“Thank you.” She put a fist to her mouth.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions if you’re up to it.”
The young woman untucked the thin legs she’d been hugging to her chest and sucked in a breath. “I . . . I’ll try.”
“May I call you Dianne?”
Nodding, Dianne fished a crumpled tissue from her pocket. The other woman in the room handed her a fresh tissue, then turned to Rachel.
“I’m Laverne Crenshaw. Vic and I have been neighbors for close to thirty years,” she said. Laverne poured a cup of tea and handed it to Dianne before offering one to Rachel.
“Thanks, but no,” Rachel said. “Did you see anyone coming or going last night?” She directed her questions to the older woman so Dianne would have time to regroup.
Laverne poured another cup of tea and picked it up, cupping it in her hands. “No, but I went to bed early.”
“How long have you known Vic Vegas?”
“Ever since he and his wife moved in. Dianne was just a kid. And when Josie died a few years later, I kind of looked after Dianne up until she married.”
“So you knew him pretty well?” Laverne might possess more information than the daughter.
“I did. He was a fine man and a good daddy. I just don’t understand why anyone would want to kill him.”
Dianne moaned. Rachel froze as Laverne’s words set the daughter off again and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing. The neighbor wrapped her arms around the younger woman, and Rachel breathed again. Like the uniformed officer, she did not do emotional outbursts well. In the Judge’s world, one simply did not cry. Even when a parent died.
Once Dianne had herself under fragile control, Rachel took her time, searching for words that wouldn’t trigger more crying. “I know this is hard.”
Dianne nodded, twirling a strand of dishwater-blonde hair around her finger.
Rachel held up her phone. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” When they both agreed, she set the phone to record. “Again, I’m sorry, but I need to ask if anything is missing from his house.”
Dianne blew out a shaky breath. “The only valuable thing he owned was his TV, and it’s still there. He didn’t have much jewelry, and he never kept over fifty dollars on him.”
“How about a laptop?”
“I-I don’t remember seeing it.”
Rachel made a note to look for it, but it looked like burglary could be ruled out. “Do you know if he had any enemies?”
Laverne stood up and stepped forward. She brushed a strand of gray hair away from her face. “I can answer that. Vic Vegas wouldn’t hurt a soul. He was one of the kindest, most gentle men I’ve ever known.”
Dianne nodded. “She’s right. Everybody liked him.”
That had been the feeling Rachel got yesterday. “Did he ever talk about his friend Harrison Foxx?”
A swift intake of breath came from Laverne. “Harrison? I told Vic to let his murder go, that he had no business digging into that case. That if he accidentally stumbled onto something, it would be nothing but trouble. Do you think that’s why he was killed?”
So much for subtleness. Rachel braced for more tears from his daughter, but they didn’t come. “We’re looking for motive. He came to see me yesterday about Foxx’s murder and indicated he had compiled files on his investigation. Do either of you know anything about them?”
Dianne set her untouched tea on the hearth, rattling the delicate china. “Those stupid files. He was always talking about how he’d put together a case to whoever would listen, but no one took him seriously. Last night on the phone when he said he’d found some really important evidence, I told him that nobody cared about it.”
“He talked to you about Foxx’s murder last night?” Was it possible he had actually uncovered evidence? “What time did you speak with him?”
She knit her brows together. “It was after the ten o’clock news, but I hadn’t gone to bed yet. Maybe eleven.” Her eyes widened. “You don’t suppose he really discovered something, do you?”
Rachel would think it unlikely except Vic Vegas was dead. “Did he say what he’d found? Or where he’d found this evidence?”
“No. He was always afraid his phone was tapped. He was so paranoid . . .” A hollow laugh escaped the daughter’s lips. “I thought he was losing his mind, but now . . .”
“Do you know where he kept the files?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, said it was better if I didn’t know.”
“I asked him about the files once,” Laverne said. “But he would only say they were in a safe place.”
Rachel could kick herself for not getting them yesterday. She bit her bottom lip. He hadn’t found this evidence yet when he’d spoken with her or he would have mentioned it. Sometime between 5:00 p.m. and 12:48 a.m., Vic Vegas had encountered someone or something that led to his death. “Does he have a safe or a lockbox?”
“No safe, for sure, at least not in the house,” Dianne said. “And he never mentioned a lockbox. I’m on his checking account, and I think if he had a box, I would have been on it as well.”
So where would Vic Vegas have hidden the files? Good thing she’d gotten Terri to take over with the grandmothers. Tracking the last hours of Vic Vegas’s life would consume the rest of her day.
9
SHIRLEY FORCED HERSELF not to go stiff as her aunt wrapped her arms around her. “It’s good to see you too, Aunt Treva.” She wiggled past her in the doorway, breaking her aunt’s firm grasp on her waist, and stepped into the hall. Immediately, the sweet gardenia scent from her aunt’s garden assailed her nose. Aunt Treva had her windows open again. Didn’t she know how dangerous that was? Someone off the street could easily break into the house.
“What brings you to see me?”
“Nothing. You were on my mind and I realized I hadn’t been by in a while.”
“Almost a month.” The accusation hung in the air.
