by Sandra Balzo
‘Pretty soon we’ll have to redistribute ourselves,’ Joy continued, digging into the crisp cheese crust of her turkey spaghetti. ‘We’re going to outweigh them two-to-one. Tip the table like a teeter-totter.’
It was true that the visitors didn’t seem as fond of Mama’s cooking as the locals were. AnnaLise watched Lacey Capri, sitting next to her, pick at her plate. ‘Having fun yet?’ AnnaLise whispered.
Lacey started. ‘Oh, sorry. Yes, of course I am.’ She tried to smile. ‘And thank you again for letting me use your iPad. I’m really enjoying it.’
Lacey sure looked like she was.
‘You keep it as long as you’re here, like I said,’ AnnaLise reminded her. ‘And don’t lose heart. There may have been a break in the case.’ She hoped.
‘Really?’ The girl’s eyes widened. ‘What—’
‘Did I hear you say there’s been a break in the case?’ Lucinda, sitting next to Joy across the table, might not talk much, but Tyler’s mother also didn’t miss much.
‘I’m sure that the police will tell—’AnnaLise started.
‘Police?’ Lucinda waved her be-ringed hand. ‘They’ve come and gone already. Poof! And told us nothing. Left another poor man to sit in front of that bedroom door for hours on end.’
‘Now, mother,’ Tyler said, flashing a smile at AnnaLise. ‘You were asking questions that I’m not sure the town police can answer. Better to wait for the county sheriff’s department.’
Joy was watching suspiciously. ‘What kind of questions were you asking? How you can get DNA before Hart is planted in his grave?’
Lucinda’s eyes narrowed – dead fish turned mama tiger. ‘Tyler has a right. Dickens Hart may be his father and invited us here for just that—’
‘Wait, wait,’ AnnaLise said wearily. ‘No need to get into a tussle about this. When the sheriff’s department arrives, I’ll ask them to provide you with anything you need to do your testing.’
‘Not at AnnieLeez’s expense.’ Phyllis’ hearing – four people down – wasn’t bad either.
‘Please—’
But Patrick Hoag weighed in. ‘The parties trying to prove paternity would be responsible for any costs, of course.’
‘And well worth it,’ Lucinda muttered. ‘Once the results are in.’
‘If Tyler and Eddie are Dickens’ heirs,’ AnnaLise said, ‘then, of course, the three of us will share equally.’
Sugar Capri, next to Lacey, looked a little down in the dumps not to be included in the named participants. ‘But you were saying we might get out of here soon?’
AnnaLise figured that filling them in on Debbie’s whereabouts would do no harm. And it sure beat picturing DNA samples from a corpse being divvied up like proceeds from a Christmas grab bag. ‘The police have found Chef Debbie who, as you’ve likely noticed, disappeared Wednesday night or early Thursday.’
The south end nodded en masse.
‘Well, Debbie was picked up by the Las Vegas police when she stepped off her plane there.’
‘They’ve arrested her?’ Lacey asked.
Having grabbed their attention with the tabloid headline, AnnaLise qualified the story behind it. ‘Not yet. Debbie’s just a person of interest for now.’
‘She has to have done it.’ This came from Eddie, who was sitting between Daisy and Rose. ‘Why else disappear?’
AnnaLise said, ‘Apparently, Debbie was told her services were no longer needed.’
‘A lie, obviously,’ Tyler said, supporting his potential half-siblings’ premise. ‘This Debbie must have gone to Hart’s room—’
‘But why?’ Lacey asked.
Tyler looked at Sugar, who just squirmed in her chair, while the rest of the group exchanged glances that said, What moron among us wants to answer that one?
Joy, apparently. ‘Here’s the thing, kid. Hart was a sleaze.’
‘Joy, please,’ AnnaLise said, a note of protection in her voice this time. Her friend might enjoy shocking people, but—
‘Hey, he was your father, not hers. And my ex. Besides, the girl asked a question – she deserves an answer.’ Joy sat back and folded her arms.
AnnaLise tried for understated paraphrase. ‘Dickens liked women.’
‘Oh, I know that,’ Lacey said. ‘It’s the reason everybody’s here, right? What I meant was why would Debbie go to Mr Hart’s room and then kill him?’
‘Excellent question,’ Patrick Hoag said.
‘From what we heard,’ AnnaLise said, ‘there may have been Rohypnol involved.’
