by Bailey Cates
Zilch.
We went to the rack of chairs, taking each one out and looking for anything that could have been tucked between them. Then I got the grand idea of checking under the seat of each one, and Lucy gamely pitched in. That took several minutes.
Except for an old, dried piece of chewing gum: zippo.
As long as I was checking under things for who knows what—hidden envelopes? a note in a bottle? a random Post-it with a scribbled confession?—I crawled under the table where Dana Dobbs had sat to sign the last books she ever would.
Zero.
I slumped into the chair pulled up to the table. “I guess this was a stupid idea.”
Lucy sighed. “It was a good idea, honey. But if there was something the killer was looking for, the police must have already found it and taken it away.”
Dr. Dana’s face looked up at me from the cover of the books still stacked there. Absently, I lifted the stack and checked between each one.
Nothing unusual.
Flipping through, I saw she’d signed several of them but then found one that was blank. The next one I looked at made me stop cold.
“Lucy,” I said slowly.
She turned from where she’d been looking at the middle of the floor. When she saw my face, she hurried over. “What is it?”
Silently, I showed her the last book Dr. Dana had signed. I felt sure she’d been signing it when she’d taken a drink of her sweet tea and realized she was going to die.
“Oh, my,” Lucy said in a low voice.
The reason I thought it was the one Dana had been writing in before she died was because she hadn’t signed her name.
The name scrawled under How to Do Marriage Right on the title page was that of her husband.
Nate.
Next to it was another wavy, illegible line that ran off the edge of the page. I peered at it closely. “Lucy? Is this a word?”
She leaned in. “I can’t tell. It looks like the mark left by a pen as the user lost consciousness.”
“Oh. Yeah, that could be it.” Ugh.
My aunt began to pace. “Why would she write her husband’s name?” She stopped. “Do you think . . . ?”
I gave a tiny shrug. “That she was identifying her killer? I can’t think of any other reason she’d write his name immediately before she died. Can you?”
She looked thoughtful. “But how could she know for sure? I mean, if the poison was given to her before she came back here, she’d have to guess about who gave it to her unless she actually saw them do it. And if she saw them, I can’t imagine she would have drunk the sweet tea at all.”
“There were a few times on Saturday night when Dr. Dana seemed awfully anxious. It’s possible that she was worried her husband had his own plans for ending their marriage—with her death.”
Lucy frowned. “I don’t know . . .”
I pointed at the book. “It supports what I told Quinn yesterday. Maybe he’ll take me seriously now. Nate Dobbs’ wife told the whole world about their private life, and then kept convincing him not to file for the divorce he wanted.”
“How did she do that?” Lucy mused.
“I don’t know. Guilt? Or maybe in the course of practicing Radical Trust, her spouse stalking turned up something she could blackmail him with. Either way, he had motive. And if Angie’s right about his old job, then he had access to cyanide. Plus, this”—I pointed to the book now open on the table—“looks like Dana herself thought he was her killer. He must have seen that she’d written his name when he rushed to her side.”
“Or when he went back in with the police. I wonder why they didn’t notice.” Lucy pressed her lips together. “Is all that enough to make a murder case against him?”
“It’s a good start. Of course, Quinn has a good start on the case against Angie, too. A really good start, and he never called me back after I left the message about Earl King last night. The only thing that would completely convince him would be a full confession.”
An idea took root. I jumped up out of the chair.
Lucy tipped her head. “What?”
I grinned. “And I might know how to get one.”
* * *
“So what do you think?” I asked Croft. Without him, my plan couldn’t get off the ground.
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall of the storage room. “I don’t know, Katie. You’re talking about more or less inviting someone to break into my store. I just installed a nice big lock on the back door after what happened earlier.”
“All you have to do is skip using it tonight. The other lock wasn’t broken, was it?”
“Nah. It’s still on there, too. But I hadn’t realized how flimsy it is.”
“Perfect!”
He glared at me.
“Croft,” Lucy said in her gentle way. “Even if nothing comes of this, don’t you like the idea of selling off those books for a good cause? That scholarship fund sounds like something Dana believed in.” I’d told them about the in lieu of flowers option Ronnie Lake had mentioned.
“Well . . . yeah.” One side of his mouth pulled back in thought. “Okay. We’ll do the auction. You can tell whoever you want, and we’ll see what happens tonight.”
He saw the look on my face. “Oh, yes, Katie. This is my store, and if Nate Dobbs decides to visit after hours, I’m going to be here to witness it. And throw the book at him.”
