“Well now, the subject didn’t come up, did it? And yes, your father may have mentioned it years ago. Not that he needed to, mind you. It was fairly apparent. At least to me.”
“Why didn’t I know this?” I asked indignantly.
“I don’t believe Leon and I ever discussed the love lives of our friends with our children.”
“Oh.”
She patted my knee. “We wouldn’t have dwelled on it, would we? Back then people weren’t so open about these things. I’m quite sure the Fox wanted to keep his private life private.”
“It’s not exactly something he’d announce in a pool hall,” I agreed.
Mother shook her head. “Not back in the seventies.”
“I wonder who knew at the Wade On Inn?”
“Oh, I should guess almost everyone. Nowadays people are far more honest, aren’t they?
She stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Honeybunch. It’s time I should get going.”
Thoughts of Tessie getting going reminded me of something else we needed to discuss. I asked her to sit for one more minute.
I took a deep breath. “It’s your driving,” I said and waited for the onslaught.
Sure enough, Mother started sputtering, and tut-tutting, and informing me in no uncertain terms that she drives just as well as she ever has.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t argue there. Nor could I dispute the fact that she has never had an accident and has never even gotten a speeding ticket. Although I did mumble something about miracles happening every day.
“What did you say, Jessie?”
I sat up. “I said, but at night, Mother. Won’t you at least agree to stop driving after dark?”
She reminded me she has almost perfect vision. “My hearing may not be what it once was. But my eyesight? Leon was always jealous of how I’ve kept my eyesight.”
“Daddy wouldn’t want you to drive at night.” Okay, that was low. But it worked. With a bit more coaxing and cajoling on my part, Mother finally relented and promised to stop driving after dark.
I still wasn’t satisfied. “And you’ll try extra hard to observe speed limits from now on?”
She sighed and nodded.
“And obey them?”
More nodding.
“And you promise to stop at red lights? All red lights?”
“Yes, Jessie.” She yawned. “All red lights. Mm-hmm.”
“And stop signs?”
Mother tilted her head. “Don’t press your luck, Honeybunch.”
***
“Fritz Lupo was gay, it was his gun, and he kept it under the pool table,” I offered as a greeting the minute Wilson answered his phone.
“What!?”
I repeated myself.
“Don’t tell me. Tessie.”
“Now aren’t you happy she got involved?”
He may have groaned. But he failed to answer otherwise, and I was able to notice the background noise on his end. He was driving somewhere.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Fritz Lupo was gay,” he said to someone in the car.
“What!?” That was Tiffany, but of course.
I closed my eyes and prayed for strength, and when I spoke again my voice was exceedingly calm. No, really. “Do not tell me you’re in my Porsche with Tiffany Sass.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Where are you?”
“Can’t tell you that, either. What about the gun?”
“You let her drive my car, and I will never speak to you again, Wilson Rye.”
“I’m driving. Tell me about the gun.”
I did so, and despite himself, Wilson had to be duly impressed by my mother’s extraordinary sleuthing skills.
“Apparently everyone out there knew where Fritz kept it. It’s embarrassing she found out about it before I did,” I admitted.
“Yeah, and look at me.” Wilson said. “Tessie Hewitt discovers in one short night what I’ve been trying to learn for a week?”
“She isn’t a threat to anyone. People are always telling her things.”
He chuckled. “And no one tells us poor homicide detectives anything.”
“At least not at the Wade On Inn,” I heard Tiffany chime in.
“Lupo was gay?” Wilson asked again before I could make any snide comments about Miss La-Dee-Doo-Da. “How did Tessie figure that one out?”
“Once upon a time, my father told her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mother doubts many people knew about it way back when. But apparently Daddy knew, and he mentioned it to her somewhere along the line.”
“What is it with you Hewitts? All you guys ever think about is everyone’s sex life.”
“Do you, or do you not, want to hear this?
He apologized, and in a sarcasm-free voice, asked what my mother knew about Fritz Lupo’s love life.
I reiterated what little she had told me. “She assumes everyone at the Wade On Inn must have known, but this was the first I’ve heard about it.”
A thought occurred to me. “Is Andre Stogner gay, Wilson?”
I could almost hear him roll his eyes. “I have no idea. But that shooting thirteen years ago was definitely about money. A bet gone bad.”
“Oh,” I mumbled.
“Do I need to show you the court transcripts?”
I cleared my throat and said that wouldn’t be necessary.
“Henry Jack,” Wilson said suddenly.
“No.” I shook my head. “I really don’t think Henry’s gay.”
Again I could hear the eye-roll. “I’m thinking about Pastor Muckenfuss, Jessie. Remember him?”
“Oh, my Lord.” I stood up to pace. “Pastor Muckenfuss is a homophobe, correct?”
“Yep.”
I tried wrapping my brain around what that fact might imply, but Wilson was speaking again. “Tonight’s your last night at the Wade On Inn, by the way. You’ll inform Candy and Karen?”
“But things are just starting to get interesting,” I insisted. “And we haven’t found the killer yet. We need more time.”
“No, Jessie. After that stunt with your mother? Someone’s bound to figure out what you’re up to. You’d be in danger.”
