by Gina Cresse
Suddenly, I remembered Peter Champion, whom we’d left at the hotel in Tijuana. “We need to go talk to Peter to find out what happened. If he tipped her off, there’s a chance that he was also involved in Lou’s murder.”
Sam shook his head. “He wasn’t involved. She told me what happened. Did you ask him if he’d ever sailed before you came up with your plan?”
“No,” I answered.
“Well, Casey has been sailing since she was four. When he showed her those pictures of your boat, she asked him a few basic questions. He didn’t have a clue. That’s what made her suspicious and caused her to run,” Sam said.
Craig put his arm around my shoulders. “The one hole in our perfect plan,” he said. “We better go get your car and let Peter know what’s going on.”
We both looked to Sam for permission to leave. He waved us off like a pair of obedient dogs who’d performed well for houseguests.
Chapter Sixteen
Casey remained in the hospital until she was well enough to go to jail. Her father hired a team of expensive attorneys who would, no doubt, put every resource they had into getting her sentence minimized to something obscene. I wondered if those lawyers would mind if the judge released her into their custody, and they could be responsible for her actions for the rest of her life.
Sam had interrogated her several times. She confessed that she knew about Lou’s fishing trip because he’d told her about it the day he bought the winning ticket. She remembered where he kept the spare key because once she had to make a grocery delivery to the house when Lou’s wife was ill and Lou had to be out of town. He informed her where the key was so she could let herself in without disturbing Mrs. Winnomore.
She’d gotten the cyanide from a local chemical supply firm where one of her classmates worked part-time. She’d used what she learned from Peter Champion’s art classes to come up with a formula to cover my signature on the back of the lottery ticket. She’d done a good job. It fooled the lottery officials, but now that the murder investigation was in full swing, the ticket would have to be closely inspected and put through a battery of tests. Undoubtedly, my original signature would be uncovered and a whole new can of worms would be opened.
I had to remind Sam three times that I’d won our bet. The murderer was in fact female, just as I’d predicted. He tried to weasel out, so I let him modify the payoff. He agreed to buy the food and drinks, and Craig and I took him out on the Plan C for a weekend fishing trip. That made it a win-win all the way around.
Bridgett Winnomore hired an attorney to help reclaim the million dollars that rightfully belonged to Lou Winnomore’s heirs. In all likelihood, the money would be spit equally between her son, Scotty, and Lou’s two remaining children, Frank and Nellie. Of course, Raven Covina would petition for half of Scotty’s inheritance for her own son, Bahama Breeze. Bridgett was also going to try to reclaim Arthur Simon’s winnings. Even before she knew that it would be my signature found on the ticket, and not Lou Winnomore’s, she insisted on naming me as a beneficiary in her lawsuit, along with her family. Gary at the King Rooster had given her a job at my recommendation, and she was so thankful, she wanted to pay me back.
Of course, there was no telling how it would all turn out. It would probably depend on who had the better lawyers. I figured Simon could afford the best, so his chances for keeping at least some of the money were pretty good. Even if he had to give it up in the end, he’d earn so much interest on it during the years that he’d probably drag it out in court that he’d still come out ahead.
I’d just put the last coat of paint on Rancho Costa Little, and had an appointment to meet Fiona there so I could sign the sales listing. She barreled down the road in her big boat of a car and screeched to a halt in front of the house. I watched her pile out of the car and open the trunk. She hoisted a Fiona Oliviera Realty sign out and hung it on the post that was still planted in the ground from when I originally bought the house.
I invited her in to see how I’d fixed the place up, and to sign the papers.
“Oh, it’s just darling, toots!” she exclaimed as she wandered through the house, admiring the rooms. “You did such a good job.”
I thanked her and we stood at the kitchen counter to go over the papers. She suggested an asking price, which was exactly what I had in mind, so the rest was easy. I signed the papers and she quickly handed me my copies and headed for the door.
“Want to celebrate? We could head over to Miguel’s for a Margarita,” I said as she was nearly out the door.
“Can’t tonight, toots. Got a date,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows. “A date? With who?” I asked.
“Arthur Simon,” she answered, grinning from ear to ear, exposing that big gap between her front teeth.
“I guess you finally got his number,” I said, laughing.
“I certainly do. If it works out, I’ll invite you to the wedding,” she said as she gave me a wink and headed out the door.
I locked up Rancho Costa Little and headed for my car. I had to make one stop on the way home. Craig had called me earlier in the day to tell me he was taking me out to dinner. He was being very sly on the phone, so I guessed he was up to something.
I walked into the house carrying a big box wrapped with a large red ribbon and decked out with a bow. Craig greeted me at the door. He was holding an envelope, also decorated with a bow.
“Hey, yours is bigger than mine,” he said, pointing at the box in my arms.
“What do you mean?” I asked, staring at the envelope in his hand.
We carried our gifts into the living room. I made Craig open his first. He was as excited about his new banjo as a kid getting his very own fire truck. He picked out a few vaguely familiar tunes and assured me that with a little practice, he’d be playing at the annual Bluegrass Festival with the pros.
I carefully opened the envelope he’d given me and pulled out the bundle of brochures. One was for Yellowstone National Park, one was for the Kentucky Derby, and the other for the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. I smiled at him.
“The Derby is the first Saturday in May, so we need to start planning now,” he said.
“Really? We’re going?”
“That’s just this year. Next year, we’ll pick some more places we’d like to see. No point in waiting for someday. Someday never happens.”
I spread the brochures out on the table in front of me and listened to my banjo-playing husband pluck out another tune. No amount of money in the world could have made me happier than I was at that moment. I closed my eyes and wondered what I’d wear to the Derby.