by Arlene Kay
“Surprised to see you here, Perri,” he said. “Slumming with the natives or hunting for clues?” His message was serious, but his eyes twinkled a bit.
I shrugged. “Just kicking back.”
Roar’s grin was a thing of beauty. “Why do I not believe you? Listen. This stuff—fooling around with a double murderer—is serious. Cut it out before you get hurt.”
Like an obedient child, I nodded. Luckily, Roar didn’t see that my fingers were crossed. “Any progress to report?”
He stepped in close enough to touch my hand. “Sorry. That’s police business. No civilians allowed.”
“Persistence” was my middle name, with “plucky” a close second. Some have suggested that “pesky” was an even better fit. Either way, I had to somehow penetrate the thin blue line between cop and civilian. I tried a throw-away comment. “Bethany was blackmailing someone. I think she saw Lee’s killer.”
Genna Watts would have slapped me in cuffs. Roar exhaled instead. “Do tell.” There was that insouciant grin again. I stifled the impulse to slap it off his handsome face.
“I suppose you already knew that.”
“Yep.” He was either vying for a John Wayne role or deliberately baiting me. I chose door number two.
“I thought you wanted my help. You know, the insider perspective.”
Roar put his hands on my shoulders and gave me the thousand-yard cop stare. “Genna set me straight on that. Besides we know this arena pretty well anyway. You probably noticed there’s an onsite police station at the Big E Coliseum.”
Sometimes I plow ahead, despite hints to the contrary. This was one of those times. “I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to figure things out. Lee Holmes would have been an easy kill, but Bethany—that level of brutality was exceptional. Not many men or women would have the stomach for it. Especially amateurs.”
That got his attention. Roar studied me before going to the next level. “Argues for a professional, is that what you’re suggesting? Believe it or not, Genna and I are pros too. We checked all our sources, but no one heard anything about a contract or hit man.”
“Lots of ex-military in the Springfield area. Could be one of them.”
Roar’s expression told me that he was fed up with my meddling. Gone was his cherubic, slightly naughty persona. In rushed stern Sergeant Jansen. “Let me put it this way, Ms. Morgan. You’re ex-military yourself. My partner’s already sizing up Pruett for the collar, and this will only encourage her. She might make a double play and nab you too. Tread carefully.”
He moved closer. Close enough for me to finger the soft fabric of his sweater—cashmere, unless I missed my guess. “You have good taste,” I said. “Expensive too.”
“You know how it is. Only the best. On a cop’s salary, I have to get lucky. Find a great bargain.”
He was teasing me. That sweater was definitely a gift from an admirer of the female persuasion. Roar Jansen would attract plenty of them, and the horsewomen and dog enthusiasts who populated the Big E had ready cash to spare.
Why not capitalize on his change of mood, I thought. “Made any arrests yet?”
“Why? Got anyone special in mind?” He moved closer, close enough to stroke my hair. “A woman’s crowning glory—isn’t that what they call hair? Yours is lovely.”
Vanity may be a sin, but on occasion even I plead guilty to it. Hair was my one remarkable feature in an otherwise average appearance. Pruett spent time brushing it when he got a chance, and the experience was sensual beyond belief.
“We were discussing suspects.” I edged back several steps, enough to discourage further contact but not enough to offend.
“Were we?” Flirtatious Roar disappeared; stern Sergeant Jansen took his place. “Ask away.”
“Have you arrested Jess Pendrake? She’s not guilty, you know.”
Roar folded his arms and glowered at me. This time it was no act. He was very seriously displeased. “As yet we haven’t made any arrests.” His words were stiff and unyielding, like his posture. “When we do, Ms. Morgan, the charge will stick, no matter who it is.”
Afterward, I envisioned several cutting remarks and witty asides that would have flattened him. At the time, however, I buttoned my lips and kept my mouth shut. The tension between us was thicker than London fog until Wing Pruett, my unlikely savior, intervened.
“Hey, you two,” he said. “Not trying to steal my gal, are you, Roar?”
