"Can't tell me or won't?"
Gabbie stood with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed as she considered me. I was aware of the curious wait staff hovering nearby, needlessly wiping down empty tables again and exchanging furtive glances.
"Look, can we talk about this somewhere else?" Merry interjected.
I wanted to reach over and hug her. Instead, I continued to sit there, exchanging glares with The Dancing Pony's owner.
"I'm sure you'd prefer to keep Ailin's private life just that way, right?"
Gabbie stood there another moment before giving a terse nod. "Fine." She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small notepad, twin to the one Ailin had used the night before. "Are you ordering or what?"
I'd heard about the revolting things done to the food of those who'd made too many complaints or who had criticized a restaurant's service. Controlling a shiver, I shook my head no.
"We're good, thanks," I said, nodding at our drinks. "Just let us know when you're available to talk, please."
Giving another nod, Gabbie turned around and stalked back toward the kitchen. Without a word, the two hovering servers hurried after her.
"Well, what do you think about that?" Merry took another sip of her lemonade, then fished out a slice of strawberry.
"I think that Ailin isn't the only one around here who knows something." I glanced around the interior of the canal boat, taking in the elegant brass fittings and the polished oak paneling. "They certainly didn't spare any expense on this place, did they?"
"Don't change the topic, Caro." Merry scooted closer to the table and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "What did you mean, Ailin isn't the only one who knows something?"
I shook my head slightly. "I'm not sure. As Greg put it last night, my spidey senses are tingling."
"Okay, Spider Woman," Merry laughed. "I guess you'll tell me when you're ready."
"When I figure it out, I'll be ready. Speaking of being ready to share something, what about the letter you were served with?"
It was Merry's turn to shrug. "Lisa Caldwell claims harassment, that I've diminished her professional reputation by refusing to sell her books." She looked straight at me, lips compressed into a tight line. "I'm tempted to tell her exactly what her sweet little assistant told us when he came to get said books."
"I know you are, Merry." I leaned over and squeezed one of her hands. "Let Greg handle it. It just sounds like sour grapes to me."
"I know, I know," she said, swirling the remainder of her drink, her eyes fixed on the glass as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. "It just upset me this morning, being handed something like that on my own doorstep."
"I can only imagine," I said, finishing off my iced tea and nodding toward Gabbie, standing motionless in the doorway to the canal boat. "I think our audience awaits, Merry."
The three of us began walking down the same path that Greg and I had strolled the night before. This morning's sky was bright and high, nearly cloudless, and I was tempted to find a comfortable spot on the nearby grass and take a nap. Instead, I drew in a deep breath and turned my head to look at Gabbie.
"Ailin is the sister of Zayne Tillmon," I began. "He is the personal assistant of an acquaintance of mine and Merry's, a writer named Lisa Caldwell."
"Okay," Gabbie said, her tone strangely bland. "So what's that got to do with anything?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "It's just that we've had a few, ah, unsettling incidents in our town lately, and Zayne's employer was in the middle of some of it."
"I've heard about the two murders," she answered, one eyebrow lifted. "Are you saying that his boss was a part of that?" She shook her head. "I just can't imagine Zayne mixed up with someone like that. I just can't."
I stopped walking and Gabbie stopped as well.
"How well do you know the Tillmon family, Gabbie?"
She gave a half snort, half laugh and began walking again.
"They're my brother's kids. Zayne and Ailin are my nephew and niece."
Merry and I glanced at each other. I could see that she was thinking along the same lines as I was.
"Has Ailin told you anything at all about Zayne and his work?"
Gabbie's steps grew slower. "We didn't really see that much of one another, not really. The most we did was to pass one another during shift changes. Ailin was the one I trusted to close down The Dancing Pony in the evening. I open it in the morning."
"I see." I paused, glancing at Merry. "I think we need to get going. I've got to get back to writing and you've got a bookstore to run." And let's get out of here so we can dissect this conversation, I said silently. I could only hope that Merry would get the point that we needed to talk alone.
