Nickeled and Dimed to Death

by Denise Swanson

  “Hey, I was just trying to help.” Poppy stopped moving and shoved her hands into the pockets of her skinny jeans. “Someone had to tell her to keep her mouth shut, or she might gossip Boone right into a lethal injection.” She stared back at me, daring me to disagree with her.

  I shook my head and kept walking. She was right, but there had to be a kinder way to have informed Janice of that danger. It had taken us nearly an hour to calm her down, and then Steven had insisted I repeat verbatim everything his son had said to me the night before. Once Boone’s dad was satisfied he’d wrung every last word from me, Steven had asked us to wait while he called the police station and begged the dispatcher to let him speak to his son.

  Despite the dispatcher’s negative answer, Janice and Steven decided to go to the police station and plead their case to someone higher up. Although it was Sunday, it was a safe bet that Chief Kincaid would be on duty. Murder changed everything.

  When Janice went to get dressed, I finally convinced Steven to allow Poppy and me to leave. He gripped both our hands at the door, and it was sad to see how much he’d aged in the short time since our arrival.

  With both Boone and his parents in mind, I returned to where Poppy was standing and said, “We need to find Boone’s lawyer and see what we can do to help.”

  Poppy nodded, and as we walked toward our vehicles, she said, “At least that conversation shouldn’t be an emotional train wreck the way this one was.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “Do you have his cell number?”

  “No.” I grabbed Poppy’s arm and tugged her toward my Z4. I’d had my fill of riding with her in the short distance from the country club to the police station last night. “Let’s take my car and check the B and B for him.”

  “But I want to drive.” Poppy dragged her feet.

  “No way. I’m not going to press my luck again so soon.”

  “You were happy to have me pick you up last night.” She slid into the BMW’s passenger seat. “Which reminds me, why didn’t you have whoever took you to the dance give you a lift?”

  As I drove the short distance across town to the Ksiazak Bed and Breakfast, I told Poppy about Jake breaking our date and my evening with Noah. I outlined my reason for going and stated that it had been a business arrangement, then added that Noah had offered to help us investigate Elise’s murder in order to clear Boone.

  Confident that I had fully explained the situation, I turned and said to Poppy, “So, isn’t it great that Noah and I are friends again?”

  “Since you’re back with Noah, can I have Jake?” Poppy, like many people, heard only what she wanted to hear and filled in the rest.

  In my head, I patiently repeated what I had just said, clarifying that Noah and I didn’t have a romantic relationship and that the elusive U.S. Marshal had moved back to St. Louis. Regrettably, what came out of my mouth was, “Keep your paws off Jake.”

  Poppy’s eyes widened in surprise, but she wasn’t half as shocked as I was by my response. Where in the world did that come from?

  We were both silent for the next couple of minutes, and it was a relief when I pulled the car into the driveway. The B & B was a huge Italianate-style house—a Victorian design that had been popular in the mid-1800s. I loved the cupola in the center of the nearly flat roof, and its ornamental brackets and wraparound porch suggested a renaissance villa.

  Poppy got out of the Z4 and, apparently recovered from my less-than-characteristic possessiveness over a man, bounced up the sidewalk. She was already at the door before I had exited the car.

  When I joined her, she said, “If this guy is here, will he even talk to us?”

  “I’m hoping he’s spoken to Boone, and Boone told him to cooperate with us.”

  We stepped inside the large foyer and I spotted the reception desk nestled inside the curve of a beautiful wooden staircase. Veronica Ksiazak was busy typing on a laptop. As soon as she noticed us, she closed the computer and slipped it out of sight.

  “Dev, Poppy. What a nice surprise.” She smiled and came around the desk. “Welcome. I don’t think you’ve ever been to my place before.”

  “Hi, Ronni.” Poppy hugged her. “I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

  Poppy and I knew Veronica from Chamber of Commerce meetings, where the town’s women business owners had banded together to get our voices heard. Ronni and I had found that we had a lot in common. Although I was a native Shadow Bender and Ronni had moved here a couple of years ago, her story was much like mine. She’d gotten tired of working in the city, bought the B & B, and, with a thankful sigh, settled into the simpler life.

