"We can't jump to any conclusions yet," Ryan said, softly.
Heather continued her pacing. "And Catherine didn't need his money. That was why the second offer didn't work. She had an entire nest egg saved up for a rainy day according to Schulz."
"That little lawyer guy?"
"That one, yeah. Apparently, her last living relatives charged into his office demanding the money and her signet ring," Heather said. 'I think it was a family heirloom or something."
"That must be the ring that was missing from her finger. Judging by the tan lines around it, she didn't take it off often." Ryan grabbed his coffee mug, darting back in time to avoid her.
Heather let his words wash over her. She picked at facts, sorted through them and recycled them. "Clarke. The Willards. Maybe there's a connection. What if Poot Willard was -?"
Ryan choked on his coffee. "I - what? Poot?"
"I emailed you," she said. "Poot Willard. That's Catherine's great nephew. And then there's his daughter Patsy. Sixteen years old."
"His name is Poot."
"This is not news. I don't know why everyone finds his name so funny," Heather said and shook her head. "He's no Cherry Jubilee."
"It's funny because his name is Poot. That can't be his real name."
"Oh for heaven's sake." Heather resumed her pacing. "What if there's a connection there?"
"And therein lies the rub. We've got to figure out what the connection is. There's one good thing that's come out of this Clarke discovery. You've got another suspect to interview," Ryan said.
"Me? Interview him? Oh no, no, no," she said and raised a finger. "No. I don't think that would go down well. He's a criminal and I'm not prepared to pull my verbal punches on this. I don't like him and he's going to know that." Still, she'd love to take a crack at him. How he'd managed to evade capture for so long intrigued her. She'd followed him like teenage girls followed those Kardashian people.
"Well, I certainly can't interview him. And I'm not sending Hoskins," Ryan said.
"Why can't you interview him?" Heather asked.
"Because the guy is a professional at evading the police. And if go in there armed and dashing in my uniform -”
"You are so dashing that uniform." Heather winked at her husband.
"If I go in there, he's going to clam up like, well, I don't know, a clam." Ryan got up, then pecked her on the cheek. "It's got to be you, honey. Put those investigative skills to use. Heck, take Amy with you. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll fall in love with her."
"That would be the opposite of luck," Heather said. "For both Clarke and Amy's boyfriend. She's got one, remember?"
"I know. I'm just saying she can disarm him."
"The only way she'll disarm him is with sarcasm," Heather said. She knew her Ames and she didn't hold well with criminals. "But yeah, okay, we'll interview him." She put up a smile but the butterflies in her stomach - those bionic trampoline ones - made her lips twitch.
Chapter 7
The inside of Lyle Clarke's personal office contained enough gold to sink a ship. Melted down and reformed, it might've created one giant wrecking ball. Heather pictured him using it to knock down the public library. Or that statue of the Bosque Fisherman in their Main Square.
The man himself was smooth around the edges. It was as if he'd been made up for a TV Show and they'd happened to crash the set. His thick dark hair was oiled back and he added to the gold aesthetic by withdrawing a timepiece from his top pocket and studying it.
"Ladies," Clarke said. "A pleasure to have you in my office. If you could better define that pleasure I'd be much obliged." He had that gravelly 'sleep with the fishes' voice which made Heather's skin crawl.
"I'm Heather Shepherd -"
"I know who you are."
"And this is my assistant Amy Givens," she continued. "We're consultants to the Hillside Police Department and we're investigating the murder of Miss Catherine Willard."
Clarke's expression twitched at the word 'police.' He smoothed it out again. "And you're here because?"
"It's come to our attention that you were in contact with Miss Willard shortly before her death," Heather said.
Ames hadn't added anything since they'd entered the office. She blinked around at the bedazzled eaves and the flat-screen TV on the wall.
"I did email her a few times, yes," Clarke said and bore his teeth in what might've been a grin. It made him look like a shark. "She seemed nice enough."
"It's also come to our attention that you've just bought Miss Willard's property," Heather said. "And that the content of your correspondence with Miss Willard revolved around the purchase of that property prior to her death."
