked myself these questions: why would the offender choose these victims? What was his risk of detection? How did he gain access to the victims?”
Some of my attention waned as Evie had wrapped this presentation in too much gobbledygook. I really just wanted her to get to the point . . . ten minutes ago. My hair was turning gray as we spoke.
It was like someone holding a cake in front of me and refusing to let me taste it. But, in the process of denying me, explaining in great detail to the hungry one how the cake was made, what it would taste like, and how long it had been baked.
It was torturous.
So was thinking about cake.
But I knew better than to rush Evie. She would probably just make this even more painful if I tried.
“That said, this is what I believe with certainty about the unsub,” she said, as stiff and formal as ever.
Finally!
“He was a male. He was familiar with the local terrain, as well as the waterways in the area.”
I nodded. I suppose I’d already surmised most of that on my own. “Makes sense.”
“He had a general knowledge of Ron and Margie Simmons’s plans for the evening,” she continued. “He was also most likely intelligent.”
“Why do you say that?” Sherman asked, pushing those pesky glasses up again.
“For a couple of reasons.” Evie made a few clicks on her computer. “First of all, he covered his tracks. There were no footprints or any other evidence left behind. Second, he’s gone all these years without detection. That takes either luck or skill. I’d place my bets on skill—and yes, I realize the irony of my words.”
That also made sense. When she laid everything out like that, it seemed almost like common knowledge, though I’d never really thought about it before in this detail.
She paused and glanced at Sherman then me. “I do believe he’s still in this area.”
My pulse quickened. “Why would you say that?”
“Because, as I said, he was familiar with this area. That probably means he grew up here. When he committed the crime, he was most likely into adulthood—or close to it. I can’t determine a specific age. But people are creatures of habit. He probably didn’t want to move away. He feels like this is his home turf.”
“That makes sense,” I said.
“I also believe that, because this person was intelligent and because transporting Ron and Margie to the crime scene from the highway would put him at a greater risk for detection, I think the killer may have left the Simmons’s vehicle on the side of the road—planted it there—to throw the police off his trail.”
I rocked back, letting that sink in. But that would mean . . . “Did someone pick them up while in Cape Charles? Maybe force them into a car?”
“There was no sign of struggle except for a bruise on Margie’s right wrist. If someone picked them up in Cape Charles and forced them to the location at gunpoint, we’d have to assume at least two people were involved. Otherwise, there would be evidence that their hands or feet had been bound together.”
“Yes, there would be.”
“The other thing I noticed when Sherman and I put together a simulation of the crime was that Margie was shot at close range, almost like she was arguing with someone,” Evie said. “The angle of the bullet makes me envision a struggle taking place first. Ron, on the other hand, was shot from farther away and he was shot straight on. Almost like he was an observer.”
As much as this woman drove me crazy, she was great at what she did. Had I mentioned that yet? Because sometimes I had to begrudgingly remind myself of the fact. Other times, I wanted to jump for joy that she was so smart.
“Good job, Evie,” I said.
Her cool gaze met mine. “Did you think I was going to do a poor job?”
My gratefulness deflated, but I tilted my chin up anyway. “This gives us a lot to think about. It should help us narrow things down a bit also.”
“I would hope so.”
I woke up the next morning with some strange, itchy bumps on my back and still feeling weak from yesterday’s food poisoning.
As I stared at the marks in the mirror, Evie wandered from the bathroom, fresh out of the shower with a cloud of steam following her. White towels were wrapped around her body and hair.
She took one look at me and announced, “Bed bugs.”
My stomach dropped. Had I heard her correctly? “Seriously?”
Humor flickered in her gaze. “Seriously. I applied some lavender oil before I went to bed, and I’m okay. But I feared this could happen.”
“Why didn’t you give me any lavender oil?” I asked, wondering why she hadn’t included me in her little plan.
All those visions of girlfriend time were fading faster than cheap hair dye after a scorching day at the beach.
She shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
I ground my teeth together. “You thought I’d rather get bitten twenty times?”
She began towel-drying her hair, barely looking at me. “I’m used to only looking out for myself, and I thought you might turn your nose up at my use of essential oils. Some people think they’re very hokey and a scam. I, personally, think they’re a great natural alternative.”
I crossed m
y arms. “You’re not the type to care about what people think.”
Before she could respond, my cell phone rang. I saw it was Riley and excused myself to take it. It was only eight o’clock, and I was already cranky. This wasn’t a good thing. But I’d been ready to grab that oil and douse myself with it while doing a Native American-like ritual—just to annoy Evie. It was a good thing my phone rang when it did.
“Bad news,” Riley started.
Great, one more thing I could add to my list. I was about to step outside when Evie turned the hairdryer on. That was enough privacy for me.
“What’s going on?” I braced myself for the news. He’d lost his job. Our new apartment had also exploded. Radiohead was breaking up.
“The seller accepted someone else’s offer.”
The air left my lungs and disappointment replaced it. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’m sorry, Gabby. I was really hoping our offer would go through. I guess the other buyer offered ten thousand more than we did.”
“Ten thousand? That’s a significant amount.” An amount we didn’t have and couldn’t magically come up with.
“I know. It is. But we were able to put in a backup offer. A lot of things can happen with financing, so if this falls through, we’re next in line.”
I leaned against the wall and peered through the curtain. I didn’t see anything interesting going on outside. “Well, that’s good news, at least.”
“And, in the meantime, we’ll keep looking. Maybe there’s something better out there for us.”
“Maybe.” I hadn’t realized how much I’d gotten my hopes up that we’d get this house. But I’d already planned out what color I’d paint the kitchen—a cheerful yellow, of course. I’d envisioned cookouts in the backyard and had decided which room we’d reserve as a nursery.
Yes, a nursery. Maybe I was ready to start the family I’d never had. More ready than I’d ever thought, which surprised me as much as anyone.
“Hold on one minute, Gabby.” Someone talked in the background, and Riley came back on the line. “Look, my next client is here, so I’ve got to run. We’ll talk later, okay?”
Clean Getaway (Squeaky Clean Mysteries Book 13) Page 12