Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3)

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Johnny and Gordon tried to stifle laughs. They almost succeeded, only because Johnny jumped in with, “Anyone else, Abby? From the memorial, which sadly, is about all we’ve got to go on right on.”

  “Well, the only other person who asked about Colette’s dying declaration was one of her neighbors—um—Hayward. Julian. Actually, he didn’t ask; one of the kids did —Ellie, the little girl—and call me too sappy and gullible to live again, but it definitely seemed to me that the kids were distressed over losing a neighbor and favorite baby-sitter and would have been comforted somewhat hearing that she’d asked for one or all of them.”

  Johnny shook his head. “I can’t really see a five-year old marching into the Cameo Theatre and blasting away with—oh crap! Gregory Noble would be ashamed. Gordon? What was the weapon used?”

  “The bullet was too fragmented but it appears to have been from an MP-25, or what used to be called a Saturday night special. Not heavy. I'm only mentioning that because a man or a woman could easily have lifted it.

  I was barely listening to forensic information. I didn’t give a revolving revolver what weapon was used. I only cared it had killed a friend.

  “Oh crap!”

  “Didn’t Johnny just say that?” Shay inquired.

  “He did but I’m saying it again for a different reason. I’ve left out two of the most promising suspects.”

  Three faces turned to me. Gordon frowned. “Who?”

  “Kenny-Anne and Kaleb Townshend. Not only did they want to know what Colette said, they’d probably be the ones to inherit whatever Colette left since she didn’t have other family. Gordon, have you heard anything about a will?”

  “We’re still looking in to it. So far no lawyer has turned up saying he’s got one. Colette was only thirty and most thirty-year-olds don’t think about wills unless they’re wealthy or have family. She could also have made one through one of the do-it-yourself online will websites, which makes it harder to find. I’ve got a few guys checking her computer. She had some tricky passwords to crack. Anyway, before the Texans Abby and Johnny ask, in the state of New York if someone doesn’t leave a will, their property goes to their spouse or children. If neither exists, it goes down the line to relatives. So it’s very possible that Kenny-Anne Townshend could be the inheritor of whatever estate and property Colette owned even if she wasn’t specifically named in a will.”

  Johnny nodded. “And while we still don’t know for sure what Colette left, Abby and I believe it had something to do with Cinnamon Garrity and probably patents that would be worth millions, if not billions, in past royalties today. Or a silent movie worth—well, who knows?”

  Shay brightened. “Well, hot damn. Finally. Motive.”

  Chapter 20

  Motive. Something we’d skipped over in our fervent desire to find the culprit or culprits responsible for shooting Colette and harassing and shooting at me.

  “Shay’s right. Until we can stick a motive on the foreheads of our various suspects, we’re basically—pardon the phrase—shooting blind in a dark room,” Johnny stated.

  Three heads bobbed in agreement.

  “So? What exactly is the motive?” Gordon inquired. “You’re thinking patents, right? For old movies. Right?”

  Johnny responded with a big, “yes.” I kept silent. Johnny immediately noticed.

  “What? You’re not buying this?” Johnny asked.

  “I’m honestly not sure. It seems to be the best one out there—well actually the only one out there anyone’s even started to discuss— but I have some problems with it.”

  “Such as?”

  “First of all, the only people who would really have the patent-finding motive are Kenny-Anne and Kaleb and that assumes they’d known Colette was leaving them her worldly goods even if she didn’t make a will and have some idea of what those goods—i.e.—the missing patents—were worth. Therefore, if they already know all this why the bloody hell are they shooting at me?”

  Johnny responded, “Because they’re afraid you’ll figure out where Cinnamon or perhaps Daniel Asher hid those patents and you’ll get to the prize before that suspect has a chance to decipher the clues and find them.”