After Shirley’s husband died, she’d moved in with Treva for a few months—until her aunt’s clinginess and wanting to know Shirley’s every move had about driven her crazy.
“That long? Well, you know how busy life is. How have you been?”
“My knee has been acting up. Other than that, can’t complain.”
She followed her aunt as she limped down the hallway through a narrow path of stacked newspapers and magazines into the small but bright sitting room with yarn and knitting needles scattered in various chairs. Here, too, stacks and stacks of yarn gave evidence to her aunt’s hoarding. Not as bad as she’d seen on TV, but bad enough, and so much worse than when Shirley had lived in the house.
“Move that stuff and sit awhile,” Treva said.
She did as she was told. “What’s wrong with your knee?”
“It’s wore out. Doc wants to operate, but I just don’t know.”
Shirley half listened as her mother’s sister rattled on about her aches and pains, saying, “Too bad” or “I hate that” at the appropriate time. She had to get into the kitchen. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked when her aunt stopped long enough to take a breath.
“Not yet. Haven’t felt like making it.”
“Then I’ll make you some eggs and toast, and a cup of tea as well.”
“No, you’re my guest. I’ll fix it.” Treva struggled to get her footing.
“I am absolutely not a guest, and I know where everything is. I’ll make your breakfast while you just sit right there and rest your knee.”
“You’re a sweet girl. Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t changed anything since you left.”
“Or thrown very much away,” Shirley muttered under her breath as she surveyed the kitchen off the sitting room. Knickknacks from the fifties lined every counter and shelf. Several insulin bottles filled with different colored beads rested on the windowsill over the sink. A cardboard box with only a few empty vials sat on the kitchen table.
Last year her aunt had given her ornaments made from the sm
all bottles, like Shirley even had a Christmas tree. She sorted through the box, looking for one with a Lantus label.
Panic set in when one by one, she found only fast-acting labels. With only two vials left, her hand shook as she picked up one. Lantus. Shirley breathed again. Half her mission accomplished.
“Did you find the tea?” her aunt called from the sitting room.
Shirley opened the cabinet and took down the tea canister. “Yes, ma’am. Green tea or Lady Grey?”
“Lady Grey.”
“Do you still take cream with your tea?” she asked, rummaging in the refrigerator. Where were her insulin bottles? She picked up what looked like a blue pen and examined it. Humulin R U-500. Her breath stilled in her chest. She had come across the stronger insulin in her research. At the time, she had thought it’d be the perfect drug but had no idea how to obtain it. And now here it was, a gift.
“And honey—it’s in the cabinet. And those cinnamon rolls on the table—bring them instead of making toast.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The teakettle shrieked, and she bumped her head when she jerked out of the refrigerator. She always hated that kettle and the way it screamed like a Tasmanian devil.
Breathe in, breathe out. Once her nerves settled, Shirley grabbed a couple of eggs and scrambled them, then arranged the cinnamon rolls on a plate and took them to the sitting room. “If you haven’t taken your insulin this morning, I can draw it for you.”
“I might get used to being waited on,” her aunt said with a smile. “There’s no need to draw it, though. I’m using a pen now, but I better check my sugar first.”
Shirley waited while her aunt pricked her finger and stuck the strip in a meter and frowned. “It’s a little high, but I think my regular dose will be fine. The pen is on the counter beside my pill organizer, and would you chart it on the fridge for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shirley returned to the kitchen, took one of the blue Humulin pens from the refrigerator, and slipped it in her pocket with the empty vial. Next she located the pen on the counter. “Where’s the needle?”
“It’s in the bottom of that white container that should be beside the pill box.”
Shirley fitted a needle on the pen, then smiled as she examined it, noting the dosage marked on the dial. She’d been worrying that just switching the fast-acting insulin with the regular might not be enough to kill Randy, but five times the strength should be more than enough . . . Shirley glanced toward the den. If she doubled the amount her aunt was taking, that would give her a clue about how it would affect Randy.
Her fingers lingered on the dial, then she shook her head and left the dosage where it was. Better not experiment today. She didn’t have time to fool with going to the hospital with Treva. . . or possibly arranging a funeral. Shirley had way too much to do for that.
Two hours later, she paced in front of the drawn curtains over her patio door. The darkened room soothed her like a comforting blanket. It was so good to be home, away from the over-sweet scent of her aunt’s flowers and the bright sunlight streaming through the windows.
But she’d accomplished what she needed to. It’d been no problem filling the Lantus vial with the U-500 insulin. Then she’d wiped it clean and wrapped it in a tissue before placing it in her purse. Now, the problem was getting the vial switched out with the one in Randy’s medical kit.
She had no doubt she’d be successful. Everything had fallen into place too easily for it to turn out badly—it was as though it was meant to be.
That was the only explanation of why she’d sat at the table next to Randy’s last night. She’d never sat close to him before. And Fate explained why she’d overheard him tell one of the other performers how important it was to take his insulin every night at the same time, even when he wasn’t home. Evidently the other guy was a diabetic too, because he asked what insulin Randy used. Lantus 100, along with a fast-acting insulin. Just like Shirley’s aunt. Or at least what she used before her doctor changed her to the pen.