Now Lacey looked puzzled.
‘You may have heard them called roofies.’
‘Ohmigod, the date-rape thing.’ The doorbell sounded and Nicole’s quick footsteps crossed the foyer floor outside the dining room.
‘That’s the one,’ Daisy said. ‘I heard that maybe Dickens tried to slip roofies into our Debbie’s champagne and she got wise to him.’
‘And smacked him one with his own bottle.’ Phyllis made the appropriate hand chop, just missing clocking Eddie in the ear. ‘Served him right.’
The dining room door opened and Coy Pitchford stepped in. ‘Excuse me, folks, hate to interrupt your—’ He looked at the plates. ‘Is that Mama Philomena’s chicken spaghetti?’
‘Turkey,’ Phyllis said, standing up. ‘Would you like me to get you a plate?’
‘I sure—’ Appearing to remember he was acting chief, he cut himself off. ‘I just need to see AnnaLise.’
‘But she’s eating,’ Phyllis protested. ‘Coy, why don’t you just sit down and—’
‘I’m done, Mama,’ AnnaLise said, folding her napkin on her plate and rising.
Coy beckoned her out to the foyer. ‘Let’s sit in Mr Hart’s office.’
Now AnnaLise was getting worried. The police wanted to see her in a chair away from everybody else. That seemed more serious than a simple chance encounter while standing. ‘Well, sure,’ she said, with a glance back toward the dining room, from which normal – or at least semi-normal – sounds were still emanating.
AnnaLise led the way into Dickens’ office. Charity was already there, but still leaning a shoulder into the wall herself. ‘Why don’t you sit behind the desk, AnnaLise? Coy and I can take the guest chairs here.’
So they’d both be facing her. Was that significant? AnnaLise wasn’t sure, but in the police interrogations she’d been privy to see, the officers certainly wanted to be facing a suspect, not sitting side-by-side with him.
Or her.
AnnaLise took Dickens Hart’s leather desk chair. ‘Have you found out more about Debbie?’
Coy took off his hat and hung it on the back of his chair before he sat in it. ‘We have, that’s for sure.’
There was a tap at the door, which opened just wide enough for Patrick Hoag, Esq., to stick his head into the room. ‘Excuse me, but I thought that perhaps AnnaLise would want me here.’
She felt herself nodding. Vigorously. ‘That would be nice. Thank you.’
‘You’re thinking you need a lawyer?’ Coy raised his eyebrows.
AnnaLise frowned. ‘Patrick is here as my friend, who happens to be a lawyer.’
‘It’s true that AnnaLise hasn’t retained me,’ said Hoag, hovering over the last empty chair. ‘But as her deceased father’s attorney, I’d like to be present.’
Charity looked at AnnaLise. ‘Up to you.’
The journalist was confused. Was she being questioned? If so, wouldn’t they need to recite her Miranda rights? Or was that only after they made an arrest? And would having Patrick stay or not affect her right to have a specialist in criminal law be present later?
As a police reporter – and someone who’d ‘dated’ a district attorney – AnnaLise knew she should have such maneuverings down pat. But she didn’t. In fact, at this particular second, she wouldn’t trust herself to spell her own name correctly.
So she decided to rely on any available support. ‘I want Patrick to stay. Now please, tell me what’s going on?’
> Hoag settled into the chair next to the mahogany filing cabinet as Charity produced her ever-present notebook. ‘I just got off the telephone with LVMPD.’
For Las Vegas Metro Police Department, thought AnnaLise. ‘Have they questioned Debbie?’
‘They’ve asked Ms Dobyns a few things at our suggestion.’
‘So then they’ll send her back here.’ AnnaLise felt her teeth begin to chatter despite the air temperature not being especially cold.
‘We’re not altogether sure that’s necessary,’ Coy said. ‘At least, not right now.’
AnnaLise began to feel that the Pitchfords’ cryptic answers were an intentional ploy to keep her asking questions and, maybe, slip up in the process. ‘You mean until the county takes charge?’
‘There’s that, too,’ said Charity. ‘But what impresses us most is that Ms Dobyns is sticking to her cellphone story.’
‘That she got a call telling her she was no longer needed?’
‘That’s interesting,’ Charity said. ‘You heard that, too?’
‘Sheree told us – Joy and me. I thought I’d relayed that on to you.’
