“You want me to pay you to snoop?”
I frowned, realizing the dichotomy. “If you don’t need my help, then I’ll volunteer. Does that make you feel better?”
“Actually, it does. Just a little. However, I am a little shorthanded this week. So if I get called about it, then I’ll let you know.”
“That sounds great.” I put my coffee mug in the sink—then changed my mind and put it in the dishwasher. Riley was a bit more of a neat freak than I was, and I didn’t want to start the marriage off by being a total slob. “If you think about it, you should drop off your card at the restaurant.”
“For real, Gabby?”
I hardly heard him as another idea clicked into place in my mind. “Better yet, send Clarice to drop off your card.”
Clarice also worked for Chad. She was a pretty blonde, who turned many heads. She seemed like just the type that Borski might want to see again. He seemed to like hiring pretty blondes.
However, Emma Jean hadn’t been pretty nor a blonde. So why had he hired her? It still didn’t quite fit for me.
“You’re serious?” Chad’s voice rose higher in pitch. “You want Clarice to do this? Clarice who mistook paint thinner for wood stain and ruined a table at one of our client’s houses?”
“The one and only. Just trust me on this.”
“If you say so.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter, liking my idea more and more as I thought about it.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Chad said.
“Thanks, Chad. You’re the best.” Before he hung up the phone, I rushed, “How’s Sierra?”
“She’s gone off the deep end since she started taking these pain meds. She’s been singing and dancing around the house. Singing and dancing, Gabby. I’m not sure what’s wrong with her. I feel like I married . . . you.”
He made it sound like that would have been a terrible thing. I chose to let it slide rather than taking it as the insult it was. “It’s kind of funny.”
“Well, she can’t have this surgery soon enough. She’s not in her right mind.” Just then, I heard my friend downstairs—her voice traveled up through the vents sometimes. She was singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of her lungs.
I repressed a giggle.
As I ended the call, I dropped my phone on the table. At least there was that. I could tap back into my old days as a crime scene cleaner and use that as a means to snoop. I did help Chad on occasion, as long as my schedule permitted it.
But, until Clarice dropped the card by, I had to make the most of my time. The mystery wasn’t going to solve itself. I needed to talk to more people who knew Emma Jean. I needed to collect information. And I needed to start my suspect list.
Chapter Five
Two hours later—two hours of attempting to put together Emma Jean’s timeline, but stopping because I didn’t have enough information—I finally stepped out of my apartment. I’d left a message for Patton Patrick, the man whose name I’d seen on Greg Borski’s desk. I hoped he might call me back.
Yes, I was fishing for any answers I could catch. You never knew when you just might hook something.
As I started down the stairs, I spotted Bill pacing by the front door, sweat again pouring down his skin. He really might need to have that looked into.
As I clunked down the stairs, another noise caught my ears. It almost sounded like a . . . crowd? A riot? I couldn’t be sure.
“There you are! I was hoping to catch you.” Bill paused for long enough to stare at me.
“What’s going on?”
The sound outside was louder, and, as facts collided in my head, my muscles cinched tighter. Something was going on. Something bad.
“There are protesters outside.”
“Protesters?” I tried to peak out the window atop the door, but Bill pulled me back as if my life was in imminent danger. I’d noticed the outside noises this morning, so I’d turned up the TV to drown them out. I supposed that was why I couldn’t hear any of this from inside my apartment.
He shook his head as perspiration dripped down his temple. “I guess these are people who hated me anyway. But now that they think I could be a murderer, they really hate me.”
“How’d they find out where you lived?”
“I have no idea. You know what it’s like. You can find anything on the web today if you look hard enough.”
“So are you going to stay in here all day?”
“No, of course not. That would make me look spineless and weak.” He spit a little as he said the words. “But what if I hit someone as I’m backing up? I doubt these people are going to move. In fact, they possibly want me to hit them—they’d sacrifice themselves—to make me look bad.”
“I can help direct traffic, if you’d like.”
His eyes widened with gratitude. “Would you, Gabby?”
“Of course. But let me check what it looks like out there first.” I peered through that little window. My eyes widened this time. There were probably thirty people in our little parking lot. Most of them held signs reading . . . Kill Bill?
Certainly they were talking about his talk show, not his actual person.
Most of them wore shirts supporting Philip Munich, the pundit Bill constantly dissed on his show. Apparently, the other side now had ammunition against Bill, and they intended to use it.
“They look relatively peaceful. That’s the good news,” I told him, coming back down on my heels.
“Their signs say Kill Bill!”
I backed away. “Well, that’s true. I’m sure they don’t mean it.”
“Are you?”
Was I? That was a good question. “We can do this.”
He froze for a moment, and I thought he might change his mind. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I couldn’t afford to freak him out by hesitating. Instead, I took his arm, drew in a deep breath, and then opened the front door.
Outside, the sound of the protesters rose to double the decibels and the sun blinded me—not a great combination. This was insane. Absolutely insane. And all of this over an allegation? There was no sense in it.