I eyed those monuments to male pulchritude with interest. Blond and brunette, brawny and tall, they were most women’s concept of one very pleasant dream team. The boys seemed to be enjoying themselves too. Was this a bromance in the making or a carefully crafted charade?
“Still writing that article?” Roar asked. “Hope you make me the star. Genna will go ape-shit.”
Pruett chuckled. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. What about it, Perri?”
“Leave me out of it. That’s your department.” I spied Whit Wiley slithering toward the buffet and left the Hardy Boys to their own devices. At least Jess was still free. I wondered where in the world she was keeping herself?
Meanwhile, I cornered my prey at the bar as he gulped down scotch at an alarming rate. Something had obviously gone wrong in his carefully constructed world, and I meant to capitalize on it.
“Hey, Whit. What’s going on?” I resurrected my friendly girl-next-door persona from the refuse pile. The routine was a bit rusty but still serviceable. “Boy, this place is packed.”
The look he gave me was anything but friendly. Still, I persisted.
“One man isn’t enough for you, I see.” He hissed like the viper that he was.
“Who, me? Nah. I was concerned about Jess Pendrake and asked Sergeant Jansen what the score was.” I shrugged. “He didn’t tell me much.”
Whit swiveled his bar stool my way and stared. “Why do you care? You barely know these people. All you want is glory for your boyfriend and a few new customers. Unless, of course, you’re trying to protect someone.”
“Whew! That’s pretty harsh, my friend. Aren’t you interested in finding the murderer, for Yael’s sake, if nothing else?”
The venomous look he gave me made Whit Wiley look even more unpleasant than usual. Funny. I hadn’t thought that was possible.
“Leave Yael out of this,” he snarled. “She’s suffered enough.”
One of my superpowers was selective hearing. It enabled me to rise above petty insults from twerps like Whit. I invoked it and allowed his snarky comments to sail right over my head. “Losing Lee was bad enough, but now with Bethany gone . . .” I shook my head mournfully. “I’m afraid that Sergeant Jansen will connect the dots.”
Whit pushed forward. It was an aggressive move designed to intimidate me. “So?”
I towered over the little shit by at least two inches, and that gave me a strategic advantage. “Well, Whit,” I said, keeping my voice just above sneer level, “those dots lead straight to you and Yael. Could get nasty.”
As he processed my words, his face grew ashen. “Wait! I had nothing against Bethany. She was annoying. A pest. But that’s all.”
“She saw Lee’s murderer,” I said sotto voce.
Whit went from pale to pasty. “I never touched that woman. Besides, Jess killed both of them. Ask anyone.”
Most people describe me as a nice person. There are times, however, when a mean streak a mile wide suffuses my being. This was one of those times.
“Looks like you’re out of the loop, Whit.” My voice was all sugary sweetness. “The cops haven’t charged Jess. Roar Jansen just confirmed that. Weird, isn’t it? Seems like they’re looking elsewhere. Could mean trouble.” I shook my head mournfully.
He gulped down the dregs of his drink and leapt off the stool. “You don’t fool me one bit, Perri Morgan. You’re not as smart as you think. Back off.”
His macho act was truly pitiful. Whit Wiley was better suited to innuendo and snark than overt actions. My assessment hadn’t changed one bit. In my experience, murderers were a cold-hearted, resolute lot who took their chances and did the deed. Whit simply didn’t measure up. He might plan a crime, but he would have to leave the execution to others.
I faced him without moving an inch or blinking. Apparently, Whit was accustomed to more pliant females, and I unnerved him. He pivoted and stormed toward the exit without even saying good-bye. I really loathe sore losers. Impolite ones are even worse.
Chapter 17
Our crackerjack trio reconvened at the entrance ten minutes later. Babette was flushed with excitement, but Pruett and I were less enthused. Despite our efforts, the pincer movement had yielded few tangible results.
“Come on, you two,” Babette trilled. “Spill.” Hearing a wealthy suburban matron use noir terms worthy of Mickey Spillane and Dashiell Hammett was almost worth a night of cringe-inducing failures. I clapped my pal on the shoulder and hugged her.