"Indeed I do," she agreed, seamlessly following my conversational lead. "Thanks for taking time to speak with us. Maybe we can stay a bit longer next time."
"You're a writer as well?" Gabbie asked, her brows drawn together in a frown. "Does Zayne know that?"
"I have no idea," I began, but Merry broke in.
"Why would your nephew need to know anything about Caro? Just because he works for another writer doesn't mean they know one another."
"Just asking, just asking," Gabbie said, holding up her hands. "I just don't meet a lot of writers. I have no idea who knows who."
"No worries," I assured her. "It's a small world in some ways. I just don't know Zayne, and as far as I know, he has no idea who I am."
"Well, thanks for thinking of The Dancing Pony, gals." Gabbie paused at the foot of the gangplank and held out her hand. "It was nice to meet you, Caro. And you as well, Merry."
We shook hands all around, and then Merry and I headed for my car. I could feel Gabbie's gaze on my back and I kept silent as we walked. Merry did the same, although she did give me one or two odd glances as we walked.
"What was that all about?" she asked as she fastened her seat belt. "Caro, have you ever considered getting another vehicle? This one is positively ancient."
"I'll have you know that this beauty came with us across the Atlantic, is practically a member of our family." I clicked my own seat belt and turned the key. "Hear that engine? Still purring after all this time."
Beside me, my passenger rolled her eyes. "Well, it wouldn't hurt to get something with something besides an eight track player."
"It does not have an…" I cut off my words as I looked at her grinning face. "Oh, you are so funny, Merry. And if it's music you want, I might just have to sing."
"Oh, please don't," she said, clutching her ears with a theatrical moan. "I don't think my poor ears could take it."
I began humming a few bars of "Let it Go" as I started backing out of the parking spot, then stopped both actions just as suddenly as my mind began to click.
"Merry, I don't know why and how or who, but Gabbie knows something about the killings. I could swear to it."
"And you picked that up over a glass of iced tea, Miss Marple?" she asked in a teasing tone.
"I'm serious," I insisted. "There was something, I don't know, something underneath that she wasn't explaining or telling. Look how long it took for her to admit that Zayne and Ailin were her relatives, for goodness' sake."
"Did you stop to think that she might have been protecting them, Caro? If I thought someone was out to get my family, I might do the same thing."
"Possibly," I admitted. "It's just a feeling I have. And here's another kicker: I think that having a business near a thoroughfare is perfect for setting up a smuggling operation."
Merry was silent, and I slid my gaze sideways to see if she was paying attention. She was, and the manner in which her mouth was hanging open showed me all too clearly what she thought of my last statement.
"I almost hate to ask how you came up with that little gem, Caro, but I will. Tell me: how did you make a connection between a floating restaurant and smuggling?"
I started to answer, but she interrupted. "No, hang on a sec, Caro. I'm not saying that it isn't p
ossible. I'm just wondering from what hat you pulled that idea. I'm listening, so please fill in the very big gap, okay?"
"I read something a while back—I think it was in the New York Post—about the ongoing problem with counterfeit goods being brought into the state. I was just thinking: what if the canal was being used as a method of moving counterfeit goods? It's feasible, right?"
Merry snorted. "Feasible, yes. Probable, no. I can't imagine that the authorities aren't keeping an eye on every possible manner of transporting illegal products. And exactly what type of products are we talking about here?"
"Counterfeit designer handbags and shoes," I answered promptly. "That was the gist of the article I read. Apparently, a lot of those street carts that sell these types of things were part of a scheme to get these goods to the public."
"Jeez, Caro. Talk about seeing ghosts behind every door! Just because Gabbie set up a business on the Erie Canal does not make her a party to smuggling. In fact," she added, "I'd say it was exactly the opposite. The place has to be inspected, right? I can't imagine a place that small would have too many spots to store smuggled purses."
