Sucker Punch

by Sammi Carter

  Max found something interesting buried beneath an old pile of snow and stopped to investigate.

  The man come to a halt and held out a hand. “John Haversham, KZPY News.”

  Irritated that he’d slipped up on me that way, I ignored the proffered hand. “You’re a reporter.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “It’s the beady eyes. They give you away. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  Grinning as if he was having a great time, he lowered his hand. “Aw, come on. Surely you can spare two minutes.”

  “For you? Afraid not.” I put my head down and tugged on Max’s leash, determined to ignore him.

  “Hey! Give me a break!” He hurried past me and tried to block my path. “This is the biggest news story of my career. Why don’t you just tell me what you know?”

  “Not a chance.” I brushed past him and kept walking. Max kept an eye on him, but his little stump tail wagged as if he’d found a new best friend. Some attack dog.

  Haversham didn’t give up. “Detective Svboda named Richie Bellieu as a person of interest in the case. What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing I’m going to share with you.”

  “I thought they said he was a friend of yours. Or did I get that wrong?”

  I ground to a halt, and he had to sidestep quickly to avoid plowing into me. “Yeah, he’s a friend of mine. And he happens to be innocent, so why don’t you leave him alone?”

  A pleased grin inched across the reporter’s face. He held up both hands, lifting and lowering them alternately as if they were scales. “Gee, I don’t know. The police tell me he’s a person of interest. The lady from the candy store says he’s innocent. Which one should I pay the most attention to?”

  Growling in frustration, I took a step away. “If that’s your attitude, I have nothing to say. Max, kill.”

  With a laugh, Haversham grabbed my arm and pulled me around to face him. “Listen, Abby. You’re not doing your friend any favors.”

  Max and I growled at the same time. “Get your hand off me.”

  Haversham seemed to realize that he’d gone too far. Releasing me, he backed a step away and held up his hands to show both of us that he wasn’t a threat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that I need some answers. There are too many loose pieces to this case. Nothing fits.”

  “And you want me to help you.”

  “I was thinking we could help each other. People tell me you have a knack for finding things out. Is that right?”

  If he thought I was going to admit that to a reporter, he was nuts. There are laws. “I’m a candymaker,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “Okay.” Haversham laughed under his breath and shook his head. “You’re also in the cast of the play that’s in production at the Playhouse, is that right?”

  I couldn’t see any harm in admitting that. “That’s right.”

  Max had gone back to wagging his tail. Traitor.

  “How long have you known Richie Bellieu?” Haversham got brave enough to hold out his hand for Max to inspect. When the dog didn’t bite it off, Haversham moved it slowly to Max’s head and commenced scratching.

  Max sat and closed his eyes in ecstasy.

  I rolled my eyes in exasperation, and answered Haversham’s question. If he’d been in Paradise for longer than ten minutes, he already knew the answer. “A couple of years.”

  “And Laurence Nichols? How long did you know him?”

  “Never met the man.”

  “You were in the same production, but you never met him? You expect me to believe that?”

  “Frankly, I don’t care what you believe. But yeah, we were in the same production and we never met. He died before we could be introduced.”

  “Got it. How well did Richie Bellieu know him?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Let’s go, Max. We’re through here.”

  “My sources tell me that they met recently.”

  I slanted a glance at him. “See? You don’t need me.”

  “I’ve been told that Bellieu tried to initiate a romantic relationship with Nichols. Didn’t he realize that Nichols was straight?”

  What was I supposed to say to that? I wished I’d never said good morning to the creep. “Your sources are wrong,” I told him. “Richie Bellieu did not try to initiate a romantic relationship with Laurence Nichols.”

  “Then what did Nichols do to upset him?”

  “What makes you think he was upset?”

  “I have a witness who heard Bellieu threaten to kill Nichols.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Haversham tried to catch up with me, but I walked faster so I could stay a step ahead. “This witness heard your boy Richie say, and I quote, ‘I ought to rip his fucking heart out.’ Pardon the language.”