“Not here,” Pruett said. “Back to your place, Babette, and keep smiling.”
We planted foolish grins on our faces and took our leave without arousing suspicion. Most of the dog show crowd was either cackling with alcohol-induced hilarity or glued together, enjoying the minuscule dance floor and catchy tunes. Roar had his baby blues fixed on Punky; Rafa held Yael Lindsay in a tight embrace. Slow, soulful songs brought out emotion in almost everyone. If only our dogs could have added a howl or two to complete the effect. Not everyone joined in the festivities, however. Alf and Roy Vesco stood on the fringes, arms folded, like frozen sentries guarding the terrain. Whit Wiley had vanished.
“We missed our chance to slow dance,” Pruett said. “Too bad.”
“Go on back,” Babette said. Her voice trailed off, and the exuberance of only a moment ago left with it.
Pruett gently brushed his finger over my lips. “No problem. We’ll have plenty of time later on. Right, Perri?”
I swallowed several times before answering. Damn. That man did more with a simple touch than most guys could in an all-night session. No wonder he’d been dubbed DC’s Sexiest Man. I could attest.
Fortunately, Babette was oblivious to our antics. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m famished. What say I whip up an omelet when we get there?”
We crunched through the snow and piled into Pruett’s Porsche. I’m no car person, but who can resist glove-soft leather, mahogany paneling, and the sweet, sweet sound of John Coltrane wafting from ten loudspeakers connected to the Burmester stereo? Babette was immediately hooked.
“This is some ride, Pruett,” she said, discarding the blues. “Makes a gal forget her cares and woes. What do you call the color, anyway? I love it.”
Pruett mumbled a response. Once again, he seemed abashed, not proud, of his glorious vehicle. “Carmine red. Ella loves red too. She picked it.”
“Well, it’s one hot car for a very hot guy. Lets the ladies know you’re in town.”
I wisely kept my own counsel and banished the vivid mental images of Pruett and the following he attracted. Jealousy was not among my flaws, and I intended to keep it that way. So what if the list of Pruett’s conquests was long and legendary? Why anguish over the past or doom the future?
When we arrived at Steady Eddie, another surprise awaited us. Huddled at the door was the shivering, shaking form of Jess Pendrake.
* * * *
While Pruett parked the Porsche, I hustled toward Jess. “You must be frozen stiff,” I said. “Are you okay?”
Her teeth were chattering, but she managed a stiff nod. Funny thing. Jess had teeth that were movie-star perfect. Not what I would have expected in someone who eschewed any attempt to upgrade her image. Babette, ever the gracious southerner, did her part too.
“Come on in, honey,” she said. “You need a hot toddy to perk you up, and I know just how to make it.” Babette’s restoratives were legendary among her social set, one of many unique skills that distinguished her from the common herd.
Jess leaned on me as she carefully unwound her legs and entered Steady Eddie. I barely knew the woman, but my duty was clear. Luck, chance, or providence had literally landed her in our laps, and it was the perfect chance to quiz her about that awful night when Bethany had died. Carpe diem and all that.
The inquisition was delayed for a bit by practical considerations. Babette bustled about making hot toddies, while Pruett turned on the low-voltage charm machine for our guest and I released the dogs. Jess was wary of men. Actually, she seemed distrustful of all humans, especially us. We sat in a semicircle, sipping our drinks and making cautious small talk that got us nowhere. Jess said very little. She clenched her fists and scanned each of us with narrowed, blue-gray eyes as if expecting an imminent attack. Babette, the perfect hostess, dished up crabmeat omelets and southern homilies that were comforting even though they made very little sense. Then, with superior canine logic that defied human comprehension, Guinnie crept up to Jess and jumped into her lap. That’s all it took. Jess buried her head in Guinnie’s soft fur and hugged the beautiful pointer. When she looked up, Jess began to speak in a torrent of fevered words.
“I had to see you,” Jess said. “No one else believed me.” Although the room was toasty warm, she shivered uncontrollably. Babette hastily placed a cashmere throw around her guest’s shoulders and replenished the drink in her hand.
