Chapter 32
"Why are you wearing only one earring?" Sam asked, taking a sip of hazelnut coffee, Friday's special of the day at Atlanta's Café on the Corner.
Jennifer fingered her right earlobe, the one with the large gold hoop. "I can't find the other one. I thought maybe I'd left it in your car, so I put this one on to remind me to look for it."
"Is that why you were rooting around on the floorboard on the way over here?"
"Pigs root. I was looking." She took another sip of her chocolate raspberry coffee and checked her watch. Two minutes before eleven. She looked up to see Mrs. Walker, Jessie and Mae Belle in tow, heading straight toward them.
Jessie's face was a deep pink. "You wouldn't think, I mean, it's why children have nightmares, for heaven's sake," she sputtered.
"Stop babbling and pull up something to sit on," Mrs. Walker ordered, squeezing three more chairs around the tiny, round table.
A waitress in an earth-brown caftan approached, but Mrs. Walker shooed her away. "We'll order later, Lori. I'll let you know when."
The woman backed up with an uncertain look on her face.
Mrs. Walker waited until Lori was safely behind the counter and then leaned in like a coach in a huddle at a football game. "Here's the deal. We can't account for the clown."
The clown. A cold chill swept through Jennifer. She'd walked right past a clown on Penney Richmond's floor the night of the murder, a clown with evil eyes.
"Ernie said he was there to deliver a big bunch of helium balloons, and he didn't have any when he left," Jessie gasped out. "But none of the florists or balloon shops have any record of a delivery to O'Hara's Tara scheduled for that night."
"What did this clown look and sound like?" Sam asked.
"No, no, no," Mae Belle said. "You're missing the point. Ernie says he couldn't recognize him under any circumstances. He was in full makeup with baggy clothes, big shoes… and he wouldn't talk, only mime, playing two parts, the giver and the receiver. He made a big elaborate bow as though offering the bouquet to someone, and then had Ernie hold it as he pretended to be so surprised and delighted to be receiving it. Several people applauded. Ernie waved him on up."
"Don't forget the gloves," Jessie chimed in. "He had on white, cotton gloves." She nodded knowingly.
"But no one seems to have gotten the balloons," Mrs. Walker pointed out.
"Could the police have found them in that Richmond woman's apartment," Mae Belle asked, "and not mentioned it? I understand they often don't put details in the newspaper so they can tell if someone really has inside information about a crime. Keeps the loonies from making fake confessions."
"All he had to do was step out on the balcony," Jennifer said, "and simply let them go. With no trees to get caught in, who knows where they wound up."
"Well that's it, then," Mrs. Walker declared. "The police need to find this clown and arrest him for murder."
If only it were that simple. Jennifer could just hear the APB now: "Be on the lookout for a white-faced suspect with a large red nose, big orange mouth, curly, rainbow-colored hair, and threatening eyes that look like they belong to the devil himself."
And why would they bother chasing some clown when they already had a bird in the hand—her? The choice was ridiculously obvious. Pursue evidence against a woman in a wig sporting a false pregnancy who had written threatening letters to the victim in her own handwriting or chase after some clown making a balloon delivery? She knew which one she'd suspect, and she knew which one the police would prosecute for murder.
It was close to eight o'clock. Jennifer was exhausted, and she still had to meet with Steve Moore that night. Sam would be back at her house at nine-thirty. She'd really like to take a nap, but sleep would not come easily, especially after the drive back from Atlanta. Sam was worried, although he tried not to show it. He hardly spoke to her the whole way back. He had kissed her goodbye, but it felt more like a last kiss to a condemned prisoner than the promise of a budding romance. Bars really put a dent in one's love life.
Jennifer took a sip of the hot tea she'd just made and crossed her legs on the coffee table. Muffy snuggled close and rested her head on Jennifer's knees. She was a needy little creature. What would happen to Muffy if she were sent to the Big House? Dee Dee or Sam would have to take her. Dee Dee already had a cat, and Muffy hated going there even for a day. But Sam's schedule was so erratic…
She stroked Muffy's head as she took up the water-streaked sheets Leigh Ann had given her. She'd scanned all twenty pages the night before for Browning's name, a name she'd never found. She'd sat down only minutes ago to look for Steve Moore's name and manuscript. Again, she didn't find it on the list.
She paused. Since Penney knew both Browning and Moore personally, they could have handed their manuscripts to her rather than sending them. Is that why neither appeared on the list? Jennifer shook her head. From everything she had seen, Richmond was nothing if not efficient—diabolical and hard-hearted, but still efficient. They should be there.
Maybe she'd missed the entry. Maybe it was coded in some way and that was why she couldn't find it by scanning. She'd have to examine each line carefully, both name and title.
She took another gulp of tea. Twenty pages, single-spaced. This would take some time.
It did. By page six, she felt like she was seeing double. She rubbed her eyes. How was she going to get out of the mess she was in? Maybe she wasn't. She was sure now that the clown was the murderer. Here she was, an eyewitness. She'd actually seen the killer, and a fat lot of good that did. She didn't even know if Ronald McDonald was male or female. Actually, it was a great idea for a disguise. She could use it in a novel sometime, only no one would believe it—too corny.
She yawned and took up page seven. A third of the way down was a submission by E. Warfield. Jennifer stopped and blinked. The title of the book was listed as Scandal to Truth: The Story the Media Didn't Tell.
Jennifer couldn't take her eyes from the page. In one overwhelming moment of understanding, everything fell into place. She knew. She knew just like Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, Peter Wimsey, Maxie Malone, and even Jolene Arizona would know. She knew who killed Kyle Browning, who killed Penney Richmond—and why. And who, if she didn't do something quick, was about to kill again.
Dying to Get Published Page 32