  I rounded on him, my heart slamming against my rib cage. “Don’t be ridiculous. Richie would never say something like that.”

  “And yet he did. I take it you didn’t know?”

  I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know anything about it. Who told you he said that?”

  Haversham perched on the edge of a concrete flower box. “You want me to reveal my source? When you won’t even answer a few simple questions? I can’t do that. Tit for tat, Ms. Shaw. You give me a little something, I give you a little something back.”

  I hated bargaining with the devil, but my conscience wouldn’t let me walk away from whatever he knew. “Tell me the name of your witness. If it’s somebody credible, I’ll give you something.”

  His smile grew a little wider. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “Fine. Who told you about it?”

  “My witness is a stagehand named Jason Dahl. You know him?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” Was it true? Had Jason heard Richie threaten Laurence? I couldn’t think of any reason for him to lie, but why hadn’t he mentioned it to anyone else?

  Or had he? I asked, “Do the police know about this?”

  “They do now. Now, what have you got for me?”

  I didn’t want to tell him anything, but if I went back on my word I’d only create trouble for everyone. “What do you want to know?”

  “Laurence Nichols and Serena Cummings. What’s the deal between them?”

  We were skirting dangerous ground now, and I had no intention of opening my big mouth. “What makes you think there’s any ‘deal’ between them?”

  “Again, a source. What can you tell me?”

  I gave that some thought. It wouldn’t be hard to find out that Laurence had worked with Vonetta all those years ago, so I gave him the version approved for public access. “They knew each other years ago,” I said. “They met when he was working on a play for her mother.”

  “And? Why did she hit him?”

  “She hit him? When?”

  Haversham rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Do you know anything I don’t?”

  “Probably not. When did she hit him?”

  “According to my witness, Laurence cornered her in the back of the theater the day he died.”

  So, Serena had lied to me when she said she hadn’t seen Laurence again.

  “I don’t know what he said to her,” Haversham went on, “but she hauled off and whacked him—or so I’m told. Do you have any idea why?”

  What a choice. I could tell him and destroy Serena’s trust in me, or I could lie to him and go back on my word. A sudden chill raced through me, but I didn’t think it was from the weather.

  I wish I could say that revealing the truth about Serena’s affair with Laurence and her abortion wouldn’t have a negative impact on Vonetta’s reputation in town, but what if I was wrong? Attitudes in Paradise have changed a lot in the past forty years, but we’re not perfect yet. I could name half a dozen influential people off the top of my head who would use anything—even a decades-old mistake—to prove that people who didn’t fit the mold were some kind of moral, emotional, or physical threat
to the community. Oh, sure, there are a lot more reasonable people around than idiots, but one idiot can do a whole lot of damage in a short period of time.

  “I don’t know,” I said, willing myself to give nothing away. “I’ve been trying to find out, but I haven’t been able to yet.”

  Haversham studied my expression for a long time before he pushed away from the empty flower box. “Yeah. Well. You gamble a lot in this business. Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes you don’t.” He pointed one finger at me. “But you owe me, Abby. Remember that.”

  Chapter 22

  I walked away from Haversham furious with Richie for forgetting to mention that he’d threatened Laurence. I wondered how much longer Vonetta’s secrets were going to stay hidden, and I was more determined than ever to find the killer before those old stories had to be revealed. I checked my watch and decided I could spare a few more minutes away from Divinity. This was as good a time as any to find out if Doyle Brannigan had really been tossing back a few with his fellow Caribou at the time of the murder.

  The Avalanche is a small bar tucked neatly behind a dry cleaner and a travel agent. I’ve been inside before, but only a handful of times. Most of the clientele is in the over-fifty crowd, and you’re more likely to find truck drivers and ranchers bellied up to the bar than upwardly mobile professionals.

  A U-shaped bar takes up one side of the building. A band-stand and dance floor take up the other half. It was still too early for the after work crowd, but already a local garage band plucked out tired versions of old country favorites. The only people who appeared to be listening were the bartender and one drunk young woman who danced alone in front of the stage.