“There you go, sugar. Take your time. We’ve got all night.”
Jess stroked Guinnie’s fur as she continued. “I didn’t kill that woman.”
At times like this, Pruett became a telepathic metamorph able to mold himself to suit any occasion. He knew intuitively that Jess was frightened. Therefore, he powered down and allowed me to start up the party. The duplicity was staggering but effective.
“How did Bethany contact you?” I asked. “You weren’t at Lee’s memorial.”
That earned me a snarl from Jess. “I’m no hypocrite. I hated Lee Holmes and his snobby wife. Still do. I found a note on the door in my motel room, so I went to the barn.”
Babette jumped full speed into the fray. “Were you two pals? I know I tell Perri everything.”
“I barely knew her. Mostly she acted like I wasn’t even there.” Jess choked back a sob. “They all do.”
That answered one of my questions. Jess, the perfect dupe, had been set up by the murderer. It was a clever scheme designed to incriminate a recluse with known hostility toward both victims.
“Did you see or hear anything in the barn?” Pruett’s tone was calm and matter-of-fact.
She shook her head.
“She was dying when I arrived,” I said. “Did she say anything before then—anything at all?”
Another head shake from Jess. No one could ever accuse her of being a chatterbox. Guinnie nuzzled her hand, as if offering encouragement, while Keats and Poe formed an honor guard around me.
I decided to try yet again. “Bethany told people she knew who killed Lee. Did she tell you that?”
Jess hesitated. “No, but she said so in her note. That’s why I went there. I thought...I wanted to be a big deal just that once. Make people like me.” She bowed her head again.
Pruett leaned forward. “I know the feeling. Everybody wants that at least once. What did the cops say?”
Jess stayed silent as she fed egg scraps to Guinnie. “Not much. That woman told me I was guilty, and she’d prove it. The pretty guy just watched me. They finally had to let me go when I showed them the note.” It was not surprising that Genna Watts had been the lead inquisitor. If she ever left the police force, a bright future in horror films or the gulag awaited her.
“How come they released you?” Babette asked. “That’s one tough cookie. Wouldn’t expect her to crumble.”
Surprisingly, Jess smiled as she answered. “I ran in
to that Whit Wiley creep while I was walking over. The big clock was striking ten. I remember that. He even said something about me and Lee Holmes. How I was probably glad he was dead.” She curled her lip. “Only time that creep ever helped me out.”
I thought about it for a moment. Bethany had left the arena right before ten o’clock—9:45 or so, according to my watch. I had checked it before I slipped out to follow her. Twenty minutes later, she was dead. That narrowed the window of opportunity for the killer. He or she must have been waiting there, determined to silence Bethany and her loose talk forever.
Pruett didn’t have to take notes. Among his many attributes was an eidetic memory that made note taking superfluous. Coincidentally, it also helped him sync alibis with any liaisons he had planned.
“Bethany had a lover. Any idea who he was?” His tone was casual, one friend to another.
I’d never heard Jess laugh before. After hearing it, I was just as glad. The sound had more cackle and croak than mirth. Maybe she hadn’t had much occasion to use it.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she said. “She was a slut! Bethany Zahn had tons of lovers, so why should this one be special? Ask your handler friends if you don’t believe me.”
I pondered that for a moment. If Bethany had witnessed Lee’s murder, she made no attempt to hide that guilty knowledge. Someone—ruthless and decisive—had silenced her. It was probable that her lover had nothing to do with her murder. Another dead end, to make a very bad pun.
Pruett had a technique of listening—actually listening—to a woman. A rare enough talent anywhere, but in the political morass of the nation’s capital, it was unheard of. That had helped him gain the trust of confidential sources. Come to think of it, listening played pretty well in a western Massachusetts dog show too. I was willing to wager that Jess had never experienced anything like that from a man like Wing Pruett or any male at all.
“Help me out, Ms. Pendrake,” he said. “Who do you peg as the killer?”
She bowed her head as if the question were impossible. “Roy Vesco could have done it. That slutty wife of his was always in Lee’s face. Come to think of it, she’s mean enough to off someone too.”