“Hell and damnation,” Quinn said. “That’s all I need. It’s bad enough I had to tell the police about it. I hope their need to know policy is as secure as they claim.”
Varsha and I both held out our palms while Quinn fished for more change.
I dropped two more quarters in my purse. “Do you know what the police are doing to track down other people who might know about the secret access?”
Quinn shook his head. “I’d like to think they’re working on it, but now that Natasha Korba’s stepfather is in custody, they seem to be concentrating on him. At least for the moment.”
“Is Abel Gailworth back in Timbergate?” Varsha asked.
Quinn nodded. “He’s back and in jail. Melissa’s willing to press any charges the district attorney’s office can come up with, and Hector Korba is loaded for bear. He has an army of lawyers already in place. He won’t stop until he has custody of Natasha, and Gailworth is in prison. Gailworth can’t afford bail or a lawyer, so he’ll be assigned a public defender. Maybe that’s already been done.”
“So he’s in jail for trying to flee the country with his family against his wife’s wishes, but he hasn’t been charged with Lowe’s murder?” I wanted to be sure where things stood.
“That’s what I’ve been told by Korba.” Quinn folded his napkin and placed it on the table. “Apparently I’m still a suspect myself, since I’m getting scant information from Detective Kass about the status of the murder investigation.”
I watched Quinn and Varsha leave Margie’s together, chatting comfortably. They would make a striking couple, if that’s where their relationship was headed. I wondered if Varsha shared my qualms about dating the boss. I turned my attention away from romance and quickly finished my bowl of Margie’s Hoppin’ John. Lukewarm, but still delicious.
Back at my desk, I wondered if Nick and Harry’s excursion to the building permit office in Sacramento had turned up any new leads. Nick had said they would be home Friday night. They had promised to update me, but neither of them had checked in by phone or text. I envied them the opportunity to spend time at the jujitsu tournament with people from the other dojos in the region. I promised myself I would find a way to get on the mat more often as soon as my knee was healed.
The remains of Thursday afternoon slogged by as I labored over one of several grant proposals, in between filling requests for articles from online medical journals. Necessary tasks, but hardly exciting. And no word from Nick or Harry. By quitting time I could hardly keep my eyes open.
I drove home through drizzling rain, tossed hay to the llamas, then raided my fridge for leftovers. The choices were dodgy. The cottage cheese failed my sniff test. The fresh salad mix was anything but fresh and the bread was turning green. I was out of cereal and milk, so I settled for a snack of pretzels dipped in honey mustard while I made a grocery list. With nothing better to do on a Thursday night, I decided to run errands. I filled my car with gas, shopped for groceries, and even did a load of laundry at Amah’s.
Later I surfed channels, but nothing caught my eye, so I settled in with a new C. J. Box novel I’d borrowed from Amah and Jack. The drizzle had turned into light rainfall that sprinkled the roof over my head in a gently hypnotic pattern.
An hour and several chapters later, my cell phone rang. Nick or Harry? Neither. It was Rita Lowe.
“Aimee, I hope it isn’t too late. I have a bit of information for you.” I assured her that it wasn’t too late and asked why she had called.
“Do you recall our conversation about my well-meaning friend who spotted Gavin and Sybil Snyder together at a medical conference in Sacramento a little more than a month ago?”
“Yes. We both wondered if she had reported that sighting to Sybil’s husband, but you were reluctant to ask.”
“Indeed. That’s why I’m calling. I just got off the phone with her. Apparently she shares her nose for scandal with several cohorts. She was sure I’d be interested in a new snippet and felt compelled to deliver it to me before someone beat her to it.” I heard the disdain in her voice.
“What did she say? Did Capshaw know about his wife and your husband?”
“Apparently so. I always imagine her circle of gossips standing around a cauldron and stirring rumors like the three witches in Macbeth. It seems one of them took it upon herself to ‘put a bug in Capshaw’s ear,’ is how she put it.”
“Did she say when this happened?”
“Oh, early on. At about the same time I was told. But there’s more.”