I hesitated.
“He’s right,” Lucy said. “You’d never leave the Honeybee if you knew someone was going to break in, would you?”
“No. Of course I wouldn’t.”
Croft gave a decisive nod. “And I want Detective Quinn here, too.”
“I’ll give him a call,” I said. I didn’t mention that he might not call me back.
“All right, then,” he said. “I’m closing at seven. We’ll stay all night if we have to.”
Happy Thanksgiving.
But I was as game as he was to see it through to the end.
Chapter 23
Lucy opted to stay at the Honeybee that afternoon while I went to Dr. Dana’s memorial service. While there, I hoped to do more than show my respect for the departed; I wanted to make sure Nate Dobbs knew he had one last chance to retrieve the book in which his wife had fingered him as her killer. He was sure to be there. And if I was wrong about Nate? Well, I had every intention of spreading the word to anyone on my list who had a possible motive.
Ben was still giving me the cold shoulder and probably wouldn’t have gone with me even if I’d asked. Angie agreed that it would be better to stay at the bakery and help with the Thanksgiving pie pickups than to accompany me. At best she’d be uncomfortable, and at worse a serious disruption.
Especially if Phoebe caught sight of her.
However, Margie had wanted to go, and she’d convinced her sister to take the kids for a few hours. She showed up at the Honeybee a little after one thirty in clothes suitable for the most formal of funerals: black dress and shoes, even a little black hat with a veil that looked like it came from the 1950s. I felt sure Dana would have approved her fashion choice.
“Evelyn let me borrow it,” she explained. Evelyn was her mother-in-law.
Since the memorial was outside, I hoped my more casual dress would be acceptable. A light gray blouse topped my dark gray slacks and ballet flats. At least my bandaged knee was hidden.
“How did it work out with Redding?” I asked as we walked to Margie’s Subaru.
She rolled her eyes. “He finally settled down enough for me to explain. You know what? The more I talked about what I was trying to do with the GPS thingamabob, the sillier it sounded. Pretty soon we were giggling like schoolkids.”
I grinned. “See. Told you it would work out.”
Margie sobered. “I’m not going to mention that we laughed
at the idea of Radical Trust when I’m at the memorial, though.”
“Good idea.”
Parking was scarce around Chippewa Square, which was already full of people milling about when we drove by. We found a space a block away on Bull Street and walked back. Clouds had moved in, and the overcast sky lent a somber tone to the scene as we approached. The temperature hovered around seventy, though, and there was no rain predicted. A light breeze swayed through the Spanish moss that drifted in thick curtains from the live oak branches above. Tangles of azaleas surrounded the exterior of the square, dormant now but still evergreen and substantial.
The brick front of Bryson Hall rose impressively on one side of the square. The venue had once been the exclusive Packard dealer in Savannah but now hosted weddings and other events. Phoebe had said they were booked that afternoon, so I guessed at least some of the parking issues stemmed from that. The Savannah Theater sat in art deco splendor on the corner of Bull and Hull, advertising a comedy show on the red-and-white marquee.
Chippewa Square was sometimes referred to as Forrest Gump Park and was much sought out by visitors. The bench on which Tom Hanks had sat was now in the Savannah History Museum, though, and other than constant references to the movie from tour guides, there was little to commemorate the famous scene about life being like a box of chocolates.
Ironically, the statue of James Oglethorpe wasn’t in Oglethorpe Square at all, but in this one. He stood nine feet tall on a pedestal in the center where the paths converged, facing west in his three-cornered hat and guarded by four stone lions.
Near the monument, a long table offered a selection of nonalcoholic drinks. There were no snacks, which I could see the sense of, given how many people had turned out to pay their respects to Dana Dobbs. They gathered in clusters, conversing in low tones. Off to the side, a six-foot-square photo of the deceased stood on an easel. A quick double take confirmed it was the photo on the front of How to Do Marriage Right!
Phoebe taking advantage of the situation? Or simply the most recognizable photo that came to hand?
The fans didn’t seem to mind. They’d placed flowers, stuffed animals, and candles around the base of the easel. There were handwritten prayers and well wishes tucked in between the other items.
To the right of the display, a canopy covered a table littered with brochures. Phoebe stood behind it, next to a sign that read DR. DANA DOBBS SCHOLARSHIP FUND. She spoke animatedly to a man in a dark blue suit who leaned over the table, writing on a piece of paper with a silver pen. When he stood, I saw it was Heinrich Dawes. He handed Phoebe a check and spoke a few words.