"That means you wanted to buy her out and now she's dead and you don't have to," Amy said. "In non-robot speak."
Heather pressed her heel into the front of Amy's pump. Maybe she had switched to super professional robot mode, but it was only to hide her nerves.
Clarke gave Amy that shark grin. "Straight to the point. I admire that in a woman."
"As opposed to admiring it in a man? What are you saying? That most women aren't straight to the point?" Amy narrowed her eyes at him and Clarke actually looked bewildered. Perhaps, he wasn’t' accustomed to having his advances rebuffed.
Ugh, Heather couldn't stop the robot speak, even in her own mind. "Mr. Clarke. Would you care to explain to us how you happened to acquire Miss Willard's property so soon after her death?"
"No," he said. "I don't owe you an explanation about my business dealings."
"You do when those business dealings rest on the back of a murder," Heather replied.
Clarke lowered his gaze to the polished walnut table and his reflection in it. He still hadn't quit smiling. His shoulders shook. Laughter rang out, a belly-deep chuckle which rolled through the massive office.
"Are we in a superhero movie? I feel like Batman's about to pop out kaboom him in the face," Amy whispered.
"Mrs. Shepherd," Clarke said, at last. "I love your enthusiasm. Wonderful. It's not often I have people questioning me or my authority. Those who have learned fast not to. I'm afraid you're going to join their ranks if you continue."
"Is that a threat?" Heather leaned forward in the fancy and extremely uncomfortable upholstered chair.
"No, of course not. That's an invitation."
"Invitation?"
"To leave," Clarke said and nodded to the exit. "There's the door. Good day, Mrs. Shepherd. This has been liberating."
Liberating. Wow, he'd reached a whole new level of wordplay. Heather rose from her seat. She resisted the urge to deliver a parting shot but she didn't thank him for his time either.
The women marched out of the office and down the long hall to the receptionist's desk.
"What a piece of work," Amy said. "That guy made my blood boil."
"You and me both. We'll talk about it in the car." She wouldn't put it past Mr. Clarke to have bugged his entire building.
They rounded the corner and made for the gilt elevator doors. How this monstrosity of a tower had sprung up in under a month was beyond her. Either Clarke had pulled some serious strings or he'd bought out another mini-millionaire and redecorated.
That creeping sensation of a gaze on her back brought Heather a shudder. She looked over her shoulder.
A man stood there, not the same guy she'd spotted at the park, picking at a large mole on his right cheek and watching them. He caught her eye, flinched, then hurried off down the corridor they'd just exited.
Ames pushed the down arrow button beside the elevator doors and tapped her feet on the maroon carpeting. "I can't wait to get out of here," she said.
"Yeah, this place does give me the creeps."
"No, I mean I can't wait to get a donut at the store."
Heather patted her bestie on the back. "We've got one more stop to make before we head back to the store. That donut will have to wait a little longer."
Amy whined all the way to the parking lot.
Chapter 8
The Willards had set up camp, literal camp, in the RV Park which bordered the South Bosque River. The wooden sign above the entrance read, Best Fishin' Park, and the trees which peered between open lots engendered peace. An outdoorsy atmosphere which reminded Heather of the times her grandmother had taken her and the cousins camping.
"It's lovely here," Amy said and rolled down her window. "It's the opposite of Clarke's golden tower."
"Right?" Heather inhaled the rough scent of bark and turned soil. "I wish every suspect lived in a place like this." The Chevrolet hit a pothole in the hard-packed dirt road. "Maybe not."
They parked in one of the designated spots in front of a trailer which had RECEPTION painted on its side. Heather unhooked her seatbelt, then let herself out of the car. Amy followed suit.
"Mornin'. Are you checking in or visiting?" A balding guy leaned out of the trailer door, buttoning up his shirt. "Got a late start today."
"Just visiting," Heather said. "We're looking for the Willards."
The man's expression darkened. He snorted, then hocked a glob of spit into the grass beside his rickety front steps. "They're way back. Lot fifteen. Can't miss it."