The rioters crowded closer when Bill emerged. I felt a bit like a Secret Service agent as I pushed past everyone, leading Bill to safety. If only I’d brought my aviator sunglasses.
Next time, Gabby. Next time.
Thankfully, Bill was parked closeby. He clicked his car unlocked, I opened the door, and he slipped inside. I quickly slammed it shut.
As I did, the crowd’s chant assaulted my ears. “Kill Bill. Kill Bill.”
“Are you people insane?” I muttered.
The Secret Service would never say that. But I wasn’t Secret Service. Scratch that idea. I was nowhere near politically correct for that job.
“He killed his wife, and he thinks he can get away with it!” a man in the crowd yelled, his eyeballs nearly coming out of their sockets.
“Justice for everyone—the rich and the poor!” Another woman yelled.
What are you people? Freaks?
I mean, really. Did the woman see the apartment complex? It wasn’t exactly fancy. In fact, I was pretty sure people on welfare might have nicer places than this one. Not that I was complaining. Or putting down people on welfare. It was just a fact.
“Everyone, back up! Otherwise Bill and his car really might kill someone.” I probably shouldn’t have said that one. But I couldn’t resist.
I pushed forward, actually moving people out of the way without ever touching them. All I had to do was stretch my arm out and people seemed to fear me making contact with them, almost like I had leprosy. Or the Force.
The Force. I was going to stick with that.
The crowd backed up.
I motioned for Bill to pull his car out. As soon as it was in drive, the crowd tried to close in again.
These people were insane.
“All right. He’s gone. You can leave. Adios, amigos. Go find another Bill to torture.”
&n
bsp; A few people scowled at me. A few actually left. Until one guy yelled, “Let’s follow him to the station!”
Great. I couldn’t follow Bill there. I had too many other things to do.
I remained on the front stoop, standing my ground, as a few stragglers remained. I even crossed my arms, just daring someone to question my authority.
I mentally giggled at the thought. This was so not me. But I was going to make the most of it.
At least, I was until I felt my blood freeze.
There was that feeling again. I should be familiar with it.
That feeling of being watched.
I glanced around, looking for the source of the feeling.
I saw no one. Again.
There were a lot of places people could be hiding to watch me. There were shrubs, trees, businesses, cars. I suppose that was the tricky part about living in the city—all the nooks and crannies surrounding you on a daily basis.
I surveyed the area once more for any watching eyes. No one registered with me, though.
Wasting no more time, I climbed into my car.
After my bodyguarding experience, I stopped by the home of Jerry Lewis, Emma Jean’s second ex-husband. I couldn’t help but wonder if he supported the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Especially on Labor Day. But that was neither here nor there.
The tangents my mind went on could astound the most ADD of personalities.
Jerry Lewis lived in a brick ranch house in Portsmouth, the city right across the river from Norfolk. He looked older than I had expected; his head was nearly bald; his red beard looked grizzly; and he smelled like motor oil. Not only that, but he wore a motorcycle jacket, complete with all kinds of patches, and a chain dangled from his belt.
He seemed slightly scary, to be honest. It didn’t get any better when he looked at me and sneered, making it clear I wasn’t welcome on his porch. In fact, his front door mat read, “Go Away.”
“What do you want?”
What was it lately with people with unfriendly greetings? Was there something about me that put people on guard? I thought I looked perfectly approachable.
“Hi, Jerry. I realize you don’t know me, but I’m hoping to ask a few questions about Emma Jean.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“I’m Gabby St.–Gabby Thomas, I mean. A private investigator.” It never failed to thrill me when I said those words—both my new name and my title. I got to wear a lot of hats lately: forensic workshop leader, occasional crime scene cleaner, and all around busybody. I was practically a quick-change artist, as of late.
“I already told the police everything I know.” He started to shut the door.
I raised my hand, ready to stop the door. I didn’t have to. He paused and stared at me with smoldering eyes, just daring me to challenge him.
“Please, Jerry. Answer some questions. Not for me. Not for you. Not even for Emma Jean. Answer them for your son. He’ll want to know one day.”
I waited to see what he would decide. His chest heaved with every second of contemplation that passed. This could go either way.
“Besides, the only reason I can see that you wouldn’t want to talk would be because you’re . . . guilty.” Yes, it was a power play. I hoped the risk paid off.
Finally, he shoved the door open. “Come on.”
I fully expected him to only give me five begrudging minutes. Instead, without asking, he poured me a glass of lemonade, set it down a little too hard on the breakfast bar, and motioned for me to sit.
I did.
I looked around his cluttered home, expecting to see his son somewhere.
I didn’t.
Instead, I saw posters with cars and tools. Even the bookcase displayed toolboxes and racing photos.
“AJ is with my mom,” Jerry explained. “Since Emma Jean and I were still in the process of settling things, I’m having to deal with a lot of paperwork and legalities. Even in death she’s making my life miserable.”
“I’m . . . sorry?” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“And I’m a mechanic, but I also sell tools for Williamson Tools. I was a race car mechanic when I was younger, and Williamson sponsored my driver.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“What do you want to know?” He took a sip of his own lemonade but remained both standing and staring at me.
