by Shéa MacLeod
“Oh, sure. He was there.”
Dagnabbit. I’d thought for sure I’d be able to break Roger Collins’s alibi.
“I mean at least he was there when the party started at six. After that, things got a little fuzzy, know what I mean?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Yep. I get it. So, you can’t confirm he was there at, say, eight that evening.”
“Nope. Don’t remember much after about seven. Or six thirty. Or something.”
“How far was the party from town?”
“’Bout a mile down the highway.” He jerked his thumb behind him in what was apparently the direction of the party.
So Roger could have easily snuck out and killed Nixon. Then he could have driven back to the party, no one the wiser.
“Tell you who you can ask, though,” Jimmy said. “Mariposa. That girl loves to bake, but she doesn’t partake. Diet or some nonsense. She was probably the only sober one there. She’ll for sure know if Rog left or not.”
Jimmy gave me Mariposa’s cell number and wished me luck. He offered me a product sample, which I politely refused.
Outside, I dialed Mariposa’s number. The woman who answered had a pleasant voice and a cheerful disposition. After explaining who I was and what I needed, she eagerly supplied me with the information.
“Roger was here all night,” she assured me.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Oh, yes. We had a deep, philosophical discussion about ancient religions. I remember it perfectly.”
“Thanks,” I said and hung up.
Well, there went one of my suspects. Roger Collins couldn’t have killed August Nixon. I had only one suspect left. If I couldn’t prove Mary killed her husband, Portia might just wind up in prison, after all.
Chapter 22
To Catch A Killer
Tracking down Mary Nixon’s cronies wasn’t nearly as easy as finding Jimmy Vargas. Neither of them would answer their cell phones or their front doors. Since I had no idea what they looked like, I couldn’t cruise through town hoping I’d run into them. Despite Astoria being a small city of less than ten thousand, the odds were not in my favor.
Google to the rescue. A quick Internet search revealed not only Darla Manes’s Facebook page (and, therefore, plenty of photos of both her and Lisa Cutty), but also that she owned an events company called The Mane Event. Yeah, punny. She appeared to run said company out of her house, which did me no good, but I also discovered that Lisa owned a beauty salon called A Cut Above. What was with these people and their clever names?
I also learned something else extremely interesting. Something I couldn’t believe the cops hadn’t figured out already. I definitely needed to talk to Lisa...and quick.
A Cut Above was mere blocks from Jimmy’s marijuana dispensary, so I chose to walk instead of drive. Why waste gas? Plus the sun was out, finally, and I figured I’d take advantage of it.
The salon smelled of herbal shampoo and peroxide. The top-forty played over the stereo system, and women of various ages chatted away at a dull roar while sleek-looking stylists did weird things with aluminum foil.
“Do you have an appointment?” A girl with spiky, black hair eyed me from behind the front desk. She was wearing blue glitter eyeshadow. Hadn’t that stuff gone out of vogue in the eighties?
“No. I’m here to see Lisa Cutty.”
The girl frowned and chewed furiously at a wad of pink gum. “She’s sorta in a meeting.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
The girl shrugged as if to say “suit yourself” and stabbed a finger in the general direction of a row of comfy chairs in relaxed neutral shades. In fact, the entire salon was beiges, browns, and creams. A bit rustic but with a slight industrial twist. Very chic.
“Want coffee? Tea? A mimosa?” She recited the list like she was reading off a teleprompter.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
She shrugged again and went back to snapping her gum. I was pretty sure she was playing some kind of game on her phone. Around me, activity continued unabated as women were cut, washed, dyed, dried, and generally spruced up. Which reminded me that it was past time to dye my own hair. I’d caught a few strands of silver peeping out from the chocolate locks just this morning. Frankly, I was far too young to be going gray. Age gracefully, my backside.
After about fifteen minutes, a woman finally appeared from the back room. She was bleach blond, fake-tanned, and sporting far too much gold jewelry. Her white shirt was pristine, which made me suspect voodoo. Seriously, every time I wore white, I ended up with spaghetti sauce or something down the front. She strode over to me with purpose and thrust out her hand.
“Lisa Cutty. You’re here to see me?”
She had a firm grip and shook with vigor. “Viola Roberts. Yes. I’m helping with the Nixon murder investigation.” I kept my voice low, figuring she wouldn’t want a lot of gossip flying around.
“Oh, really?” She didn’t bother to lower her own voice. “How interesting. Are you a private investigator?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it? How he was murdered like that. Not that he didn’t deserve it, mind you—The Louse—but I hate seeing Mary so upset. What can I do?”
“According to Mary, she was with you and your mutual friend Darla Manes on the night August Nixon was murdered, watching a movie at the cinema.”
She crossed her arms and gave me a toothy smile. “That’s correct.”
“Interesting. Then how do you explain this?” I showed her the screen of my smartphone.
Her face blanked. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“This is a picture of you and Darla at karaoke night.”
“So? We go to karaoke a lot. It’s fun. You should try it.” She rubbed her chin. Was that a nervous twitch? Or did she have an itch? I was going with twitch.
“Except this post is time-stamped and dated. Not to mention geotagged, thanks to social media.”
