I worked my way as close as I could get without standing out. I’d been caught eavesdropping once already; I wasn’t looking forward to having it happen again. Unfortunately, there weren’t many people standing near Philip, which meant I couldn’t get within hearing range without him noticing me. I moved to the snack table, which was as close as I could safely get, and pretended to pick over the various cheeses while watching their lips, hoping I could make something out.
Terry didn’t give Philip much of a chance to speak. He leaned in close and said a few harsh words I couldn’t make out. He leveled his finger at the other man, nearly shoving it up his nose. Philip took the tongue-lashing stoically before removing his horn-rimmed glasses. For a moment, I thought he was going to slip them into his pocket and then punch Terry in the face. Instead, he wiped them clean, seemingly disinterested in whatever Terry had to say, before shoving his glasses back onto his face. He muttered something that sounded like, “So?” before shrugging and walking away. Terry stood there, fuming after him for a long moment, before turning and storming the other way.
Well, that was quick.
I was pretty sure I saw Philip’s name as Philip Carlisle on the list Margaret had given me. I didn’t recall seeing Terry’s, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t been together. She might have forgotten, or kept it off the list for some reason. Could that mean the friction between the two men was because they were both smitten with Mrs. Yarborough?
I thought back to what Margaret had told me about how Philip thought that since Howard Yarborough was dead, he and Margaret would run off together. Was Terry Blandino somehow connected with the Yarboroughs, more than a simple party guest? If he was in love with Margaret, I could see how Philip’s plan would rub him the wrong way.
So, what if Philip was in love with Margaret, had wanted their affair to mean more than it really did, but when she told him she wasn’t interested, he decided to kill her? He might have mistaken Jessica Fairweather for her since they were both wearing the same costume, killing the younger girl by accident.
But I found it hard to believe. If he’d slept with Mrs. Yarborough, it would be hard to mix the two up. Jessica had been strangled. In order to do that, the killer had to get up close and personal with the victim. Even if he’d snuck up behind her, he would have realized his mistake as soon as he laid his hands on her. I supposed he could have killed her to keep her quiet, even after realizing his mistake. But if that was the case, why not go after Margaret when I’d caught them alone together?
I needed to know more.
And I thought I knew exactly where to go for the information I needed.
I snatched up a couple of cheese cubes and stuffed them into my mouth before heading for the hall. My stomach grumbled at the limited sustenance and I promised it I’d treat myself to a pot of coffee and an entire cake when this was all over.
There were people in the hallway, so I continued on past them until I found an unoccupied room. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. There was no lock on the door, so I could only hope no one walked in on me. It wasn’t that I was doing anything bad, but I didn’t want the wrong person to overhear the questions I was about to ask and tattle on me.
Turning, I grimaced at the decorations. Chains hung from the ceiling with dull hooks on the ends of them. On the table in the middle of the room was a recognizable puzzle box. On the wall opposite the door was a movie poster for Hellraiser. Next to that was a mannequin of the villain himself, nails sticking out of his head as he glowered at me.
I shuddered and turned my back on the straight-out-ofa-horror-movie tableau. If I’d been married to Howard, I either would have made him take everything down, or would have moved out. There was no way I could live with this stuff in nearly every room.
I pulled my cell phone out of my baggy sweatpants and went to recent calls. I clicked on the first number there and waited as it rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Rita. It’s Krissy.”
“Oh, Krissy!” Rita shouted into the phone. “I’m so glad you called. You must tell me everything that is happening. You’re involved in this, aren’t you? From what I hear, you and Officer Dalton are close to catching the killer. Is it true? Of course it is! You two do such good work together. I don’t know how you two aren’t dating anymore. You’re such a match!”
I waited for her to take a breath before cutting in. “We’re working on it,” I said. “But we’ve run into a few snags.” I wasn’t quite sure I was talking about the murder investigation or our relationship.
“Snags?” Rita asked. “That’s terrible! Do you remember the James Hancock novel, Partied until Death? The whole thing took place at a party just like the one you are at, and the killer was picking everyone off one by one.”
“I remember it,” I said with a sigh. “Only one person has died here.” And the party in the book wasn’t a costume party. Really, other than the word party there weren’t any similarities between the book and what was happening here.
“But maybe the result will be the same!” Rita sounded beside herself with excitement. “Remember how the butler had an affair with the cook and they conspired against the host, killing his friends and family to drive him insane and steal his fortune? Absolute brilliance!”
I rolled my eyes. Dad was never happy with his “the butler did it” solution, but at the time, didn’t know what else to do. He felt it was too cliché, and I had to agree. Nothing I’d seen here pointed to the butler, or any of the help, killing Jessica, however.
“This isn’t a novel,” I said, feeling it had to be said, but knowing Rita wouldn’t care.
“Of course not.” I could almost see her waving a hand at me. “But perhaps you can use it as a guide to solve the case.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Why was it that nearly every time I talked to Rita, she had to bring up one of my dad’s books? I knew she was a fan, and I was sure he appreciated her fandom, but come on! This was real life. Things didn’t happen nice and orderly like they did in a book. She had to understand that.
