“Cross my heart. We’ll sit in the living room. My bodyguard Otis will protect you. What wine do you like?”
“Anything but Chardonnay.”
“I feel like celebrating Sylvia’s purchase of what’s-her-name’s couch. Veuve Clicquot work?”
“Oh yes. Indeed. Lovely choice.”
I got the fancy glasses out and poured us both a nice splash. He caught me peeking at my watch. Ten-fifteen. The a.m. version.
He grinned. “No worries. It’s Noon:15 somewhere.”
I got us situated in the living room. He applauded our new décor and the absence of “pretentious crap.”
We clinked glasses, and I settled in for our chat. “So what’s she like?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I think she murdered her husband.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Shut up!”
“No. I’m serious. He’s dead. Somewhere out there. Maybe.” A casual wave in the direction of Lake Erie. I reminded myself this lake I loved was not a tame body of water. People died out there, sometimes vanished permanently. All too often the search got called off.
“They quit looking for him at the end of November.”
“Her trust fund guy? I didn’t like him much, but I thought he was the better of that pair.”
“The trust fund was hers.”
“No way. Well, that takes the money out of the motive.”
“Yes. And no. My theory is they were fed up with each other, but there was a prenup and he’d get half if she divorced him. Nothing if he divorced her. In my opinion she’d married above her pay grade in the looks and younger department and realized, way too late, that Mr. Young & Irresistible was not worth half her fortune.”
“And?”
“And I think her young/hot/boring jerk became even more wearing after the move. That’s a big, gloomy old house. I figured they were planning to stay out of each other’s way, and it turned out there weren’t enough square feet in all of Bratenahl to get the job done.”
“So what exactly happened? And how did you find out about this prenup?”
He squinted his eyes at me and smiled. “Sweetie, women talk to me. They think I’m safe. Or cute. Or a short-term possibility. It’s a perk of being Jay The Decorator. For example, you’re talking to me right now.”
That stopped me. I checked him out more. Great looking. Nice bod. Warm, sympathetic eyes. Cerulean blue, to be precise. Blond with russet highlights, excellent cut. He was damn adorable, but not my type, which was one hundred percent Tom Bennington. However, I’d automatically assumed he was trustworthy. Playing detective while human is tricky.
But there it was. I trusted Jay. For right now. Plus I was dying to hear what he was dying to tell me. Later, I’d run Jay by Tom. He’d pick up whatever threats I might miss. Anything Tom overlooked, Otis would catch. And I could always set the dog on him.
Jay breezed on. “So they had this kayak. She bought it for him, she says. Lightweight. Nice enough but not your Old Town Castine, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t. I know nothing about kayaks except I always thought it would be awkward and mortally cold to fall out of one. Even in August.” We both considered the concept of “mortally cold” as a small gust spat another round of sleet onto the windows.
“How did I not hear anything about this, Jay? I met the man. His business card is in my desk. Surely I’d pick up on the name.”
“Not that surprising. It wasn’t all over the press the first couple of days he was gone. They keep names out, for quite a while sometimes, until they know if somebody’s seriously missing or maybe didn’t tie up his boat the smart way. At that point, the attention span of the ordinary consumer of headline news has wandered off to check its Facebook page. And there was the time it took to rally the posse and find the boat. She wanted a low profile and had enough clout to get it.
“Your big old lake eats people, Allie. They get lost out there and some are never found. Mostly it’s not headline news. At least not for long. Very sad, but not a big surprise. Our victim was well-to-do, but not socially—I guess you’d say ‘adept.’ Not friendly. Not pleasant. Not a community icon of note. Not a good conversationalist. At. All. Having talked to him for about a total of five minutes in all the time I worked for them, both here and there, I have to say taciturn does not begin—Good looking and semi-hot was the ballgame for that dude.”
I made a mental note of Jay’s ‘our victim.’ I needed to stay awake here and lay off the Veuve.
“How do you think she did it? Where is he now? How does it work?”