I actually agreed with her. It was just a thought, another possibility from a mind used to pulling plots out of thin air. I didn't say it had to make sense. Once more, I began to focus on driving, and all the way home I chatted with Merry about inane topics, all the while turning my own suspicions over and over like a well-worn record.
* * *
I just couldn't settle down enough to write that afternoon, so I dragged a mutely protesting Trixie out for a walk. I needed to clear my head, or at least get my thoughts in order, before Greg came home. I wanted to run my concerns past him. If I'd learned anything from being domiciled with a lawyer for the past few years, it was to have an organized plan of attack.
By the time Greg's headlights swept across the yard and the kitchen wall, I was ready. I'd created a timeline on the wall in my study using various colors of sticky notes, beginning from the moment Merry and I had discussed the Seneca Meadows Fall Festival to this morning's visit to The Dancing Pony.
"You look like the cat that swallowed the canary," commented my ever-observant spouse as he stood in the front hall, removing overcoat and shoes. "Care to share?"
"Oh, absolutely," I said, as if there had been any doubt. "Before or after dinner?"
Greg sighed, reaching over to give me a hug. "It had better be before, or you'll have me bolting down my food and giving me a case of indigestion."
"How well you know me," I murmured into his embrace.
"I believe this is where I say, 'drinks in the library, my dear?' or something to that effect." He released me and headed for the kitchen.
"There's a few of those draft beers you like in the fridge," I called to his back. "And can you grab a bottle of water for me?"
I went into the den, his man-cave of sorts, and settled myself down on the long, low sofa. Trixie followed me in and stood in front of me, her expression clearly asking to be lifted up to my lap.
"Oh, come here, you lazy thing," I said as I reached over to scoop her up. "And don't try to convince me that you can't jump up here on your own. I've seen you do it."
"Talking to the dog again, my dear?" Greg walked over and handed me the bottle of water, reaching down to give Trixie's soft ears a gentle rub.
"Don't be silly," I said, taking a gulp of the cold water. "And if you'll sit down, I'll tell you exactly how I think the murders happened and why."
I spent the next few minutes explaining the order in which events had occurred, even though my husband was already aware of some. Like a good lawyer, though, he listened intently, taking occasional sips of his beer. To tell the truth, I was surprised that he hadn't whipped out a legal pad to take notes.
"The Dancing Pony is in prime area for smuggling, Greg. I really think that Ailin found out about it, told her brother, who in turn mentioned it to his boss."
"Let me get this straight, Caro: you think that Gabbie is using the canal boat as part of a smuggling operation. Her niece Ailin, who works there, found out and told her brother, Zayne, who happens to be the personal assistant to Lisa Caldwell. Am I right so far?"
I nodded. "So far, so good."
"Let's suspend all common sense for a moment and assume that you're right. How does this work into a double murder?"
"That's my next point." I wiggled on the sofa to a more comfortable position. Sometimes Trixie can get so heavy when sitting on me that my leg and various other parts of my anatomy go to sleep. "I think that Viviana found out about the smuggling as well, or was a part of it—that part I'm still working on—and had to be silenced. Victoria, I believe, was in the secondhand shop when Viv was threatened by whomever it was who eventually killed her and had to be dispatched as well." I gave him a triumphant smile. "And there you have it. It really had nothing at all to do with the fall festival and the two combatant writers. That was just a sideshow."
"I see." Greg sat silently for a few minutes. Finally, he spoke. "So you're saying that Lisa Caldwell's appearance, which was out of the blue according to Merry, was just happenstance?"
"Absolutely. Possibly." I glanced over at him apprehensively, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Why?"
"Because this plot has so many holes in it, you could drive a fleet of buses through it."
I felt my eyes narrow as I stared across the room at my husband, so calm and collected—and so sure that I was wrong. Or crazy. Needless to say, my competitive nature kicked in.