“Again, what of it?”
I gave her a hard look. “This proves that you and Darla weren’t at the movies at all the night August died. You were at karaoke. And Mary Nixon is nowhere to be seen.”
“LISTEN, DETECTIVE, I’m telling you, Mary Nixon does not have an alibi. This photo proves she lied.” I practically had to chase Bat down the hall as his stride picked up pace.
I’d tracked him down to the police station and showed him my evidence. The idiot still hadn’t been convinced.
“That doesn’t mean anything, Viola. So she lied about her alibi. That’s bad, and I’ll check into it, but it doesn’t mean she killed her husband.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. One of the most likely suspects just had her alibi busted to little bits. She lied. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
“It means she lied. There are a lot of reasons she could have lied about her alibi.”
“Yeah, like killing her husband.”
“Give me a break. Portia’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon. It doesn’t get more cut-and-dried than that.” He stopped in front of a row of file cabinets and yanked open a drawer. “Listen, I’m incredibly busy. I don’t have time for this.”
I practically screamed in frustration. Why was he being so pig-headed? “At least check it out. Find out what her real alibi is. If she even has one.”
He sighed. “Of course I will. I told you I would. I do know how to do my job.”
“What about the photo?”
“Email it to me along with the link. Let me look into this.”
“Yeah, because you’ve done a stellar job so far,” I muttered under my breath.
“Excuse me?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing. Have a lovely day, Detective. I’ll send that photo right away.” And with that, I swanned out of the police station in high drama.
I was beyond annoyed. Bat wasn’t taking this seriously. He was so convinced Portia was guilty he refused to listen to reason. Well, if he wouldn’t con
front Mary Nixon about her lies, I would.
Better yet...
I had an idea. I tapped out a text and looked it over:
I’ve found proof of who killed your husband. Meet me tonight. 8pm at the museum.
Perfect. I pressed “send,” and the text winged its way to Mary Nixon. I imagined Mary reading the text, and I grinned to myself as I walked down the street to my car.
Time to catch a killer.
Chapter 23
The Truth Will Out
“Wait,” I said, staring at the intruder. I was standing in the study right next to the fireplace where Portia had found August Nixon’s body. “You’re not Mary.” It was definitely not a woman standing in the dark. A shiver went through me. The dark figure moved into the light, and I recognized him immediately. “Roger? What are you doing here?”
“You thought Mary killed August?” He snorted in derision. “She would never lower herself to such a thing.”
I frowned. This wasn’t what I’d expected. “So she got you to do it instead?” I didn’t see how that was possible, since he had an alibi. One I’d confirmed myself.
“She had nothing to do with it.” He sounded affronted. As if I’d majorly insulted him. Weird.
“Um, okay. But everything points to her.”
He sighed. “I know. Lack of alibi. You were clever to discover that.”
“That’s me. Very clever.” I gave a nervous laugh. Would you just shut up?
“It was nothing, really. All innocent and aboveboard. She was having a little Botox. Nothing extravagant, but she’s a vain woman, as most of you are.”
“Excuse me?”
He ignored my outrage. “She didn’t want anyone to know about her little procedure. So silly. She got her friends to lie for her. Ridiculous. If she’d just told the truth, we could have avoided all of this nonsense.”
“You killed August? But you have an alibi,” I blurted. “I confirmed it with Mariposa. So did the police.”
“Alibis. You know, they are so very easy to manufacture. It was easy enough to drop a little something in her drink. She literally never realized.” He chuckled to himself.
“So, you slipped away, killed August, and slipped back. No one the wiser.”
“Pretty much it, in a nutshell.” He seemed proud, like he’d done something heroic.
“You killed August because he was going to frame you for the thefts.”
“One of so many reasons,” he said. “The man was a louse.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said dryly. “But what about Annabelle? Why did you kill her?”
He heaved a sigh. “I didn’t want to. She was a sweet girl with a sick little boy, but what could I do once she started blackmailing me?”
“She saw you kill August.”
“Apparently. She demanded money. It was to help her boy, of course, but I couldn’t have it. I just couldn’t.”
My armpits were damp, and I could feel my heart thumping in my chest like a bass drum. “Why are you admitting this to me? Why aren’t you telling this to the police?”
“Because I have no intention of turning myself in.” As he spoke, he moved a little closer, and I realized he was gripping something in his right hand. It was an extremely sharp, extremely large knife. He’d apparently graduated from blunt objects. “You can’t prove any of this. The police already put Portia away. They’re not looking for anyone else.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that they were definitely looking for Annabelle’s killer and Portia couldn’t have done it. “You’re just going to let her rot in prison for something you did?”
“I have no choice. Mary and I are about to start our lives together. I can’t let anything get in the way of that.”
“But she broke up with you. You said so yourself.”
“What can I say? I lied. I needed to protect her. Silly woman thought being truthful was the way to go. I understand, of course, but she doesn’t realize the lengths I would go to protect her.”
“You mean August.”
“He didn’t just want to frame me, he wanted to destroy her, too. He learned about the affair, you see. Can you imagine what a man like that could do to a woman who’d betrayed him?”