  “I get that, but even if I could lead a party right to the patents today, what good would that do me? Personally, I mean. We’re not even sure what claim Colette had on them, other than Cinnamon maybe leaving them in the apartment, but I damn sure know I personally don’t have a single claim and I’m fairly certain that if one marches into a patent office demanding royalties from close to a hundred years ago the patent police are going to investigate to support any claims from that person demanding the royalties and check for who really has the rights to them. And by the way, this motive and the problems that accompany it also apply to Taylor Mills who might possibly be named in this so-far non-existent will of Colette’s. I don’t see how finding the patents benefits Geoff Murray, Billie-Clare Buchanan or Diamond Richards. Or anyone in the Hayward family either.”

  Shay beamed at me. “That was rather long-winded but it made sense.”

  Johnny sat back. I could see he was reviewing my objections to the motive and looking for the flaws. I took the opportunity to toss out a slightly different motive that could work for all our suspects.

  “Instead of patents, what about silent movies? Let’s say a never-seen-before movie starring Cinnamon the clown was discovered. Wouldn’t matter who found it. That would be a ‘finders keepers, let me sell this sucker to the highest bidder’ motive, wouldn’t it? Gordon might be able to help us here with the legality of finders keepers.”

  Gordon quickly asked, “First of all, there is no hard and fast ‘finders keepers’ rule. Museums are always fighting treasure hunters on who owns what. But I’m curious, how much would something like that fetch?”

  I winced. “Ah. Therein lies that famous rub. I haven’t a clue. Could be a hundred bucks, could be a thousand, could be a hundred thousand or more.”

  “I’ll research it,” Johnny interjected. “A lost silent film starring one of the first female clowns or comediennes of the Twentieth Century might well rake in big bucks. I read where the DeLorean used in the first Back to the Future movie was sold for something like half a million dollars. And every time a pair of Ruby Slippers that was supposedly used in The Wizard of Oz goes up for auction, the price goes up. I’ve heard estimates between seventy-two thousand and three hundred thousand. I doubt a movie starring Cinnamon Garrity would net that much, but honestly? There are collectors who would take out a third mortgage on their home, sell their first born and cash in retirement benefits to grab it. If it even exists. At any rate, I’d imagine an item like that is similar to the worth of antiques. Depends on what someone is willing to pay. But I’ll see if I can find out anything more specific to Ms. Garrity. Maybe Yolanda," he nodded at Gordon, "our head writer. She might have the names of some collectors who are into silent movies. I'll give her a call since she seems determined to hide these days."

  Before he had a chance to elaborate on the whereabouts of Yolanda Barrett, one of the Jersey crime scene techs popped his head into the tent and waved at Gordon Clark, who promptly excused himself from our little clutch of theorizers and joined him.

  The trio who remained at the table, which was now littered with coffee cups and crumbs from the baskets of various food items the service crew had kindly brought in after my ascent up the cliff, made no attempt to continue the conversation and no attempt to hide our avid curiosity about what knowledge was being imparted to Gordon. We could see Gordon nod and frown and bite his lip, then the two shook hands and Detective Clark headed back to the table to those of us anxiously awaiting any kind of information.

  “Well?” Shay demanded. “What did he tell you? Did they grab a shooter or anything on the other side of the cliff? What’s the news?”

  Gordon smiled. “I’m not sure if it’s good news or bad news and unfortunately, no one was nabbed on the other side of the cliff but the preliminary ballistic
s report on the two bullets found on the ground did confirm my original guess as to what kind of weapon was used.”

  “And?” I asked, a bit breathlessly.

  “And it was a high-powered 220-sport rifle with ridiculously fine scope that allows the shooter to pick off the proverbial fleas from a dog’s behind from three hundred yards.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means that whoever was shooting at Abby either closed their eyes while aiming, shook so badly they lost the shot or had no intention of doing anything other than scaring the holy fool out of her because a lethal shot would have been far too easy to obtain,” Johnny responded as Gordon nodded.

  Gordon said, “Also—and this is plain weird—the bullets were rubber bullets. Unless the shooter hit Abby in a particularly vulnerable spot, they shouldn’t kill. Hurt like the dickens though. But odd, because of the nature of the rifle. I don’t believe the shooter was an amateur or that he closed his eyes or shook. These shots were well placed to avoid killing Abby. ”

  All four of us lapsed into silence, contemplating whether this meant anything in terms of our suspects or motives.