“Really?” I said. “What else did she say?”
“Sybil was seeing a second man on the side. Someone other than my husband.”
Double, double toil and trouble. I was rapidly developing a soft spot for the well-meaning gossips of the world.
“Did she say who it was?” I flashed back on Sybil Snyder’s phone conversation with Hector Korba, but I didn’t want to feed his name to Rita.
“I’m afraid I didn’t get that information. But my source, whom I shall call Witch Number One, is positive that her source, Witch Number Two, is reliable.”
“Is there any way you can get the man’s name?”
“Unlikely. Apparently Witch Number Two wasn’t willing to go on record with that. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. If the word about this second man is out there, chances are we’ll hear about him eventually.”
“I hope it won’t be too late,” Rita said.
“What do you mean?”
“If Capshaw’s jealousy led him to kill my husband, what’s to stop him from doing the same thing if he finds out about Sybil Snyder’s other lover?”
Her comment set my thoughts spinning. It hadn’t occurred to me that Hector Korba’s life might be in danger. If he were gone, who would see to the welfare of Natasha Korba and her mother? Rita and I agreed to stay in touch, especially if either of us could confirm the identity of the other man in Sybil Snyder’s convoluted sex life.
Chapter 33
“Any word?” Cleo checked in by phone Friday morning at work. She was as anxious as I was to know if Nick and Harry had come up with any leads.
“Nothing from the guys, and nothing from Rella, but I did have an interesting call last night. Want to do lunch?” The doctors who served on medical staff committees steadfastly refused to meet on Friday, so it was the one day that Cleo was usually free at lunchtime.
“Sounds good. I’ll drop by the library at noon. We can walk to Margie’s together.”
When Lola appeared for her morning shift at nine o’clock, she looked particularly perky. I wondered if her romance with Bernie Kluckert had something to do with the twinkle in her eye. Then I recalled how subdued Bernie had been the day before. Lola never hesitated to ask about my love life, but I stifled my impulse to ask about hers. I already had plenty to think about.
The morning was busy enough to pass quickly and keep me from obsessing about when I might hear from Nick and Harry, or when they would be home from Sacramento. I was replacing the toner cartridge in our copy machine when Lola approached.
“Miss Machado, may I have a word?”
“Of course, Lola. What is it?” I glanced at the wall clock. Eleven thirty. Ample time to hear Lola out before noon.
“I’m afraid it’s rather personal. Nevertheless, I’d like your opinion.” Her cheeks flushed, and I caught a faint scent of lilacs. “That is, unless I’m imposing. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
I clicked the toner cartridge in place and invited Lola to sit with me in the library’s reading alcove.
“Now, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind and we’ll take it from there?”
“I’ve been offered a proposition,” she said. “It’s rather sudden, but I’m considering accepting, yet I don’t want to act rashly.”
“What sort of proposition?” I hoped she wasn’t going to leave her position in the library in favor of another department.
“An engagement, actually.” Lola’s lips pressed
together in a shy smile. “Bernie has asked me to be his fiancée.” Not what I was expecting, but I kept a straight face in spite of my surprise.
“Then you’re planning to marry him?”
“Oh, no. Marriage at our age is far too complicated. We each have trusts leaving our assets to our grown children, and our individual incomes allow us to get by nicely without depending on each other. Bernie just felt I would be more comfortable with a formal acknowledgment of our commitment, so he suggested we be engaged until … well, until … you understand.”
“Yes, I think so.” Until death do you part. “But you and Bernie have been seeing each other for such a short time. Are you sure this commitment is what you want?”
“Bernie and I are not strangers to each other. His late wife and I were friends a number of years ago. She always spoke warmly of him and how thoughtful he was. And now that we’re reacquainted, I’m finding him to be wonderful company. We enjoy many of the same things. And we don’t have the luxury of a long future together. Bernie is almost ninety, you know. We want to share quality time while we can.”
“It sounds as if you’ve given this a lot of thought. How do your children feel about it?”