I could. Everything up to and including murder. “I get it. I do. Still, you killed him in cold blood.”
“It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but I had no choice. And, like I said, you can blab all you want, but you can’t prove it. I have an alibi, remember? And Portia’s fingerprints are all over the murder weapon.”
“How did you manage that, by the way?” I couldn’t believe I’d gotten this far in the conversation, that he was actually answering me. Then again, he was crazy. Obviously crazy.
He laughed. “That was easy. I wiped it down. When she found the body, the idiot picked up the weapon. Stupid girl. Doesn’t she watch TV?”
So that hadn’t been part of his master plan. Just a stroke of luck. And either Portia hadn’t remembered touching the weapon in her shock, or she’d lied because she hoped they wouldn’t find her prints. I was betting on the former, since Portia was anything but stupid.
“What about the note.” I should have shut my mouth and got out of there, but I had to know.
He blinked at me through the thick lenses of his glasses, totally confused. “Note? Oh, you mean the one I left for you on your car. Stroke of genius, though you were too stupid to heed my warning.”
“So, it was you. But I didn’t see you anywhere.”
He actually giggled. “I drove by my house and saw you poking around, so I parked down the hill and walked back. It was just a warning. I didn’t want to hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.” He glared at me. “Unfortunately, you really can’t take a hint. I’m sorry about bashing your head, by the way.”
“Right. You didn’t want to.”
“Exactly. I needed to get that journal in case August doctored it in his attempt to frame me.”
“I totally understand. I guess you’re right. I can’t prove anything, so I’ll be going now.” I tried to skirt around him, but he grabbed my arm in a bruising grip.
“What is that?” he snarled, looking down.
“What?” I tried to act innocent, but I was shaking as he snatched my phone from my hand.
“You recorded me?” he screamed, spittle flying everywhere. He threw my phone against the wall, smashing it to bits. “Now I have to kill you, you stupid girl.”
“Wait!” But it was too late. He lifted the knife and swung it toward my heart. I barely managed to dodge out of the way, ripping my arm from his grip in the nick of time.
Without a backward glance, I ran like crazy for the study door. I could hear Roger breathing heavily behind me as he chased me. In the dark hall, I could barely make out anything. I tripped over an edge of carpet and went sprawling on my face. He was on me in a moment.
I rolled just in time to avoid a knife in the eyeball as the blade sliced down next to my head and buried itself in the floorboards. I kicked out, connecting solidly as he let out a grunt and staggered backward. I scrambled to my feet and was off running again.
Upstairs were several displays cordoned off by ropes. If I could get there, I could knock him down and tie him up. Then call the police. As plans went, it wasn’t a great one, but it was all I had.
I took the stairs two at a time, my breath coming in short pants. Roger was hot on my heels, his feet thumping heavily on the steps.
I dashed into the room and snagged the nearest object. It was a large, porcelain vase. The idea of destroying it made me sick, but there was no other choice. The minute Roger rounded the corner, I bashed him over the head. The vase exploded, shooting shards across the room. He went down like a sack of potatoes. I kicked his knife away and untied a length of rope from across a nearby doorway.
Perching on top him, I yanked both of his arms behind him and tied them as tightly as I could. I was in the process of searching his pockets for a phone when the front door of the mansion flew ope
n and shouts of “Astoria PD” echoed through the old house. Booted feet tromped up the steps, and a bright light pierced my vision.
“Viola?”
“Hey, Detective. Got your murderer all trussed up and ready to go. Also, I think you owe me an apology.”
Chapter 24
Speak of the Devil
“I can’t believe it was Roger all along.” Mrs. Nixon was sat daintily on a barstool while Nina poured her a large glass of Syrah. “He always seemed like such a gentleman.”
“Still waters run deep,” Nina said with a shake of her head. Light caught the rubies in her ears and sent sparks of red light dancing across the wall behind her.
“I’m not certain that the saying refers to murder, dear,” Mrs. Nixon said gently.
“Probably not,” Nina admitted.
“Your friend Portia will be released, won’t she?” Mary turned to me, worry lurking behind her eyes.
“Oh, yes. Fortunately, Roger’s confession was stored in my cloud, so busting my phone didn’t do him any good. Detective Battersea assures me she’ll appear before a judge first thing in the morning, the district attorney will drop the charges, and she’ll be out straight after that.”
“What a relief. I hate to think of that poor innocent girl in a place like that.”
“What’s going to happen to the museum, I wonder?” Cheryl asked, nursing her own glass of cab. “Both the directors are either dead or in jail.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Nina assured her, leaning one hip against the bar. “The historical society will take care of it. Likely Portia will get a promotion.”
Portia would be happy about that. She loved the museum. It would be her total dream job. And it might soothe the hurt over Blaine cheating on her. The Louse. Like father like son. She’d better dump that loser, or I was going to have to give her a talking to.
“I heard Lucas gave you a lecture,” Nina said with a grin.
I glared at Cheryl. Blabbermouth. “Yeah, he was kind of pissed off I put myself in danger again. I guess he wanted me to wait for him to help. But I totally had everything under control.”