  Finally Johnny spoke again, “So, we’re going with scaring the bloody fool out of P.L? If this shooter wanted to do her harm, he or she could have done it with that kind of rifle and used lethal ammunition, no matter how bad a shot they are. They had plenty of time to keep shooting before Abby got hauled up to safety.”

  “I agree,” said Gordon.

  Shay quietly asked, “Where does that leave us? Mainly, where does that leave my best buddy?”

  “Dangling off a flippin’ cliff without a rope,” I growled. “You know what really chaps my hide? This creep was able to take pot shots at me—for whatever reason—in broad daylight with tons of people around. Not to sound like a wimp but how the hell am I supposed to do my job without getting shot at again or worse and be sure no one else from the show is harmed? This stinks, sucks and bites it big time.” I started to shake.

  Johnny grabbed my hands and squeezed. “It’s okay. Or rather, it’s not okay but it’s going to be okay.”

  While his words were calming, I wasn’t sure they were true. He meant them but how to accomplish okay was beyond my comprehension.

  “How? How is it going to be okay?”

  Johnny adopted a look of innocence. “I have a plan. A moderately evil but ultimately brilliant plan.” He paused. “I hope.”

  “And that evil ultimate plan would be . . .?” I inquired while maintaining control over my voice so the tears still threatening to spill would stay put.

  “We leak Colette’s last words to the press. Specifically to that dweeb Graham Sumner since he was so determined to write the story he’d doubtless write anything we fed him and he was acting as a damned irresponsible journalist when he first said Abby had heard Colette’s last words. You know, I’ll bet we can even make a little money off this. That rag he writes for pays for information.”

  “Uh, and we would do this . . . why?”

  “Because once those words are out in print, the heat should be off. Why bother to harass or scare you for information that’ll be viral within seconds? And we don’t have to leak every word. The big cry has been, ‘what were Colette Currie’s final words?’ Fine. Her final words were Ken see. Move. Ee. Harm. There’s no reason to include words from three sentences earlier unless Sumner is savvy enough to realize his ‘reliable source’ is holding back a bit. I personally don’t believe he’s that bright, but even if he is, fine, we give him almost all the rest of the words Colette meant as clues. We don’t say where we believed those clues led to although if our perpetrator is also savvy, he or she will figure out that Kensico Cemetery figures into this, which isn’t really brilliant since he or she followed us there. The words we do not use are clown and Cinnamon. Let them try to make something of the old cemetery. Oh, yeah, do not mention Jethro Tull or any other honkin' great rock songs." Johnny glanced at each of us in turn. “Well? What do you think? Evil? Brilliant?”

  Shay spoke first. “I like it. So, whom do you get to be the leak-ee? Or is that leak-er?”

  Gordon, Johnny and I all smiled gleefully at Shay.

  “Oh no. Seriously? Me?”

  “Who better?” I said. “After all, Sumner could well believe that I broke down and told you what Colette said because we’re roommates. Anyone else might be making things up, right?”

  “True.” She grinned. “Better and better. This could be fun. Leading a sleazy reporter down the primrose path with half the story. So, how much bread do y’all think I can get as the money-grubbing leaking best friend?”

  Chapter 21

  “Are you ready?”

  “Sure. Let me finish this last swig of coffee and if you’ll hand me my bag I’ll grab my cell and give Mr. Sumner a call.” Shay paused. “Do we have his number?”

  “We have his number. Johnny found it and gave it to me while you and Detective Clark were out doing whatever you were out doing last night. Apparently one of the admin assistants at Metro Quest is a big soap fan. She was so thrilled that 'Gregory Noble' called she nearly gave Johnny Sumner's shoe size and where he got his teeth capped."

  I handed Shay her bag. She dug inside and came up with a spiffy cell phone with every App currently available to spiffy cell phones. Shay adores talking on the thing, texting on the thing, writing on the thing and downloading songs, books, games and of course, unearthing extremely tasteless bad jokes.