  “This is gorgeous.” Poppy gestured around the space. “I’m glad I finally got to see it.”

  “Thanks.” Ronni beamed. “It’s taken a lot of money and a ton of work, but I nearly have her back to the grand lady she used to be.”

  “Hi, Ronni,” I said, interrupting before she and Poppy got lost in a discussion of architecture. I loved old houses as much as they did, but this wasn’t the time. “We’re here to see if you have a guest by the name of Tryg Pryce. We need to talk to him.”

  “Yes, he’s here.” She tsked. “He e-mailed me around midnight requesting a room. He’s just lucky I’m an insomniac and that my laptop is Velcroed to my side, or he would have been stuck on the porch until I came down to start breakfast at six.”

  “What time did he arrive?” Poppy asked as she ran a finger over the intricately carved mahogany of the newel post’s finial cap.

  Ronni stepped back to the desk and glanced down at the ledger. “Two a.m.”

  “How in the world did he get here so fast?” I turned to Poppy. “Doesn’t it take over eight hours to drive from Chicago to KC?”

  “At least.”

  “There can’t be any flights that late at night.” I tilted my head, trying to remember the airline schedules from when I was a frequent business traveler. “The last one is around nine p.m.”

  “Which would be a problem, unless you fly yourself.” Ronni’s blue-gray eyes twinkled. “He’s a pilot and owns his own plane.”

  “Wow.” Poppy perked up. “So he’s rich.” She moved closer to Ronni and lowered her voice. “Did you notice if he had on a wedding ring?”

  “His finger was bare,” Ronni confided. “So I sniffed him, and he passed the test.”

  “What?” I asked, puzzled.

  “If he smells like fabric softener, he’s probably married,” Ronni explained. “That’s how married women mark their territory. Men can take off a ring, but it’s hard to get that April-fresh scent out of their clothes.”

  “Really?” I snickered. “That’s your litmus test?”

  “That, and I asked if Mrs. Pryce would be joining him.” Ronni wrinkled her nose.

  “And?” Poppy urged.

  “He said the only Mrs. Pryce was his mother.”

  “What’s he look like?” Poppy asked. “Tell me he’s not a complete troll.”

  “He’s hot.” Ronni grinned. “Think of a cross between Josh Duhamel and Mark Wahlberg.”

  “Zowie!” Poppy squealed. “Is there any chance in hell that he’s straight?”

  “Ladies.” Once again, I had to interrupt them. “Poppy, I know how few cute guys there are in Shadow Bend, but let’s focus on why we’re here.” She looked at me with a blank expression, so I added, “To help Boone.”

  “Oops.” Poppy sobered. “Sorry. The whole situation is so outrageous, I keep forgetting about it.” She looked apologetic. “I must be blocking it out of my mind. I need to work on not doing that.”

  Ronni had been listening intently while Poppy and I went back and forth. Now she tapped her chin and said, “Well, that explains a lot.” She bit her lip, a thoughtful expression on her pretty face. “Tryg was very mysterious about why he was in town, but he must be Boone’s lawyer. I heard on the news this morning that Boone had been arrested for murdering Elise Whitmore.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re right,” I confirme
d. “Is Mr. Pryce here?”

  “Yep.” Ronni nodded. “He just got back. He was gone for a couple of hours. I bet he was at the police station, conferring with his client.”

  Before I could respond, I heard a masculine laugh above my head; then a pleasant baritone floated down the staircase. “Boone told me confidentiality is impossible to maintain in this town, but I think less than nine hours has to be a record.”

  We all looked up and then watched as a handsome man in his early thirties descended the steps. I could see why Ronni had compared Tryg Pryce to the two sexy actors she’d named. His dark good looks did remind me of Mark Wahlberg, and his widow’s peak definitely brought to mind Josh Duhamel’s often commented-on hairstyle.

  I briefly wondered if under his expensive suit Tryg’s body had the same chiseled perfection as Wahlberg in his legendary Calvin Klein underwear ad. But then I mentally slapped myself and focused.