“They’re quite happy, actually. They’ve been hoping I would find a nice companion. They check up on anyone I date. They weren’t too impressed with Oslo Swanson, but they know Bernie’s a straight arrow and they like him.”
I glanced at the time. Cleo would be stopping by any minute. “Lola, your practical approach to romance in the golden years makes a lot of sense. I think you and Bernie are going to have a lovely engagement.”
“So do I, Miss Machado. I hope one day soon it will be your turn to wear an engagement ring.” I caught the unspoken implication. You’re not getting any younger, either.
Cleo entered the library, saving me from the need to respond. Lola wished us a good lunch and went on her way.
Cleo and I walked the short distance to Margie’s Bean Pot, where we were greeted by the fragrant aroma of lentil soup with lamb sausage. We each filled a bowl at the self-serve bar and headed for our usual table in the back corner.
I quickly filled Cleo in on Rita Lowe’s news that Sybil Snyder had been juggling two lovers while trying to keep her husband in the dark.
“No idea who the second man is?” Cleo said.
“Rita had no idea, but I still suspect it’s Korba.”
“Hmm. Gavin Lowe I could almost understand. He was still kind of hot, in a middle-aged sort of way. But Korba? That would be like making love to a steam roller.”
“There’s no accounting for Sybil Snyder’s taste,” I said. “We can’t be sure he’s the other man, but if he is, Rita Lowe suggested he could be Capshaw’s next victim.”
“You’re implying that Capshaw killed Lowe out of jealousy?”
“That’s Rita’s take. She thinks Snyder’s other lover might be in Capshaw’s sights.”
“There’s a flaw in that theory,” Cleo said. “Capshaw can’t be the killer. He was nowhere near TMC the night Lowe was shot.”
“What?” I dropped my spoon and nearly spilled soup on my lap. “How do you know that?”
“The checking I’ve been doing has paid off. Capshaw volunteers at a free clinic on an Indian reservation two counties away. He volunteers there every Monday night. He was on duty the night Lowe was killed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me. I’m sure. He may not be great husband material, but I’ve heard that he’s extremely dedicated when it comes to donating his time and medical skills. He’s also been involved in Doctors Without Borders for several years.”
“I suppose it’s implausible to think he hired someone else to dispatch Gavin Lowe.”
Cleo sighed. “Anything’s possible, but I’m guessing the only thing Capshaw’s guilty of is thinking his marriage to Sybil Snyder is worth salvaging.”
“Then the only suspect with a motive that makes sense is Abel Gailworth. I hope the police are following up on that angle.”
“Sorry, but I got the latest from Quinn on that score just before I met you in the library.”
“Really?” My left trapezius muscle seized up in a cramp. “Don’t tell me Gailworth has an alibi.
“He has an alibi. A pretty good one.”
“I suppose he was doing God’s work in some homeless shelter that night.” The cramp tightened, working its way up the back of my neck.
“Nope. He’s still a sleaze. He was in San Francisco that night, but if he was doing God’s work, he was trying to save the soul of a hooker with a heart of gold.”
“Beautiful. Saved by debauchery. Did Quinn tell you about this, too?” The cramp reached the top of my head. Ouch.
“He did. It seems the police did a pretty thorough job of investigating the preacher man after he pulled his let’s flee the country stunt with Melissa and Natasha.”
“So Detective Kass is suddenly sharing that kind of information with Quinn? Why?”
“Because Gailworth’s abduction case began at TMC. For now, Quinn’s back in charge and not accused of any crime. As administrator, he has a right to be kept informed.” Cleo smiled. “Looks like Kass is kind of stuck with that, but you can imagine he’s not thrilled.”
I put down my spoon and took a long sip of water. “Okay … so the police have eliminated Gailworth as a suspect, and we know Capshaw couldn’t have done it, but we still have a few improbables to consider.”
Cleo shrugged. “Like who?”
“Varsha knew about the secret passage. She had a key.”
“Forget Varsha,” Cleo said with a dismissive gesture. “You might as well accuse me.”
“Okay, then. Sanjay?”
Cleo shook her head. “What motive?”