“Those are my questions exactly. Here’s my theory. They move out of this house here and into the venerable estate down the road there in late September.”
He illustrated the move by pantomiming the transfer of weight from his left hand into his right hand. I could visualize the three big vans it required, even with the stuff they left behind, like the chaise and the breakfast set. But not, unfortunately, IMHO, the thousand-pound contents of the wine cellar.
Unaware of my mental detour, Jay went on. “From what I heard, you guys moved from your old venerable estate into this—What is this? Tolkien Victorian? But so cozy—in October?”
He didn’t wait for my nod of agreement on architecture and timing. “Remember that warm stretch of Indian Summer in late November? Pushed almost to 80? Everybody turning the heat off and the air on?”
I remembered. It was a bizarre, and probably environmentally worrisome, but lovely interval. “And he took the kayak out?” I shivered. The water must have been hyperthermia cold by then. “Why would he do that?”
“Why. Indeed.”
“You sound like a British detective, Jay. You fit right into my little Victorian Tolkien World.”
He acknowledged my admiration with a smug look.
“Keep going, Jay. There was a boating accident? I bet nobody saw a thing. Not many of the regular summer sailors on the water. Once you winterize a boat, that’s the season. So he went missing in a big patch of lake.”
“Exactly. ‘Home came his kayak, but never came he.’ It appeared to have been submerged in deep water for a bit, then washed up against the rocks after the first twenty-four hours or so. Easy to find if somebody was looking, and she sent the cavalry. Cops. Coast Guard. A chopper. The works. They found the boat floating upside down on the third morning. His cell was tidy and dry in a plastic bag in a storage compartment. Enough to ID the boat, at least, as him. Prints were his and hers. No clues there. He didn’t talk much on the phone either. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the last earthly appearance of Mr. Patricia Stone.”
“Stone? Jay. Tell me she wasn’t one of the original Cleveland Stones.”
Bad enough to have a Wade on our plate. Venerable Cleveland was the curse of the T&A at the moment. A regular tour of University Circle.
“No. No. Not in the least. As much as it would please her, she’s another variety of Stone. Sand, maybe.” A grin. “But old-family rich enough. And plenty arrogant enough about it.”
“All right.” I sorted all the mental pictures I had of Jay’s scenario. “Let’s say she killed him. Somehow. Disposed of the evidence. Somewhere. Hid his body. Ingeniously. Got the kayak to where it needed to be. Somehow again—”
I broke off the talking and gave him my best, long, slow, inquiring gaze. “Jay. Why are you telling me all this? You and I are not just dishing the dirt here. Are we?
He sat quiet for a minute. A disconcerting departure from all his bright banter. “No. Actually we’re not.”
My turn. I performed a hasty, emergency, calming breath and fired off the best question I could come up with to flush out a liar.
“Jay. Who told you about the T&A?”
He didn’t blink. “Your friend Margo.”
* * *
“Margo? My Margo? How do you know he
r?”
“Well, for starters, she’s is not only your Margo.” He read my face and relented, “Although she did confide in me you two are BFFs.”
This made me feel better, but I narrowed my eyes at him anyway. “Is there anyone in Greater Cleveland who doesn’t confide in you, Jay?”
“Well. Some guys. If they’re wearing a Browns jersey that’s been washed a hundred times. Or a hunting hat with ear flaps. Generally, those don’t. But I am likable and unthreatening, as you noted.”
“I’ll give you that. So how?”
“I’m another one of her tenants.”
“Not in my former house.”
“No. Not yours, Allie. I looked at it back in the day before you, but its charm came from never being touched by an interior designer. I didn’t want to ruin it. I guess now you and Margo have decided it should remain an abandoned memorial to the two years Allie Harper, part-time librarian, was in residence there.”
That stung. “I’m paying rent. Or the Mondo is. And she keeps raising it.”
He chuckled. “She would, wouldn’t she?”
“Yeah. That’s Margo. So you told her what you’re telling me and she shared with you about the T&A. In fact—” I paused for five seconds to consider what I knew about Margo and was jolted by the unmistakable scenario.