  "So how much did Johnny think I’d get for leaking Colette’s last words, as spoken to Abby Fouchet, rising secret agent, seer and bonder with musical spirits?”

  “He wasn’t positively certain, but believed it’d be around two thousand and do not mention spirits or I will personally cram that cell down your throat."

  She ignored my threat. “That’s it?” Shay exclaimed. “A crummy two grand? Dang, hardly worth the call.”

  I glared at her. “You are not revealing the whereabouts of Bigfoot or supplying photos of the mayor snuggling up to the Loch Ness monster or providing proof that a teenager in Cut n’ Shoot, Texas just gave birth to alien triplets who have been in contact with our friends Madam Euphoria and Auraliah Lee."

  "Now, now. Make that Aura Lee. I do remember her preferring the shorter version in the few moments when she wasn't communing with ghosts of the Czech Republic."

  "Whichever. The point is that your info is barely a blip in the big viral world of gossip, lies and scandal.”

  “Speaking of teenagers giving birth, are you sure you’re not pregnant? There’s more food on that plate than I’ve seen bull riders dive into at the all-you-can-stuff-your-face-with diner in that same Cut n’ Shoot, Texas. The owners of this cute little café could retire on your brunch alone.”

  I glanced down at my plate. The chef or cook or whatever had found a way to make veggie bacon taste good and he’d created a fake omelet with tons of peppers and onions and mushrooms and the tempeh bacon. Two English muffins, smeared with raspberry preserves (made from scratch) lay on a separate plate. A third dish was filled with fruit. “Stop with the whole pregnant thing. I promise you there will be no surprises in nine months. If you recall, I was shot at yesterday and it made me appreciate being able to inhale food stuffs for as many years as I am able before my metabolism cries finally foul and I start looking like my great-great-grandmother Mary who was rumored to pick up wine barrels loaded with grapes back in Provence, France. Hefty woman. On the Fouchet side. Not the Dumas. Minette still eats like I do and the last time her weight topped a hundred was the day before my arrival into the world. Anyway, did you not listen in biology class the day the whole ‘how babies are made thing’ was explained back in high school? How can I be pregnant when I have not been engaging in any activity that would make me pregnant and as far as I remember from those twelve years of schooling and fact-giving by nuns who would never lie to us, there was only one pregnancy that didn’t involve a man— or a petri dish— in the history of this planet and that was
two thousand years ago and I know quite well I am not in the sainthood category of that mother. Maybe they do things differently with aliens in Cut n' Shoot, Texas but I believe we’re still using the basics here in Manhattan.”

  Shay grinned. “No nookie with Johnny, huh?”

  “No. No nothing with Johnny. The extent of our physical relationship since he’s gotten back from Colorado has been a couple of amazingly curl-my-toes kisses and some brotherly hugs when I’ve been scared or depressed. I have a roommate at the Marsden Inn. He has a roommate at the Marsden Inn. Where neither of us ever really seem to sleep anyway because we're busy tracking down clues to Colette's murder. I don’t want to talk about it. I do want you to call Graham Sumner and get the leaking over with before it gets crowded in here and someone notices that the leakee and the leaker are sitting together. And that reminds me—the info leak—that two thousand dollars from Metro Quest does not go into your greedy little mitts, Ms. Martin.”

  “Where does it go?” she growled.

  “We’re giving it to the Valhalla No-kill Animal Shelter. Should provide more than a few meals for some puppies.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “That’s okay then. I can be generous with my earnings for the pooches. And before you say it, yes, I realize this can’t be classified as an earning since making a three-minute phone call doesn’t require a ton of effort.”

  “And won’t happen unless you punch in the numbers I am about to give you.”

  I gave. She punched. I sat back and listened to her side of the conversation.

  “Mr. Sumner?”

  Silence.

  Disclaimer before Shay’s next words: Normally her dialect is as generic as a mid-western news anchor. But before she began the schmooze and leak fest with Sumner, her speech suddenly became a bizarre caricature of what little Texas dialect she'd heard from me over the last two years.