I tried to interrupt, but he continued, “This gun under the pool table information confuses things even further. If Kim Leary checks for it, it could blow your cover, and will certainly blow hers. If she doesn’t check—” Wilson left that hanging.
“It might still be there,” I said. “I mean, if it wasn’t actually the murder weapon.”
“Like I said. It’s getting too dangerous.”
“Let me get this straight.” I lowered my voice. “You’re on a road trip with Tiffany La-De-Doo-Da Sass in a car that says ‘Adelé’ on its license plate, and you claim I’m the one who’s living dangerously?”
“I didn’t chose your pen name, darlin.’”
Chapter 22
I am sure Wilson would have preferred I stay home and work on An Everlasting Encounter that afternoon, and certainly Trey Barineau was anxious to save his lady from her unbearable plight. But Sarina Blyss was going to have to endure her unpleasant confinement a bit longer while I attended to some other urgent matters.
My mother the wise woman had mentioned three Wade On Inn regulars who troubled her. Since I had visited Melissa the day before, I decided to give her a break, and since I had no idea where Spencer might spend his daylight hours, he was off the hook, too. I did, however, know where to find Kevin Cooper.
I walked to the university library and made a bee-line for the second floor. This time I didn’t hide. I went right up to Kevin and pulled the earphone thingies out of his ears.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
I leaned over, and he stared up at me with what looked like mortal fear. Good. Maybe if I scared the guy enough, I would get some straight answers.
“Who are you?” I repeated and sat down in a huff. “And why are you spying on people at the Wade On Inn?”<
br />
Kevin made quite a production of turning off his equipment and stalling for time.
“Maybe I should ask you the same thing?” he said when he finally looked up. “Who are you, lady?”He raised an eyebrow, and the terrified look, which had seemed so promising just a moment earlier, vanished.
“I asked you first,” I said brilliantly.
We assessed each other, both pretending to be tougher than we really were, until we finally gave up and giggled in unison.
“If I tell you the truth,” Kevin said eventually, “do you promise to keep it to yourself?”
“As long as you didn’t kill anyone.”
“Kill anyone!” He caught himself and looked around. “Kill anyone?” he repeated in a whisper. “Who do you think I am? Maybe we should start there?”
“Until this morning I thought you were a cop.” I pointed to his tape recorder. “I thought you were recording things for Wilson.”
“Wilson?”
“He’s my beau,” I said. “But I still don’t know who you are, Kevin. You’re not a librarian.” I waved a hand at the stacks. “And you’re not a cop. So what are you?”
“A graduate student.”
“Excuse me?”
He tapped his computer. “I’m just starting my dissertation.”
I scowled at the laptop. “You expect me to believe you’re writing your dissertation about the Wade On Inn?”
“No one’s ever done anything like it!” The frown on his face had suddenly transformed into a smile—a downright beaming, glowing smile. “My working title is Social Interactivity and Gambling Protocol Among Early Twenty-First Century Billiards Players: An Urban Study.” He actually said it all in one breath. “What do you think, Tessie?”
Needless to say, I was speechless. I blinked twice, or maybe it was three times, while Kevin repeated his working title.
“Umm,” I finally managed. “You’re a sociologist?”
“Anthropologist,” he corrected. He filled me in on the basics of his PhD research plan and sat back, waiting for my response.
“Well, the title certainly is catchy.” I tried sounding enthused. “But you should call it what it is—nine ball.”
“I like the sound of billiards better.”
“No,” I insisted, “I’m a writer. It’s best to be as accurate as possible. Don’t leave people guessing as to your meaning.”
“You’re a writer?”
I nodded. “I take it no one at the Wade On Inn knows about this research?”
“You won’t tell them?” He seemed anxious. “It would really compromise my research if you did.”
I promised I wouldn’t. “The murders must have compromised your work, though?”
“I hope not.” He was back to frowning. “I wasn’t expecting to have to answer to the police. I had to tell the guy in charge what I’m doing. But after he checked me out, he promised not to blow my cover.”
“The librarian thing?”
“Pretty decent of Capt—”
Then it dawned on him. “Of Captain Rye.” He squinted at me. “Your boyfriend is Wilson Rye? The cop?”
I shrugged, but Kevin reminded me fair is fair. After he vowed to keep my secrets, too, I explained my own true identity, both as Jessica Hewitt and as Adelé Nightingale.
“Wilson has me working undercover to try to catch the killer,” I said. “But I’m a complete amateur. I haven’t figured anything out.”
“You’re not an amateur pool player.”
Perhaps he expected further explanation about that, but I moved on and asked him about the murders. Surely he had noticed something with all his spying? An anthropologist would possess great powers of observation, no?
Kevin claimed otherwise. “I got started just a couple of weeks before Angie was killed. My research is only in the preliminary stages,” he explained and began cleaning his glasses. “I don’t know anything.”
I refused to accept that and insisted he share his opinion of each of the regulars.
As we discussed all the suspects, we agreed to dismiss Mackenzie and Avis. Upon further reflection, we also decided Ethel and Doreen weren’t killers.
“I have no idea who the other old lady was last night,” Kevin said. “But let’s dismiss her, too.”