“I get the impression he’d like to have Quinn’s job.”
“Murder Lowe and frame Quinn? Risk death row in the hope of a promotion? Sanjay might be ambitious, but he isn’t stupid.”
“Then consider Rita Lowe’s motive,” I said. “Years of putting up with her husband’s cheating. Maybe she reached a breaking point.”
“You’re going with the scorned woman theory?”
Her question spun me in another direction. “Possibly, but if not Rita, then let’s apply that theory to someone else. If Macbeth’s tale-telling witches are to be believed, Sybil Snyder and Lowe were lovers. Maybe Snyder was the woman scorned. What if Lowe had dumped her for a new flavor of the month? What if taking Korba as a lover on the rebound hadn’t quelled her anger?”
Cleo looked skeptical. “It’s a stretch to imagine Hector Korba as anyone’s lover, even on the rebound.”
“Well let’s think about that.”
“Ick.” Cleo’s nose wrinkled. “Why?”
“Not about his qualifications as a lover. About where he fits into this mystery. Remember, until we saw what was on Lowe’s flash drive, we thought it was a given that Lowe would testify in Korba’s favor at the custody hearing.”
“But don’t forget, Lowe’s note showing that he was leaning in the other direction didn’t surface until at least a week after his death.”
“True. And when it did, the note still wasn’t a slam dunk for Natasha’s parents. There were conditions attached.”
Cleo nodded. “That’s right. Korba would have used that to his advantage. I’ve known him a long time, Aimee. He’s as cunning as a Mafia don and he’s already demonstrated amazing patience and tenacity where Natasha’s concerned. I don’t see him blowing his chances by gunning down Lowe. He’d use other forms of persuasion.”
“Could you see him killing Lowe in a jealous rage over Sybil Snyder?”
At that, Cleo laughed out loud. “Sorry, no. Not in a million years.”
I sighed. “Then we’re almost back to where we started. With Gailworth and Capshaw off the list, that leaves Quinn as the prime suspect.”
Cleo gave me a somber look. “Not quite, Aimee. It leaves Quinn and you.”
With that, the cramp
dialed up another notch, but I managed to exit the restaurant without moaning in pain and making a scene.
Later that afternoon I was feeling much better, thanks to a stop in the ER and a prescription for muscle relaxers. My cell phone signaled an incoming text from Harry. He and Nick were leaving the dojo in Sacramento, stopping for a bite to eat, and then heading to the airport. They would be back in Timbergate at six o’clock. He ended with a brief comment: “Might have a lead.”
Six o’clock. Two hours to wait for an explanation.
Chapter 34
Friday evening Nick, Cleo, and I huddled with Harry in the dining room of his condo to compare notes over coffee and chocolate-dipped biscotti. Nick reported that he and Harry had copied the permit for Quinn’s bathroom and forwarded it to Rella. While she was in D.C., she asked around, but came up with nothing.
Then, just as she arrived back in New York Friday morning to fly Buck Sawyer home, she heard from a former pilot buddy who had left the military and joined the Secret Service. Her buddy had done some checking on Quinn’s contractor, whose name was on record as Bob Smith, owner of Portico Construction. According to the buddy, Bob Smith—not his real name—was no longer a boomer doing safe rooms and secret passageways. He was no longer, period. Ironically, the man who protected folks from home invasions and terrorists had choked to death in D.C. on a hot dog from a street vendor’s cart.
“But you said we might have a lead.” I fixed a look at Harry.
“I got that in a text from Rella this morning. She didn’t have time to go into detail.”
“Where is she?” Cleo asked. “Shouldn’t she be here?”
“She’s probably touching down at Timbergate Muni right about now.” Nick checked his phone. “I was right. She and Buck are at the hangar.”
Harry read aloud from his screen. “No word yet. Maybe tomorrow.”
“That’s a big fat disappointment,” Cleo said. “I was hoping she had news that we could take to the police.” She tapped Harry’s phone. “You guys need to let us know the minute you hear anything useful from her. Then maybe we should all get together again tomorrow.”
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