All Shirley had to do was switch the bottles before he filled his syringe for his nightly dose. She didn’t anticipate a problem. Randy kept his blue medical kit on whatever table he claimed, and she just had to catch a time when no one was watching. With everyone’s eyes glued to the stage during the performances, that shouldn’t be a problem. The key was to act as though opening his kit was an everyday occurrence. No looking furtively around to see if anyone was watching.
Shirley shook her head. Cleaning up the mess Vic had caused was so inconvenient.
It wasn’t Vic who caused the problem. You shouldn’t have worn the necklace last night.
It wasn’t her fault! Besides, what was the use in having the necklace if she couldn’t wear it sometimes?
You should never have stolen it in the first place.
“Why not? Gabby was never going to wear it again.” She pressed her fingers in her ears. She had more problems than the necklace. Shirley rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Just as she’d feared, Detective Sloan was investigating Vic’s murder. She was the only person who would recognize the significance of the necklace and know that the only person who could have stolen it was her mother’s killer.
That’s just the beginning. It’ll be a chain reaction. Like dominoes falling.
“No,” she spoke into the empty room. “Rachel Sloan getting the case is a piece of bad luck. That’s all.” It was nothing she couldn’t handle. She was much smarter than the detective and was already a step ahead of her.
They’ll find the necklace and Rachel will recognize it. And then Gabby Winslow’s case will be reopened, and once the police start poking around in it, they’ll look at everyone she knew. Then they’ll discover all the other people you’ve killed.
“No one cares about them, and if I can’t find the necklace, neither will she.”
She doesn’t have to. His voice snaked through her mind. Once Randy Culver describes that diamond guitar pendant Vic showed him, Rachel will make the connection. She’ll bring in a sketch artist for him to work with and they’ll have your ugly likeness.
She was not ugly, not since she’d lost weight. Besides, there were so many women there last night that Randy wouldn’t remember her.
What if you get caught switching the vials?
“I’m not going to get caught.” Everyone said she had nerves of steel. “I’ll take care of Randy Culver tonight.”
But Sloan won’t give up. She’ll find the connection to the necklace. You have to get rid of her.
He was right. Hidden things had a way of coming to light, but shooting Sloan and getting away with it was so risky—she always had other cops around. The odds of getting caught were high. Maybe Shirley would send her a warning.
Yes. She would give her an opportunity to back off, just like she had Gabby. And if the detective didn’t, then whatever happened would not be Shirley’s fault. It would be Sloan’s.
Are you crazy? All you’re doing is giving her the opportunity to discover the truth. You have to get rid of her.
“It’s foolhardy to shoot a cop,” she said.
Who said you had to shoot her? Do I have to tell you every move to make? You still have that ricin. And tonight is the perfect opportunity to take care of her.
The ricin. Stealing a tiny vial from the lab where ricin was being used in experiments to treat cancer had been like stealing insulin from little old ladies. That was before it was touted as a terrorist’s tool. She’d used it only once, then resealed the small bottle.
Was that the answer to her problems? She chewed on her thumbnail, her heart beating hard against her chest. It had worked once before . . . It would work again. Yes! She pumped her clenched fist.
Unlike the necklace, the ricin couldn’t be traced. The idea was brilliant. She knew exactly how she would deliver it if Detective Sloan didn’t give up the case.
10
BY TWO, RACHEL HAD INTERVIEWED the neighbors surrounding the Vegas house. No one had seen anything. Everyone ag
reed Vic was a nice guy. The crime scene techs were clearing out as she walked back to the house.
That left her with no leads and a list of Elvis impersonators to interview since that was who Vic had spent the last hours of his life with. And a feeling she’d missed something. Perhaps if she gave the house one last look. It would also give her a chance to take her own photos, and might help her figure out what she’d overlooked.
Boone met her at the door. Since she couldn’t be in two places at once, she grudgingly admitted to herself it was good he’d come since he’d stayed with the techs, going over each room with them. He made a few notes on an iPad as she filled him in on the information she’d gotten from the daughter and neighbor next door.
“Techs said they found nothing, but did you see anything that might be considered evidence in the Foxx murder?” she asked.
“No. There was no sign of forced entry, either. I tried a credit card on the door and slipped the lock, so if he didn’t lock the dead bolt when he returned home, whoever killed him could have entered that way. Or Vegas let them in,” he said. “We found bank statements in his office. Every month he balanced his account on the back of one of the sheets. And there was a monthly planner in his car with his schedule neatly written in the squares. That should help you track his movements this past week.”
Boone transfered the notes on his iPad to her phone.
“Are you ready to head back downtown?” he asked.
“Thought I’d walk through one more time.”
He nodded, and she stepped past him. Using her phone camera, she snapped photos of each room. “Was the attic checked?”
“Yep. There were only a few boxes of Christmas ornaments up there. Vegas was definitely not a pack rat.” He followed her to the kitchen. “You know, copies of the crime scene photos will be available later this afternoon.”
Rachel pressed her lips together. She framed the kitchen table in her lens. “You do things your way, I’ll do them mine,” she said and took another shot. “But for the record, I like having my own pictures.”
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