‘AnnaLise, seems you thought you told us a lot of things,’ Coy said, crossing an ankle over his knee and settling back in the guest chair.
‘Regardless,’ AnnaLise drove on, ‘Sheree said Debbie told her that she’d gotten a call indicating she was no longer needed.’
‘Did Sheree tell you the call came in on Ms Dobyns’ cellphone?’
‘Sheree assumed it did, since the inn’s landline didn’t register a ring. To be honest,’ AnnaLise leaned forward, ‘I don’t think Sheree was a hundred percent sure that Debbie was telling her the truth.’
‘Well, Ms Dobyns was, as it turns out.’ Charity flipped back a page in her notebook. ‘The call came in at five fifty-seven a.m. early on Thanksgiving morning, according to the cellphone company’s records.’
AnnaLise felt her brow furrow. ‘From where? Can you tell?’
‘That’s the interesting part,’ Coy said, now unhooking his foot. ‘The call came from the landline right here in this house.’
AnnaLise was thinking furiously. ‘But was Dickens still alive then?’
‘Not according to the M.E. Time of death was more like midnight, give or take a couple hours.’
‘Then who could it have been?’ Now AnnaLise was nearly freezing. She crossed her arms and involuntarily hugged herself.
‘That’s what we wanted to know,’ Charity said. ‘So as you might imagine, we had Las Vegas Metro ask Ms Dobyns.’
‘Had Ms Dobyns answered the call that early?’ Patrick asked, standing up. AnnaLise couldn’t help but notice that his face had turned worried. ‘Or did it go to voicemail?’
‘No, she answered it, all right,’ Coy said.
‘Well, who was it?’ AnnaLise thought she was going to scream.
‘Who?’ Charity Pitchford made like she had to consult her notebook for the information, then looked up from it. ‘Why, you, Ms AnnaLise Griggs.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘Honest to God, it was like one of those slasher movies.’
AnnaLise and Joy were outside on the patio again, seated in low chairs, their only warmth provided by blankets and stiff drinks, both courtesy of the thoughtful Patrick Hoag.
‘Slasher movies?’ Joy was swirling her drink so the cubes clinked melodically against the sides of a cut-crystal glass.
To AnnaLise’s ears though, it was the sound of the Titanic hitting the iceberg. And she was onboard. ‘You know, where they trace the call from the psycho killer and find out it’s coming from inside the house. Except this time,’ she allowed herself a sigh before a sip, ‘I’m the psycho killer.’
She glanced at the closed door to the house and lowered her voice. ‘Or supposed to be. They even printed me.’ She held up smudged finger pads.
‘Hey, we all got printed.’ Joy wiggled her matching digits. ‘As for your supposed “slasher” movie, you’re talking about When a Stranger Calls. Carol Kane and Charles Durning. Not a great flick, but certainly a cult classic for that one scene with Kane babysitting. She’s been terrorized by threatening phone calls and dials the police, who tell her all they can do is try to trace the next one if he calls again. Well, he does, asking her if she’s checked the children. Then the phone rings yet again and she picks up, screaming, “Leave me alone!” But this time it’s the voice of the police sergeant telling her, “We’ve traced the call – it’s coming from inside the house!”’
Joy indulged herself in a full-body shiver. ‘That was one of the most chilling moments in the entire history of cinema as far as I’m concerned.’ She tugged her blanket a little closer.
‘Huh,’ AnnaLise said dully, staring out across the frigid lake. ‘I was thinking it was one of the Scream films. Or maybe even Scary Movie?’
‘Nope. Nineteen seventy-nine. I was a kid and you weren’t even born yet. Since the original, I’m sure the idea’s been poached – and spoofed – any number of times. There was even a remake.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. It sucked even more than the original.’
They were quiet for a moment, squinting out into the sun’s chilly reflection off Lake Sutherton’s surface.
Then: ‘So you get my current point.’
Joy nodded. ‘Charity and Coy think you’re the serial killer who called Debbie. From inside this house.’
‘I’m not … oh, never mind. Bad analogy.’
‘Where is Patrick?’ Joy asked, looking down at the ice in her glass.
‘He wanted to talk to Charity and Coy. Hopefully he’s trying to persuade them not to arrest me.’
‘You know, it does kind of make sense.’
‘What?’ In AnnaLise’s view absolutely nothing made sense. And she was wondering how she was going to tell her mother – mothers, plural – that apparently she was the prime suspect in a homicide.