"I have an idea, dear," I said carefully. "Why don't we both work on this and compare notes in, say, three days' time? That way we'll both have enough time to go back over the facts and come to a conclusion that will, in your words, be less hole-y."
I stood up and gently set Trixie down on the sofa. Walking past my husband, I stopped to kiss the top of his head, noting to myself that his "swirl" had taken on new territory. Soon he'd have to admit to a bald spot.
"Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes," I called back over my shoulder, and left the room.
I fished in my pocket for my cell phone and tapped out a quick text to Merry: Breakfast tomorrow. My place. Need to talk.
I took a package of beef chorizo out of the refrigerator as well as a new carton of eggs. Tonight, I was going to make a dish that Merry had talked about and had assured me that it was as easy, as she put it, as making a pie. I figured it would be mundane enough to allow me time to rethink my own conclusions.
Someone out there knew something about the two deaths, of that I was sure. Humans being what they were, the only way two people could keep a secret was if one of them was dead. That last thought gave me pause, and the hissing of the chorizo brought me back to the present. What if, just what if, knowing something was the reason that both Viviana and Victoria were dead? I let that idea float in the ether of my mind for a moment as I concentrated on not burning dinner.
Twenty minutes later, I was waving my hand in front of my mouth as though the mere action could cool down the fire in my mouth.
"What in the world is in this?" I finally managed to gasp out after drinking nearly all of my water. "Merry didn't say a word about that when she was giving me the recipe."
"I think it's called spicy, Caro," commented my husband as he continued to placidly chew and swallow. "And it's really quite good. Make sure to let Merry know I said so."
"Speaking of letting someone know something," I said, "how about this for a theory? Viviana and Vic were killed to keep them quiet about something they knew, something that could get the murderer shut away for a long time."
Greg chewed another bite slowly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling in what I liked to call his "thinking posture:" Rodin's sculpture in reverse. Finally, he nodded.
"Maybe you've hit the nail on its proverbial head, Caro."
I waited for more. Finally, I said, "Well? Any insight into this possibility?"
He nodded. I waited.
"I think what you need to consider,
Caro, is the catalyst behind the murders." He stood up. "Want a coffee?"
"Yes," I said. "And I have, Greg. It has to be the festival."
"Really?" Greg busied himself at the Keurig and returned to the table with two brimming mugs. "Are you saying that a small-town fall celebration was the cause of their deaths? If so, spare me the next parade," he added. "This is really good, Caro. What kind is it?"
"It's Jamaican Blue," I said rather impatiently. "And don't make fun. I happen to think that Merry and I had a good idea."
"Think just a moment, Caro. What part did Viv and Vic play in this festival?"
"That's easy," I said. "They were going to be the fake corpse in our murder hunt."
"All right. And why were you having a murder hunt?"
At last one shoe dropped, a tentative spark of possible light on the matter.
"Because of the mystery writers?"
Greg nodded. "Got it in one. Or maybe five."
I threw my hands up. "Greg, are you saying that Lisa and Sarah are killers?"
"Not at all, my dear." He smiled at me. "After all, I live with a writer myself."
"Then who?" I forgot all about my coffee and leaned back in my chair, arms folded over my chest.
"Who else might have been with them?"
And then the second shoe dropped. The personal assistants. I absolutely could not see the prim and proper assistant for Sarah Lawson as a murderer. But Zayne? Possibly. And the Ailin slash Zayne duo had even more probability.
I spent the rest of the evening letting this new direction of thinking percolate. Maybe I was on to something at last.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I could hardly wait for Greg to leave the next morning. I'd already texted Merry while he was showering, instructing her to watch for his departing car. Come over ASAP was the message I'd sent, followed by a series of those silly emoticons with wide eyes and a few exclamation points thrown in for good measure.
"What?" was the first word out of her mouth when I opened the front door. "I've been on pins and needles, waiting for him to leave."
"Come into the kitchen. I've got some leftover coffee cake to go with our coffee."
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (Proverbial Crime Mysteries Book 3) Page 14