“I have a few questions about some of the guests,” I said, changing the subject to the reason for my call. “I don’t know anyone here and instead of interrogating them, I thought that you might know a few things about them.”
“Oh!” She sounded excited by the prospect. “Are they all suspects?”
I knew she was hoping I’d tell her the names of all of the people Paul and I suspected of committing the crime, but I knew if I did, it would be all over town in seconds, with my name attached. I had to be careful here. I wanted to get information, not start rumors.
“No,” I said, eyeing Pinhead over my shoulder. “I’m looking for background information, so I know a little more about the guests. I’m hoping it will help me narrow the suspect list down.”
“Oh, well, okay then.” I could hear the disappointment in her voice. “What do you want to know?”
“Terry Blandino,” I said. “What is his relationship with the Yarboroughs?”
“Blandino . . .” There was a clicking sound I assumed came from her tapping the phone with her fingernail. “Blandino . . .”
I waited, suddenly afraid my source of gossip had come up blank. What if she didn’t know Terry or Philip, or any of the guests here well enough to know anything juicy about them? These people ran in entirely different circles than Rita. There was no way one person could know everyone in town, even one the size of Pine Hills where everyone seemed to know each other.
“Oh, yes, Terry!” she exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering him. “I’m not sure, but I thought either Terry or his ex-wife might have had an affair with one of the Yarboroughs. Or was it their daughter?”
“He has a daughter?”
“Oh yes,” Rita said. “Her name is Ellen.” There was a pause. “No, wait. Elaine. Her name is Elaine.”
I gaped into the phone. “Monroe three is Terry Blandino’s daughter?”
“Monroe?” Rita asked, confused.
“No, I think she goes by Harmon; her mother’s maiden name. The separation wasn’t a happy one, but what breakup is?”
My mind was churning as I tried to figure out how Terry having a daughter, one who was at the party tonight, wearing the same dress as the murder victim, could have led to Jessica’s death. As far as I was aware, Elaine didn’t know anyone other than her father at the party. Could he have killed his own daughter?
It didn’t fit. I couldn’t imagine anyone hurting their own child, even if they hadn’t had contact in a while. And as with anyone mistaking Jessica for Elaine, I seriously doubted her own father would mistake Jessica for her.
I needed to think about it some more before coming to any sort of conclusion, so I moved on and asked about the other person I’d called her about.
“What about Philip Carlisle?” I asked.
There was a moment of silence before Rita answered, sounding as if she had a personal hatred for the man. “I don’t care much for him.”
“How so?” I asked.
“I’m not one to spread rumors, but that man is not to be trusted. I’ve heard some dark things about him. Stay away from him if you know what’s good for you.”
My heart was pounding now. Could he really be the killer? Maybe my speculation about a relationship gone sour wasn’t too far off the mark. “What sort of dark things?”
“I’m sure you know, but he was connected with Margaret Yarborough before her husband’s death. An affair, if you can believe it.”
Oh, I believed it all right. His name was on the list, and Margaret had told me as much to my face.
“Well, when Howard died, some believed Margaret had killed him,” she said.
“You don’t believe that.” I could hear it in her voice.
“I don’t think she did it on her own.” Rita sounded grave for what was probably the first time in her life. “That Carlisle man was around at the time. There were always rumors that he was a hitman for some mafia before he moved here.”
While Philip looked the part, I had a hard time believing it. He was thirty at most. I suppose it was possible he’d gotten involved with the wrong people at a young age, but even if he did, why move to a place like Pine Hills where there wasn’t much need for a hitman?
“If he’s there, you obviously have your killer,” Rita said. “There is absolutely no doubt in my mind; that man is up to no good.”
My heart wasn’t just pounding now; it was trying to blow out my eardrums from the inside. Could Philip Carlisle have killed Jessica Fairweather? If so, why?
Hadn’t Margaret said she was with Philip during the murder? Had she lied? Or was I jumping to conclusions that had no basis in fact? If Margaret did care for Philip more than she’d let on, she might have claimed they were together to protect him.
But that didn’t seem like her. Could she have been mistaken on the timing? Had he killed Jessica mere moments before heading to Margaret’s bedroom?
Of course, that didn’t matter now. Philip was roaming the party at this very moment. The rain had all but stopped, and the tow truck would have Buchannan’s car out of the way before long, if it wasn’t already out. Once the guests started leaving, the chances of figuring out who killed Jessica would diminish. And even if we did, he might be long gone by the time we found him again.
“Krissy, dear? Are you still there?”
“Thank you, Rita,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”
“You just have to—”
I hung up before she could finish.
My first instinct was to run into the ballroom, hunt down Mr. Carlisle, and accuse him of Jessica’s murder in front of everyone. With all of those witnesses, he surely wouldn’t try anything. Then again, I’d seen firsthand what a desperate person could do when cornered. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea, after all.
No, this was better handled by the police. I’d done my part. I’d learned my lesson from the last couple of times I tried to do things on my own. I didn’t want someone else to get hurt, especially if that someone was me.