“When was the last time you saw Emma Jean? Alive, that is.” I mentally kicked myself for fumbling my words.
“I saw her on Sunday evening when I picked up AJ at her place. He spent the weekends with her. That was our arrangement.”
“Do you have custody?”
“Primary custody.”
“How’d you manage that? Usually the mom gets it.” And Emma Jean seemed manipulative enough to figure out a way to make it happen, whether she was stable or not.
His lip pulled up in a sneer. “She took me to court. But on our first trial date, she went ballistic in front of the judge. Anyone could clearly see she was unstable. She was ranting and not speaking in coherent sentences.”
“Was that unusual?”
“No, it wasn’t. She flew off the handle all the time.”
Maybe Bill had been telling the truth. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. I only wish I’d realized that earlier. Like, before we got married.” He shook his head. “I love AJ, but sometimes I regret the mess I brought him into. Of course, that doesn’t matter anymore.”
His head dipped.
The man didn’t appear to be a heartless killer. And, even though he recognized the issues he had with Emma Jean, that didn’t mean he thought murdering her would make things better.
But I had to remind myself not to always take things at face value. I’d been surprised before. I’d be surprised again.
“Did she have any enemies?” My fingers slipped around the dewy glass in front of me, but I didn’t drink it.
He laughed, his grief instantly disappearing. “Any enemies? There’s a line so long, you can’t see the end.”
Chapter Six
I decided I should rephrase my question. “Maybe I should ask: is there anyone in particular who disliked her?”
Jerry ran a hand over his smooth head. “I honestly can’t narrow it down.”
“It’s really that bad?” Again, all these years of thinking that Bill was exaggerating . . . and now I was finding out that he wasn’t. What would be next? Discovering that James Cameron really was the king of the world?
Jerry nodded and sat down with a hard thud. “It was that bad. She had a way of turning people against her.”
“You obviously didn’t always think that. You did marry her.”
His cheeks actually turned a deep red. “Well, she could be very charming when she wanted to be. But she could turn it off just as fast. Of course, I didn’t see that side of her until after we married. Talk about buyer’s remorse.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you meet?”
“I took out a classified ad.” He stared at me, as if silently daring me to make fun of him.
I was smarter than that.
“Unconventional,” I said instead.
He shrugged again. “I didn’t think anything would come of it. But Emma Jean responded, and she was in good form when we met. We got married quickly. That was my first mistake. I didn’t have time to see how difficult she really was.”
“Why’d you divorce?” I felt like I knew the answer, but I had to ask anyway. I sipped the syrupy sweet lemonade as I waited for him to respond.
“Right or wrong, I realized that life was too short to be so miserable. For AJ’s sake more than mine.” The man’s gaze locked on mine. “I wasn’t much help, was I?”
“No, you were. Thank you.”
“I want to know what happened to her. I didn’t love her anymore, but I didn’t wish this on her. Bludgeoned to death? Left in a freezer?” He shook his head. “That’s no way for anyone to go.”
“I ag
ree.”
He tapped his finger on the counter, as if thinking about something. I let him have his moment. Finally, he looked up.
“There was one person who bothered me,” he said. “Greg.”
“Greg Borski from The Crispy Biscuit?”
He nodded. “Yeah, the man was abrasive and demanding, and nothing was ever his fault. It was always someone else who was sabotaging him. I’m not saying he’s a killer. But I am saying he’s worth looking into.”
I thought the same thing. As of right now, he was at the top of my suspect list.
I took out a sheet of paper and pushed it toward him. “Can you fill in any of these blanks on this timeline?”
He looked at it and pointed to Tuesday. “This is when she was supposed to show up and take AJ so I could work late.”
“Where do you work?”
“Carter’s Auto Corner. Anyway, I was going to hire a sitter, but Emma Jean insisted that she would watch him.”
“Her body was discovered on Wednesday. Did you talk to her between Sunday and Wednesday?”
“Only on Sunday evening when I picked up AJ.”
“How did she seem?”
He shrugged. “Agitated. I figured it was because she found out I was dating someone new. She didn’t like it. I think she was fighting some kind of virus too, which never made things anymore pleasant. And she was muttering something about half lord of the fishes.”
“Half lord of the fishes?” What?
He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I figured it was some type of buried insult, and it was better if I didn’t know.”
I paused and leaned closer. “Do you think I could get into her house, Jerry?”
He nodded, like the request wasn’t a big deal. “I can get you in. The house is still in my name. I moved out on my own free will. It was just easier that way.”
“That would be great. I want to see if there’s any evidence there.” I was sure the police had taken most of it, but it couldn’t hurt to look.
He nodded. “As soon as the police say it’s okay, I’ll meet you there.”
“Thanks, Jerry. That sounds perfect.”
I decided to stop by the radio station and update Bill in person. Unfortunately, a crowd was gathered outside. I recognized several of the faces from this morning.
Cunning Attractions: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 12 Page 4