“Jay, you’ve been sitting in Margo’s garden, knocking back the old ‘whatever’s-not-Chardonnay’ since before she met me, and therefore you’ve heard everything there is to know about Allie Harper. Going back two years before I met Tom and the jackpot. And all about—” I stopped myself and did a quick review of everything Margo knew about Tom and me. “Everything else.”
“I know a lot. But Margo’s Margo, Allie. She’s loyal. She gave me none of the prurient details.” He rolled the cerulean eyes. “I filled in those blanks for myself.”
I took fifteen seconds to reorganize my universe and came back to Jay. “You’ve heard everything about the T&A since the Lloyd case. At least. So you know how my adorable ‘mysteries of the heart’ game plan has turned out to be one scary murder after another?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Then you know, in spite of its frivolous name, the T&A is nobody’s game, Jay. Our current caseload is full up right now. We’ve got a murder, another murder, and a subsequent murder-of-a-murderer combo. And much, much more. You delivered my new book from Amazon. There’s a sniper out there. And he’s capable of—” I shivered. “Go look at our breakfast nook. The ceiling’s on the fucking floor. Why would you want to get involved with any of this?”
“She’s a terrible person, Allie. I’m about eighty-five percent confident she’s done the ultimate bad thing to a merely mediocre person, and she’s all set to get off scot-free. I can’t let that go. It offends my sense of fair play.” He must have read the skepticism around my eyes. “And, in the interest of full disclosure, I might as well say she’s been on my last nerve for five, long, ugly years and I want to get her back. Okay?”
“Okay. Revenge. I get it. You’re wacky. Go home, Jay, and don’t do anything about this until you hear from me.” I gave him my best imitation of the Margo glare. “I mean it. I’m the local expert on how many ways a so-called amateur detective can get dead. I’ve got things to sort out. Give me your phone number and get out of here.”
He grinned. “I’ll do better than that, sweetie. I’ll give you my card.” He grinned more. Clinked my glass.
“Hey,” he said, “how much are you asking for the armoire?”
Chapter Thirty
While I sat staring at nothing, the morning crept in slo-mo around my couch. Jay gave me the card and showed himself out. Tom passed by on his way to the shower, placed a kiss on the top of my head, and gifted me with a sweaty hug. I kept right on sitting. Otis appeared from wherever he’d been. Disappeared. Came back. Went into the kitchen.
After ten minutes or so a waft of good coffee reached my location and I heard behind me the familiar Otis step. He came around and set the coffee down on the side table, next to the half-gone Veuve Clicquot, the two empty glasses, and my moody black and silver sniper book.
Made no comment.
“Thanks, Otis.” I picked up the cup. It was a to-go cup. A spark of hope. Tiny, but warm. “Otis? Are we going somewhere?”
“Time for a road trip, Alice Jane. Just you and me. I told Tom. He said, ‘good idea.’”
I wanted to ask if he thought Tom meant “good riddance,” but I was training myself to believe in true love and unbridled passion and keep my trust issues in the dark.
“Is it safe to leave here?”
“Nothing’s a hundred percent, but you yourself are a lethal combination of stir-crazy and freaked-out today. You don’t think I can feel you simmerin’ from all the way down the hall? Come on, girl. You need a break and we need to talk. Let’s get outta here.”
Otis took the curves of the driveway in a manner that delivered an adrenaline rush. Rick waved us through the gate, out into the real world, and up against the full monte of March. The real world was wet and gray—make that charcoal gray. Chilly rain-lashed, pathetic, quivering trees. Every headlight we met was on. Not that there was much traffic happening on Lake Shore Boulevard this lunch hour. You had to mean business to go for a spin in weather this awful.
Otis meant business. He opened by asking about Jay and he nodded along to how I wanted his opinion and Tom’s opinion and probably Oprah’s opinion before we signed Jay and his case onto our agenda.
“We’re too busy, right? Otis? It’s too crazy now. Right?”