And now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who suspected Philip was responsible for Jessica’s death. Why else would Terry have confronted him on a night like this? I only hoped that he had solid evidence of Philip’s involvement, because right now, I was working on pure speculation. It wouldn’t be enough to convict him, even if Paul were to arrest him.
But for now, I needed to let Paul know what was happening, whether Philip was the real killer or not. I shoved my phone back into my sweatpants, straightened my back, and went in search of Paul before the police started to let people leave.
21
“Have you seen Officer Dalton?” I asked Buchannan, who was talking to a group of people, notebook in hand. The page was empty, telling me he wasn’t getting anywhere, so I didn’t mind butting in.
“What is this in regard to?” he asked, turning to me. He was in full-on professional mode, more than likely for the benefit of the men he’d been interviewing.
I hesitated before answering. How much should I tell him? Buchannan was a police officer, just like Paul, but he was also the man who was constantly hounding me, accusing me of getting involved in things I’d be better off leaving alone. He was right, I suppose, but it didn’t mean I had to like him any more than I did, or trust him to do the right thing.
“I think I might have found a break in the case,” I said, figuring that lying would only make my life worse. Besides, the last time we’d parted, it hadn’t been on entirely horrible terms.
Buchannan glanced back at the group of men, and said, “Thank you for your time,” before taking me by the elbow and leading me toward a more private corner of the room. There were still people nearby, but not close enough to listen in if we didn’t start shouting at one another.
“What do you know?” he asked.
I pulled my arm free and made a show of rubbing my elbow as if he’d hurt me, which he hadn’t; he’d made me feel like a child.
“I’d like to speak to Officer Dalton,” I said. “He’s more informed about the case and suspects than you at the moment.”
Buchannan’s eyes went hard. “Ms. Hancock, you best not be withholding information from me.”
“I’m not,” I said, though I guess I was. “It’s just that what I have to say will mean little to you.” Of course, that wasn’t quite accurate, but after he’d escorted me to the corner like I was a troublesome toddler, I didn’t want to tell him anything. “Paul knows the suspect, has spoken to him.” I hoped. “He’ll be able to tell me whether or not my information is important.”
Buchannan ground his teeth together. He looked like he was debating on whether or not to lock me up somewhere. Really, I didn’t blame him. I was being difficult, and I knew it. Maybe if I cut him a little slack sometime, he might not be so mean to me.
“Please,” I said as sweetly as I could. “Tell me where he is. I’m sure he’ll fill you in afterward. If I thought you could help, I’d tell you.”
He continued to grind his teeth for another few seconds, eyeing me as if he suspected some sort of trick, before he sighed. “Fine,” he said. “He’s talking to a suspect at the moment.”
I didn’t have to ask him where. “Thank you.”
Buchannan grunted in response.
I hurried for the hall that led to the makeshift interrogation room, eyes scanning the faces around me in search of Philip and his fedora. Had he slipped out while I’d been on the phone? Was he roaming the halls, searching for another victim? Or could fortune be with me and Paul was already interrogating him, getting the man to admit his role in the murder.
If, indeed, he was our killer.
I was running by the time I reached the door to the interrogation room. I forced my way inside without knocking, out of breath and excited.
Paul was seated at the table. Isabella, the woman who’d discovered the body, sat across from him. She looked just as frazzled as before, as if she had yet to recover from her
ordeal. They both looked up at me in surprise at the exact same moment.
“I need to talk to you,” I told Paul, paying Isabella only a cursory glance.
“I’m in the middle of something,” he said, but stood anyway.
“It’s important.” I tried to give him a meaningful look that wouldn’t tell Isabella anything. I think I only managed to look half-crazed.
“Could you excuse us a moment?” Paul said to the other woman before walking over to where I stood. “In the hall,” he told me.
As soon as we were outside and the door was closed, I launched in. “I think I know who killed Jessica.”
Paul, who had been about to speak before I cut him off, went suddenly alert. “How?”
“I was talking to some people,” I said carefully. I didn’t want to tell him I’d gotten my information from Rita, nor did I want him thinking I was roaming the ballroom, questioning everyone I saw. “I learned a few interesting tidbits about some of our guests.”
“Such as?” The impatience was clear in his voice.
“One of the men here is rumored to be a hitman, or at least, was when he was younger.”
“Krissy . . .” He sounded disappointed with not just the information, but with me. “You can’t believe every rumor you hear.”
I kept my flare of anger in check. He was only being reasonable. How often were rumors completely blown out of proportion, to the point of being flat-out lies?
But I knew there was more to it than simple rumor. There was definitely something off about Philip Carlisle, something that I’d felt the moment I’d laid eyes on him. If anyone could be a natural-born killer, it was him.
“There’s more to it than just rumor,” I said, managing to sound only mildly defensive. “I saw this man arguing with more than one person tonight. Heated arguments.”
A frown crept over Paul’s features. “Who did he argue with?”
“I overheard him arguing with Mrs. Yarborough about where their relationship was heading. He believes they should run away together. She doesn’t.”
“That doesn’t seem relevant.”
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