"There a problem?" Amy asked.
"Not with you ladies. Just that Willard fella is a piece of work. Kept half the park up last night with his shouting. I barely got any sleep." He pinned his name tag to his chest and stepped out of the trailer.
Heather winced as he trudged over the spit spot. "Thanks, Hank."
"Not a problem. You be careful now, you hear? Think that Willard is gone. Drove past a half hour ago, but the girl's back in the trailer. She's a piece of work too. Pretty sure she peels her face off at night. Wonder if she's got a different one under there." He picked the end of his bulbous nose. "Lot ten. You need an escort?"
"No, I think we'll find it just fine on our own," Heather said. "Thank you."
"Strange folk comin' to my park these days. Don't quite like it." He mumbled, scraped his boot in the grass, then tramped back into his trailer.
Amy and Heather exchanged a glance. "Shall we?" Heather asked.
"After you, Shepherd."
They walked down the aisle which led them past RVs and their trailers. A woman sat in front of one and cooked bacon on a portable stove. The smell drove Heather crazy. Amy actually grabbed hold of her arm. "Maple Bacon Donuts," she whispered.
They waved at a few of the campers as they parked, and all of them seemed friendly enough. Finally, they arrived at lot number ten. The tiny wedge poked out of the ground, declaring the spot in a carve one and zero. The Willards' trailer sat far back, smaller than the rest of sleek mobile homes they'd passed on the way in. It was an off-white color, with a long, faded green stripe across the side.
The door crashed open and Heather darted behind the nearest tree, Amy hot on her heels.
Patsy Willard stormed down the two front steps, muttering under her breath and totally make up free. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, strands escaping in every direction. She pressed a book to her chest. Glanced left and right, then jogged off through the short grass toward the line of trees at the back of the lot.
"She's quite beautiful without makeup," Amy said. "Not that there's anything wrong with makeup. She just looks better without it."
"Relax," Heather said. "We're not on an internet forum. Makeup or not, she's up to something." Heather started out from behind the tree and hurried after the teenager. She hadn't dressed for a jog, but the scent of Patsy's patchouli perfume was her guide.
They squished into the forest, halting every other moment to listen for Patsy.
Ames tapped Heather on the shoulder and pointed. Ah, there she was. Luckily, their target had chosen a magenta velour tracksuit for her morning adventure.
Heather slowed the pace and darted from tree to tree, making as little noise as possible. She stubbed her toe on a rock and bit back a yell.
Patsy continued through the woods, winding around in circles, then down the slope, ever onward, until the rush of water filled their ears and Patsy wouldn't have heard Heather if she'd shrieked from the pain of a rock to her baby toe.
The South Bosque River glinted at them, a ribbon of silver drawn among the trees.
Heather stopped and peered around another trunk, the scent of silt and frothed water thick in her nostrils.
"You've got to be kidding me," Amy whispered and nudged Heather again.
Patsy made for the fishing shed, that same darn fishing shed that'd brought them clues and trouble on multiple occasions, and fiddled with the padlock. She booted the bottom of the door, then pulled a face. She rose onto the tips of her toes and craned her neck, peeping at the roof. Finally, she lifted the book and slipped it beneath one of the rough tiles.
"Well, well, well, would you look at that," Amy breathed.
Patsy cast a final furtive glance at her new hiding place, then rushed directly for them, gaze on her dirtied trainers.
Heather and Amy spun and ran into each other. They bonked their heads together, collapsed, scrambled around in the dirt, then rushed toward the tree opposite. Heather grabbed the pack of Ames' Donut Delights' shirt and dragged her around the tree trunk.
Patsy meandered past their hiding spot and trekked off between the trees. The rush of the South Bosque filled the quiet in the forest.
Finally, Heather let out the breath she'd been holding. "Close."
"You ripped my shirt," Amy said and tugged herself free. The collar hung loose at the back. "And you almost choked me."
"It was better than the alternative. If Patsy had seen us she'd have collected that book for sure." What did the teenager have to hide? It was about time they found out.