I agreed that would be a good idea.
But my conversation with Mother was still fresh in my memory. “I’m thinking it was Spencer, or maybe Melissa,” I said.
“No way. Melissa can’t even aim a cue stick, much less a gun.”
“Okay, so what about Spencer?” I recalled my mother’s assessment. “I don’t trust him.”
“Spencer Erring is slime in a suit.” Kevin stared straight at me, as if challenging me to argue.
I didn’t. “I understand he had an affair with Angela.”
“The guy sleeps with anything on two feet, and that might be narrowing it down a little too much.”
“Who else has he been with?” I asked.
“Who hasn’t he been with would be an easier question.” Kevin returned to cleaning his glasses.
“Melissa?”
“Okay, I stand corrected. Melissa’s probably the only woman out there he hasn’t shown interest in.”
“What about Fritz?” I asked.
“No.” Kevin sounded sure of himself. “Fritz was teaching Angie to play pool, but that’s all.”
“No,” I clarified. “Did Spencer have something going on with Fritz?”
“Huh?”
“Kevin.” I was a bit exasperated. “You just told me Spencer sleeps with everyone. And I know for a fact that Fritz Lupo was gay. So?”
He thought a moment. “No,” he said and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure, no.”
I asked Kevin if he knew Fritz was gay, and he said he had his suspicions, but he doubted it was public knowledge.
I thought of all the other sundry possibilities. “What about Bobby and Angela?”
“You’re awfully interested in everyone’s love life.”
“I’m fairly certain that’s what this was all about.”
“Is that what your boyfriend thinks?”
I slumped. “No,” I admitted. “But trust me, this isn’t the first time Captain Rye and I have disagreed.” I sat back up. “Now then, what about Bobby and Angela? I’m getting mixed reports on that.”
“Nothing there.”
I studied Kevin. “You seem pretty sure about that.”
“It’s my job, Tes—Jessie. I need to be observant.”
“So did you observe anyone else with Angela?” I asked. “We think she was involved with someone new.”
“Who else is there?”
Okay, good point.
I got up to leave, but thought of one other question. “Did you know about the gun, Kevin?”
“Fritz kept it under the pool table,” he said without hesitation.
“Who told you that?”
“Spencer.” Kevin squinted into the stacks. “Or maybe it was one of the old ladies?” Again, the cleaning his glasses thing.
***
Sarina Blyss had all but given up hope by the time I returned to my desk.
She and Trey had tried ever so hard to think of how they might prove her identity. But without the help of yours truly, the hapless couple was reduced to gazing longingly into each other’s eyes and fretting over how much time they had left before the loathsome Constable Klodfelder drove Trey away.
Finally, Sarina could bear it no more. She burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably, her trembling bosom once again distracting the Duke from any semblance of clear thought. He was reaching out to console her when Sarina jumped.
***
Or maybe it was me who jumped. The downstairs buzzer was making one heck of a racket. I stood up and hastened to the intercom.
“Who’s down there?” I demanded.
“Amanda Crawcheck. As if you didn’t know.”
“What the hell?”
My ex-husband’s altogether
despicable new wife had the audacity to demand entry, but I am not an idiot. I told her to go away and started walking back to my desk. But again she laid on the buzzer.
Poor Snowflake looked to me to make it stop, and I assured her I would. I slipped on my loafers and went to deal with the situation, whatever it was. And yes, the buzzer kept buzzing my entire way down the stairs.
Amanda seemed to think she would walk right in when I opened the lobby door. But I pointed one profoundly perturbed index finger in her direction, backed her up, and stepped outside.
“You have one minute to tell me why you’re here,” I informed her. I closed the door behind us and glared.
Not such a good idea, since I was glaring at Amanda. She may be twenty years younger than I, but I honestly do not understand the woman’s appeal. Frizzy hair, chapped skin, and a perpetual smirk on her perpetually chapped lips are her most charming physical attributes.
Amanda stamped her foot. “I have every right to be here,” she said, smirk included. “And I have every right to know what you think you’ve been doing with my husband.” She drummed her own index finger at her chest and then pointed it at me. “Miss Borderline Pornography,” she hissed for good measure.
Mindful of Peter Harrison’s window right behind us, I walked her down to the sidewalk and put a few buildings between her and my home.
“I know what you’re up to,” she informed me when I stopped.
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” I asked. “Because right now I’m about to call my beau and have you removed for disturbing the peace.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me. I found out all about your little showering arrangement with Ian.” She lifted her hands and put arrangement in air quotes.
“And? What’s your point?”
She stamped her foot again. “He’s my husband, and I will not tolerate it.”
“Well then, invite him back home.”
She turned red and snorted a few times, and I had hopes she might self-destruct right there on Sullivan Street. Unfortunately, she recovered.
“You’ve been feeding him, too!” she exclaimed. “BLT’s!”
Okay, so I laughed. I mean, a really hearty laugh. Downright cathartic. Heck, I was almost tempted to give Amanda the lowdown on the specialty bacon I had used. But entertaining as that might have been, I had no desire to prolong the encounter.
Double Shot Page 15