  Edging past me, Poppy met him at the bottom of the stairs and said, “I’m one of Boone’s best friends, Poppy Kincaid.” She tossed her silvery blond ringlets. “I own the hottest nightspot in these parts, Gossip Central. You’ll have to come by for a drink while you’re in town.”

  Apparently, Poppy had already forgotten her resolution to concentrate on Boone’s problems, so I nudged her aside, stuck out my hand, and said, “I’m Devereaux Sinclair, and you must be Boone’s attorney. When you talked to him, did he mention he asked Poppy and me to help figure out who really killed Elise Whitmore?”

  “Yes, he did. He indicated you had solved another murder not long ago.” He looked over at Ronni, who was avidly listening to our exchange, and asked, “Is there somewhere private where Devereaux, Poppy, and I can speak?” He smiled at her. “I don’t want to cause even more gossip by taking these beautiful women up to my room.”

  It was all I could do not to snort at his blatant flattery. Yes, Poppy was gorgeous, but I was more . . . unique. Granted, my aquamarine eyes were striking and my hair was an appealing cinnamon gold color—which is why I shouldn’t wear it scraped into a ponytail as often as I did—but beauty was out of my reach. Especially since I was curvier than was currently in fashion. On a good day, I could do attractive, and if I really put a lot of effort into my looks, I could occasionally achieve pretty.

  While I had been thinking about my appearance, Ronni had shown us to a small parlor. When she lingered, Tryg smoothly escorted her to the threshold, thanked her for her hospitality, and slid the doors closed behind her.

  Poppy and I seated ourselves on a pair of Louis XV armchairs arranged in the middle of the room on an Oriental rug. Tryg took the matching cream damask settee. We faced one another over an ornate coffee table comprised of six gold cherubs perched on top of a marble base holding up a glass top.

  Once we were settled, Tryg pulled a small leather notepad and a slim gold pen from his inside jacket pocket. He flipped the pad open and said, “Tell me everything you know about Elise Whitmore.”

  “Well,” Poppy said, “she lives in town, but she doesn’t hang out at Gossip Central, so I really don’t have the scoop on her.”

  “How about you, Devereaux?” Tryg trained his deep green eyes on me.

  “She’s in the process of getting a divorce. She was afraid of her husband. And she liked unusual art.” I paused, trying to think of anything else I’d heard about her, then remembered. “And she donated some fairly expensive things to a charity auction.”

  “Oh.” Tryg perked up. “What kind of items?”

  “A set of antique golf clubs, a couple of signed baseballs, and a bottle of pricey wine.” As I recited the list, it dawned on me what they all had in common. “Those were probably her husband’s belongings.”

  “Which might be why she’s afraid of him,” Poppy commented. “He’s probably mad as hell that she’s getting rid of his stuff like that.” She crossed her legs. “The real question is, what is she so pissed at him about?”

  “I have no idea what her story is.” I usually didn’t tap into the Shadow Bend rumor mill unless there was a subject in which I was particularly interested. And since I hadn’t known Elise, conversations about her wouldn’t have snagged my attention.

  Poppy asked Tryg, “Did Boone say why the Whitmores were splitting up?”

  “He’s bound by lawyer-client confidentiality,” Tryg answered, “but I bet that’s something you two can find out.” He smiled. “I generally hire a private investigator for murder cases, but Boone assures me that in a small town like Shadow Bend, you women will be more successful in getting the low-down than a PI would.”

  “That’s probably true about any personal stuff,” I agreed. “Actually, another friend of ours is asking his crowd about Elise right now, so we should have some information by the end of the day.”

  I didn’t mention Noah’s name to Tryg, since I thought I should be the one to tell Boone that his nemesis was helping us. It would be hard for Boone to trust Noah. Heck, it was hard for me to trust him.

  “I’ll keep my ears open at my store, and Poppy can monitor what’s said at the bar,” I added, leaving out the fact that Poppy had strategically placed concealed listening devices all over Gossip Central.

  She liked to know what was being said, though she never talked about anything she heard with anyone, except very occasionally to Boone and me. It was purely about a need for her to hold all the power due to her father’s iron-fisted control over her during her childhood.