“Maybe. Might be what the doctor ordered.”
He turned onto Eddy Road, heading for the Shoreway and my spirts began to lift. A fraction. Out of my sneakers and up around my ankles, but it was a start. “Thanks, Otis. I needed this.”
Disgusting soupy slush splattered my window. I smiled to myself, and inhaled the leathery smell. I was feeling enough better to submit to whatever interrogation Otis had in mind.
“Okay. What do you want to talk about, Otis?”
A long sideways glance. “What’s goin’ on with you, Allie?”
“That’s a joke, right? A hundred things are ‘goin’ on’ with me but I’m trying to handle them one at a time. In the order of their DEFCON number.”
“What’s the number for whatever’s been making you go around looking worried, confused, and kinda embarrassed. All on your one face.”
“A two, maybe? Two and a half?” After thirty seconds or so, I fell into the trap of his silent waiting. I exhaled, forced my shoulders down a notch, and hauled my new book out of my purse where I stashed it as a sign of mental preparedness. Held it up where he could see it and still drive.
“Otis, I don’t know anything about snipers.”
Whatever question Otis was gearing himself up to address, this one clearly wasn’t it. He nodded toward the cover of my book and dismissed it with a shake of his head. “Give thanks.”
“But if the T&A is going to be dealing with snipers—”
“Allie.” He was now arranging his expression to be respectfully grave over the top of patronizingly cracking up. It was a pitched battle. Brow vs. chin.
“I can read your face, you know.”
“That’s excellent news. So what are you reading now? Beside the snipers’ handbook, which that book you got there is not, by the way.”
“I can see you don’t want to insult me by laughing?”
He tried to suppress a small gyration of mouth and eyebrows. Seized control.
“Very good. Now. You be the detective and explain to me why I’m looking at you like that.”
Alrighty. On top of everything else, I was getting mad.
“You’re the licensed PI, Otis L. Johnson. How about you go ahead and give me a clue?”
“Allie. What you saw on my face is the look I always get when s
omeone sticks ‘sniper’ and ‘T&A’ in the same sentence.”
My shoulders sagged the rest of the way. “Dammit. Otis. I hate feeling stupid.”
We were doing sixty-five around a massive tanker truck slinging a curtain of muddy water onto our windshield. So far, my view of our road trip along the Shoreway had been blurred vehicles getting passed by Otis, low-slung, dun-colored commercial and industrial buildings on our left, the backside of Bratenahl cowering behind high barriers on our right, and slight variations on the curtain of muddy water. My heart rate was twice as fast as the wiper blades. I was gripping my armrest and holding my breath, but still marginally happy to be out of the house. If Otis noticed any of this in his current state of concentration, it didn’t show.
His eyes were on the road. His voice was calm. Matter-of-fact.
“Girl, you are not even in the ballpark of stupid. However, I’m sorry to have to repeat the sad fact that you and Tom Bennington III and I are all of us equally well-equipped to see a sniper’s bullet coming. As demonstrated yesterday.”
“But, Otis, I can’t—A bullet out of nowhere with no warning? Coming for Tom. Or you. Or me. Or Jay, dammit, if I don’t run him off. Kip Wade—”
My voice was a microsecond from breaking, and an amateur detective worth her salt doesn’t cry. I swallowed and released my death grip on the handhold.
Buck up, Alice Jane.
“How come we don’t have our own sniper, Otis? Surely we can afford one.”
“And that would make us safer how?”
“Maybe our sniper would shoot their sniper before their sniper could shoot us?”
Now you’re talking, Alice. That would be way cool.
“You are listening to yourself, right?”
“Yes, Otis. I just heard myself. Sorry. That was dumb.”
Traitor.
“But, Otis, I feel like I’m losing it. I’m even jumpy when I’m asleep. I can’t trust myself to—handle anything. A blind woman in a sari gave me a fancy note for Tom and I simply forgot all about it until the next day. How can I—”
The Devil's Own Game Page 15