‘That you’d call Debbie,’ Joy said, taking another sip of amber liquid. ‘I mean, who else but Hart would have the authority – hell, even the idea – to fire her?’
‘First of all, I wasn’t the one who telephoned the woman,’ AnnaLise said, trying to rally herself, if only as a dress rehearsal. ‘Secondly, with Dickens Hart still alive, I didn’t have the authority.’
‘You’re Hart’s daughter and Debbie knew that. Didn’t you say you two had talked before she left?’
‘Yes, but I certainly didn’t act like I was running the house.’ AnnaLise realized her front teeth were gnawing on her lower lip again. ‘At least, I don’t think I did.’
‘All this Debbie knew was what she was told by Hart, I assume, maybe with some filling in by Boozer Bacchus.’
‘Boozer would be more likely to give orders in Dickens’ absence than me.’ AnnaLise heard a door open, seemingly from the garage side of the house.
‘Only Boozer’s been a bit out of the loop, what with his being busy doing your mom and all. But, that aside, you said the voice Debbie heard on the phone was a woman’s.’
‘But it wasn’t mine!’
‘I know, I know.’ Joy reached over and gently clinked glasses. ‘Drink more. It’ll calm you down.’
AnnaLise did, then stifled a gag. ‘Ugh. I hate bourbon.’
‘That’s OK, because this is Scotch. And like all of Hart’s self-indulgences, really top-notch.’ Joy hunched forward like a Girl Scout sharing secrets around a campfire. ‘Hey, what do you think of “Top-notch Scotch,” marketing-wise?’
‘What I think is you’ve had enough, drinking-wise.’
Joy settled back, tugging her own blanket more around her shoulders. ‘You’re not even fun when you’re scared to death.’
‘Can we please return to the subject of—’
‘“The Landline Call”? Fine.’ Her tone said it was clearly not fine, yet she’d slog onward for her friend. ‘I honestly don’t think you have anything to worry about. Once the police lab guys compare the voice on the message to yours, they’ll realize
they don’t match.’
‘But there was no message,’ AnnaLise said, taking another vile sip in spite of herself. ‘Despite the pre-dawn hour, Debbie actually answered the phone.’
‘Has it occurred to you that she could be lying?’
‘Who?’
‘AnnaLise, who have we been talking about, Snow White? Little Debbie Dobyns, the Bimbette Chef.’
Brightening a bit, AnnaLise said, ‘You’re right. If Debbie did kill Dickens, of course she’d have to cover her butt.’
Only now Joy was frowning. ‘However, am I remembering right? As we arrived back here with my snubbie earlier today, didn’t you tell me a bullet broke Hart’s window on Wednesday night?’
‘I did.’ AnnaLise was surprised her friend remembered, given all the water – and now Scotch – under their bridges since this morning. ‘Boozer found the slug in the Lake Room and showed it to me.’
‘Interesting. Could you tell what kind of gun it was fired from?’
‘Me? No chance. Boozer seemed to think it might have been a deer rifle, though, so I paid a visit to Roy Smoaks at Bradenham.’
‘Bradenham?’ Joy repeated, looking across the lake toward the mini-estate in question.
‘Yes. Smoaks was on the deck target shooting Thanksgiving morning.’ AnnaLise shaded her eyes. ‘Did you see that just now?’
‘What?’ Her friend took a belt of her Scotch.
‘A glint of light from over there. Like a mirror or—’
‘Laser sight!’ Joy snapped, gesturing at AnnaLise’s forehead. ‘The red dot – duck!’
The journalist did, only to be rewarded by the other woman’s raucous laughter. ‘Oh, that’s just hilarious.’
Straightening back up, AnnaLise started, thinking she’d caught movement again, this time on the near side of the lake in the trees masking the pier.
Watching her, Joy said, ‘Jesus, AnnaLise. Are you OK?’
‘I’m a nervous wreck, thank you. And you’re part of the problem.’
Looking ashamed, Joy knocked a cigarette from her pack on the table. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d honestly believe old Roy Smoaks was about to shoot you.’
‘Says the woman carrying a concealed weapon.’ AnnaLise rearranged the blankets that had slipped to the floor when she’d reacted to Joy’s warning. ‘But it does seem strange that he chose Thanksgiving to visit Bobby. They didn’t even have turkey.’