  “I’m sure that will be useful.” Tryg made a note to himself, then was silent as he tapped his pen against the memo pad.

  After a few moments of watching him, I said, “I have some questions for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Since your law practice is in Illinois, can you represent Boone here in Missouri?”

  “Yes. I passed the bar in both states.” Tryg arched a brow. “I attended Washington University in St. Louis, which is where I met Boone. He was a first-year student when I was in my third year.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “That’s good.” I should have realized that Boone wouldn’t have called him if he couldn’t practice in our state. “Do we know the time of death?” I figured that would be kind of important if we were looking for suspects without alibis.

  “The medical examiner says she was killed somewhere between eight and eleven p.m.,” Tryg answered. “He couldn’t be more precise than that.”

  “Sure.” I nodded. “I understand it’s hard to pinpoint TOD.” All those crime shows that I watched with Gran were coming in handy. “One more question: Do you believe that Boone didn’t do it?” I thought Tryg would do a better job if he was convinced Boone wasn’t guilty.

  “That’s not important.” Tryg tilted his head. “We lawyers say that all our clients are innocent until proven penniless.”

  I gave a polite laugh, but I didn’t like his answer. I would definitely need to chat with Boone about his choice of attorney.

  “What else should we do?” Poppy asked. “I could do a Mata Hari on one of my father’s guys and get the inside scoop on what the cops know.”

  I could tell from Tryg’s expression that he was considering her offer, so I vehemently shook my head at him. All we needed was to tick off Chief Kincaid. It would be bad for Boone and probably worse for Poppy. Not to mention the poor officer she chose to seduce, suck dry of information, and discard.

  “We’ll keep that option in reserve,” Tryg said to Poppy, then winked at me. “I can legally get most of the facts that the police possess, so why don’t you two concentrate on finding out everything you can about Elise and her husband, Colin Whitmore? Especially any enemies they may have.”

  “His enemies, too?” Poppy asked. “But she’s the one who was killed.”

  “Husbands and wives are often collateral damage for each other,” Tryg explained, leaning back. “Which is why I sure wish Boone had taken my advice about not handling divorces. I told him there’s always one that comes back to bite you in the butt.”

  From Try
g’s expression, I could tell that he was speaking from personal experience. What was the story behind that?

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  Poppy and I left the B & B at a little past noon, and as soon as we got into the car, I phoned Noah to update him. After hearing me out, he reported that he had already gathered some interesting material about the Whitmores’ divorce, but he wanted to check out one more fact before he met us.

  Although I assured him there was no rush, he told me he’d be at the restaurant in twenty minutes. As I pulled into the street, I relayed to Poppy what Noah had said and headed into town.

  Poppy’s excited chatter about Tryg, “the hot lawyer,” droned from the passenger seat while I drove us to the Golden Dragon. I absentmindedly responded to her comments as I thought about seeing Noah again. He said he understood why I had left the dance the night before, but the teenage Noah had tended to hold behavior like that against me. That younger Noah had been hurt and angry if I chose to spend time with my friends instead of him. Had he really changed? Or was the adult Noah just better at hiding his feelings? And why did I care so much whether he had?

  Not wanting Poppy to notice my preoccupation and question me about it, I forced myself to focus on her remarks about Tryg. I could tell that she was already half in lust with him, and, like most men, he’d definitely appreciated her charms. However, I had a feeling he wasn’t the typical guy that she could beguile, then throw away. He seemed more the type to use than be used.

  Reminding myself that Poppy could take care of herself, and would neither appreciate nor heed my warning about Tryg, I turned in at the restaurant’s entrance. Shoot! The parking lot was packed. Was everyone in town eating here? It took all my concentration and Poppy’s cunning to find an empty spot, but finally she pointed out a set of backup lights one row over.

  I cut off a black Escalade that was trying for the same space, then whipped my BMW into a slot that had just been vacated by an old blue pickup truck. The Cadillac’s owner wasn’t happy with the outcome, but Poppy and I ignored his shouting and fist shaking and strolled toward the restaurant without acknowledging his bad behavior.