"This should be good," Amy said and nodded to the shed. "The last time we were here, Ryan had just pulled a missing body out of the water."
"Let's hope this is less 'dead body' and more 'solved case,' if you know what I mean."
"And we can read it with a donut and a cup of coffee." Amy grinned at her as they set out for Patsy's secret hiding spot.
"You're always looking on the bright side of life."
Chapter 9
That old coot is dead. Somebody up and murdered her and I'm pleased as punch. If I had to spend one more summer with her, planting flowers and digging up weeds I woulda gone crazy. Daddy says that she left us a lot of money but I don't see why she woulda left him any. They hated each other.
Daddy thought she was dumb and old. But now there's money he keeps talking bout her like she's some kinda saint. Hypocreet.
"Now, that's some solid spelling," Amy said and sat back on her stool behind the counter in Donut Delights. "Hypocreet."
"Something tells me Patsy isn't too worried about school." Heather paged through the journal and picked out an entry from the past. "Listen to this one. I hate her. I hate her. She's ruining my life. She keeps making me watch documentaries about aphids. I don't care about them dumb bugs."
"Aphids." Amy burst out laughing. "Okay, I don't blame her for being angry about that. If someone tried to make me watch a documentary about aphids I'd be sour too."
"Kind of like if someone tried to make you watch, I don't know, say the movie Beaches a bazillion times?"
"That's a classic." Amy jabbed Heather in the upper arm. "Don't you talk about Beaches like that."
"Patsy wanted to hide this for a reason. Maybe she thinks it will incriminate her," Heather said.
"Or her father." Ames clinked two cups onto the tray and jabbed a few buttons. "Clearly, Poot, ha-ha, Poot -"
"Don't make me whack you over the head with this journal."
"Ahem, sorry. Apparently, Poot has something to hide. He hated her at first but now there's money on the line he's found his sweet side. I wonder if it brought out his murderous side first." Coffee gurgled into their mugs.
Heather studied the full tables in the store, picking over the clues in her mind. Clarke had purchased Catherine's property right after h
er death, but they didn't have a means of connecting him to the murder just yet. Poot and co had ridden into Hillside mere days after - "Wait one hot second."
"What?"
"They're in an RV."
"Right, so?" Amy poured milk into a steel beaker.
"They're in an RV and they were here the day after she died. They were here in Donut Delights a day afterward. There isn't a chance they drove all the way from New Orleans to Hillside and checked in at the RV Park in that amount of time," Heather said. "No way, no how."
Amy turned on the frothing machine and set to work on the milk. "Which means they were here before. The day before."
And if Poot and Patsy had been in Hillside on the night of the murder, they'd have to have an alibi. If they didn't have one -
The front door to Donut Delights swung inward, the bell tinkled merrily, and Ryan stepped into the store, wearing an expression that suited a man who'd taken a sip of spoiled milk. He marched between the tables, ignoring the smiles from the locals, and halted in front of her.
Amy stopped frothing. "Uh oh," she said. "What's eating your badge?"
"I got a call from Clarke's attorney down at the station. I've just been threatened with a lawsuit for harassment," he said. "Apparently, he didn't enjoy your line of questioning."
"Sheesh. And we took it easy on him." Ames sloshed milk into the coffees. "Want one?"
"Actually, yeah. That would be great." Ryan swept his hat off his head and placed it on the counter. "What a piece of work. I heard about him but I didn't expect this. I'm starting to feel a little in over my head. I don't know if I'll be able to handle all the extra cases and Clarke without a bigger team."
"You've got us," Heather said and touched the back of his hand.
Ryan broke into a smile at last. "Thank heavens for that. Anyway, that's not why I came to see you. Clarke's a windbag. He's got power too, but he knows he can't make a harassment lawsuit stick without proof. And he won't have that short of you accusing him of murder and shoving him in the chest." His eyes widened. "You didn't do that did you?"
Cherry Dream Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy - Book 43 (Donut Hole Cozy Mystery) Page 3