  I ran a glance over the bar’s patrons, noticed a familiar figure, and hitched myself onto a stool next to my Uncle Whit. He’s a big man who’s always been able to hold his own in any situation. When I was a kid, his bulk came from muscle. That wasn’t the case any longer.

  He crushed out a cigarette and squinted at me through the smoke. “Hey, princess! What brings you here?” His gravelly voice, carved over the years by way too many cigarettes, sounded like music to my ears. When I didn’t answer immediately, his obvious delight at seeing me faded quickly and his squint turned suspicious. “Your aunt Becky didn’t send you, did she?”

  I leaned up to kiss his weathered cheek and ordered a margarita—frozen, with salt—from the hovering bartender. “Relax,” I said with a grin. “Your wife didn’t send me. You’re perfectly safe.”

  Whit wagged his gray head from side to side. “I doubt that. That old woman’s always sending people out to spy on me. She sent your cousin Bea in here after me last week.”

  I barely suppressed a groan. I’ve had my share of run-ins with Bea, and I wouldn’t wish an encounter with her on my worst enemy. Aunt Becky must have been feeling pretty desperate to skip her own kids and send Bea to drag Uncle Whit home. I sympathized with her, but Uncle Whit looked so forlorn, I actually felt sorry for him. Yeah, he drinks more than he should, and he smokes like a chimney. He’s made my Aunt Becky’s life interesting, and not always in pleasant ways, but he has a heart of gold and he’d help anyone who needed it. “Well, I hope you sent her packing.”

  The band finished one song and started another. Whit shook a fresh cigarette from the pack in front of him. “Bea means well, even if she does sometimes come across like some biddy from the Salvation Army.”

  I laughed and nudged him with my shoulder. “You shouldn’t say things like that about Bea, even if they are true.”

  Whit grinned at me like we were grand conspirators and struck a match. He inhaled greedily, sucking in the very thing that’s probably going to kill him. “I don’t know what happened with that girl, but I blame her mother.”

  I bit my lip and ducked my head to hide my smile. Bea’s mother, Aunt Evelyn, is a nice lady and I do love her. Really. But she is a bit of a cold fish, and she never has fit in with the family like the other in-laws. “Well, I didn’t come to check up on you,” I assured him again. “I’m here for a totally different reason.”

  His wise old eyes narrowed behind another plume of smoke. “Something to do with the way that young fella died?”

  I never could get anything past him. “Yeah,” I said. “Something about the way Laurence Nichols died.” My margarita appeared, and Uncle Whit and I haggled for a few minutes over who was going to pay for it. He’s not a wealthy man, but he has a lot of pride, so I eventually let him win. I’d find a way to get him back, anyway.

  I took a mouthful of slush, making sure I got just the right amount of salt with it. “Were you in here on Monday night?” It wasn’t really a question. Uncle Whit was at the Avalanche every night, but just about everyone in the family pretended not to know that.

  “The night of the accident?” I waited while Whit pretended to give that some thought. “I think I was for a little while. Why?”

  “Any chance you were here between eight thirty and midnight?”

  “Sure. It was a Caribou meeting. I got here a little after six and stayed until Wyatt came by. That was probably about one.” Most people don’t know that Wyatt frequently stops by to drive uncle Whit home. It’s not something Wyatt ever talks about, but it’s proof that behind his gruff exterior he has a heart of gold. The rest of the family is so grateful he gets Whit home safely, we all pretend not to know what he’s doing.

  “You know a guy named Doyle Brannigan?”

  Uncle Whit perked up at that. “Sure I know him. He’s a Brother Caribou.”

  “Did you see him in here that night?”

  Whit thought again, and this time I thought his confusion was probably genuine. After six most nights, he lives in a state of perpetual fog. “We’re talking about the night that guy got himself killed, right?”

  I nodded and sucked up more margarita. “Did you see him?”

  “He was here,” Whit said slowly. “Bought a round of drinks, as I recall.”

  Making sure he’d be remembered? Clever. “How long did he stay?”

  Whit took a long pull on the beer in his hand and signaled for another. “He was here until the end.”

  That’s about what I expected to hear. “Did he ever leave your sight? Maybe to visit the men’s room or make a phone call?”

  Whit flicked ash, missed the ashtray, and brushed it off the bar with his hand. “You askin’ if maybe he could have slipped out and done the deed?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but not very likely. Monday night was a big night. Had our monthly business meeting and the dartboard championships. If Doyle had left, he’d ’a had to walk right past me ’cuz I was sittin’ right over there.” He closed one eye and pointed with his cigarette toward a seat near the entrance.

  “What about the back way? Could he have gone out without anyone knowing?”

  Uncle Whit sucked something from a tooth and looked toward the back of the bar. “You looked out the back way lately?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Nobody’s goin’ out that way, girl. It’s been blocked for the past two years.” Concern flashed through his eyes, and he dropped his voice and leaned closer. “Just don’t tell nobody. The fire marshal would shut this place down in a heartbeat if word was to get out.”

  “This place hasn’t inspected in that long?”

  Whit lifted one burly shoulder. “Sure it’s been inspected.” He winked, as if to say I knew how things worked, and I guess I did. Junior Evans, the bar’s owner, was a loyal member of the Caribou and so was the fire marshal. Everyone knows the Caribou take care of their own.

  “There’s no other way out of here?”

  “Not that I know about.” Uncle Whit took another pull on his beer. “You can’t seriously think Doyle killed that fella.”

  “I seriously think he’s one of half a dozen people who might have,” I said with a rueful grin. “All I know is that Richie Bellieu is innocent, so if it wasn’t Richie, and it wasn’t Doyle, who was it?
”

  Whit crushed out his second cigarette and plucked a stray bit of tobacco from his tongue. “Who’s gonna get something now that the man’s dead?”

  “His manager. He’s already circling like a vulture over Laurence’s estate.” I drummed my fingers on the bar while I gave that question some more thought. “Doyle gets his wife back.”

  Whit shook his grizzled head again. “Couldn’t ’a been him, sweetheart. I told ya, he was here all night.”

  “Alexander Pastorelli wins their long-standing rivalry, and he’s pretty bitter about something he invested in that he blames Laurence for. I don’t know if that would be enough to drive him to murder, but Alexander is the last man standing.”

  “How about women?” Uncle Whit asked. “Lord love ’em, they’re usually at the root of a man’s sorrows.”

  I mentally cataloged Vonetta, Serena, and Colleen. “Could be,” I said around another mouthful of slush. “Somebody he screwed over in the past?”

  Uncle Whit nodded. “Or an ex-girlfriend who didn’t like the way things ended? Anybody like that hanging around?”

  “Yeah, probably. Laurence Nichols wasn’t a very nice person.” I propped my chin in my hands. “I’ve found lots of people who hated him, even people who had pretty good reasons for wanting him out of the way. But I still don’t see how someone could have committed murder by cutting the safety cable on that spotlight—unless the murderer is the luckiest person on the face of the earth.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t murder.”

  “Then why attack Vonetta? And if Vonetta does know something she shouldn’t, why hasn’t whoever it was attacked again? Nothing about this makes any sense.”

  Uncle Whit put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Cheer up, pumpkin. Somebody out there knows what you’re looking for, and one of these days they’ll talk.”

  Maybe so, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. Even if Uncle Whit was right, would the truth come out soon enough to help Richie?

  Buoyed by the margarita and time spent with Uncle Whit, I hurried back to Divinity. I spent the rest of that evening and all the next day restocking the rapidly dwindling display of Valentine’s Day candy bouquets. I filled half a dozen vases with chocolate roses or heart-shaped lollipops, added silk greenery and baby’s breath, and arranged the vases on the display case just inside the front door. When I’d finished with those, I dragged a dozen baskets from the supply cupboard and filled each with homemade fudge, brittle, cherry divinity, and other assorted candies.