I wondered how many zeros were on the check. A lot, I hoped.
Margie and I made our way to the drinks table and helped ourselves to a couple of bottles of water. They were, I noticed, the brand Dr. Dana had insisted on during her signing. I remembered her face as she lay on the floor, and I put the water back. I knew it wasn’t poisoned. I knew only the sweet tea had been poisoned. Still, I was suddenly not in the least bit thirsty.
“I’m going to look at the memorial,” Margie said. “I wish I’d thought to bring something to leave for her.”
“We can donate to the scholarship fund,” I said.
She brightened and moved to where Phoebe stood talking to someone else. I saw Heinrich exiting the square on the far side.
A woman wearing a multilayered combination of skirt, tights, tunic, jacket, belt, and scarves took the bottle I’d just returned to the drinks table. I moved back and saw her long blond braid.
“Ronnie Lake?” I asked.
She whirled. “Yes?”
I stuck out my hand. “Katie Lightfoot. We spoke on the phone.”
Her eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. Did she not remember talking to me at all because I’d used my Voice? Then her face cleared for a second before a different kind of confusion took root.
“Katie. Right. We spoke about Dana.” She shook her head. “I apologize. I said more than I should have. Her death must have affected me in ways I didn’t realize.”
“Oh, gosh. No need to apologize.” No need at all. “I was very glad to learn of the scholarship fund in Dr. Dana’s name. The owner of the bookstore came up with a good way to contribute to it.” Watching her carefully, I continued. “He’s going to sell the last books Dana Dobbs signed in an auction. All the proceeds will go the fund.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “You mean he has more signed books?”
Rather than be indelicate about when they’d been signed, I simply nodded. “They’re in the back of his store as we speak.”
She shrugged. “Well, her fans might just love that. Some of them were quite rabid.” Her fingers crept to her lips. “I mean, er, fervent. Heavens, the things that seem to come out of my mouth these days. Good luck with the auction. Excuse me.” She scurried away, scarves flying out behind her.
I sighed. She might have slipped Dr. Dana a dose of cyanide, or she might not have. Either way, I’d inveigled my way into her brain, and I felt terrible about it.
Phoebe walked by on the other side of the table, stopping to chat with a young couple holding a spray of flowers in a vase. She pointed to the photo easel and moved on. I turned to see Nate Dobbs had taken over for his sister-in-law at the fund-raising table. Margie was sitting on a bench several feet away and talking to a woman I didn’t recognize.
Dodging mourners as subtly as possible, I hurried over to talk to Nate Dobbs.
He looked up and over my shoulder, searching for something or someone. He had broad shoulders under his sports coat, and capable-looking hands. And he was tall.
Tall enough to be the person I’d seen in the alley? Yup. And certainly strong enough to push the Dumpster that had almost done me in.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.” He absently gestured at the pamphlets that listed details about the scholarships, still not really looking at me. “If you’re interested in donating, all the information is in there.”
I picked one up. It was slick and professional. Phoebe had been busy in the last couple of days.
“We take checks and credit cards.” Then he met my eyes. “Oh! It’s you.”
I folded the pamphlet and slid it into my pocket.
“Hi, Nate. I wanted to let you know that I’m going to help Croft Barrow auction the books he has left that Dana signed. All the proceeds will go to your wife’s scholarship fund.”
“The books she . . . ?” His forehead creased. “Oh, God. I guess people might want those, huh? Well, that’s really nice of you.” His lips turned down. “I think.”
I stepped carefully. “I understand you had mixed feelings about your wife’s take on Radical Trust.”
His jaw set, and he looked over my shoulder again. “You heard her yourself. It saved our marriage.”
“But you were planning on getting a divorce,” I said gently.
Anger blazed in his eyes, then faded. Suddenly, he just seemed tired. More than tired. Completely drained. “Radical Trust is hard to take, honestly. And God knows the whole world knew about our problems. Or most of them. But we were going to get counseling once this promotional tour was over.”
“You were?” Phoebe said, coming around the back of the canopy. “I find that hard to believe.”
Nate looked surprised. “She didn’t tell you?”
Phoebe shook her head. “And I wouldn’t have believed her if she had. No way my sister the relationship maven would solicit advice from someone else about her marriage. She fooled you again, Nate.” Bitterness infused her voice. “She fooled all of us.”
Then she turned to look at me. “Katie, I sure seem to run into you a lot lately.”
Nate frowned. “Really?”
“At the bookstore, at the radio station, and now here. Funny, that.”
My smile wavered. “I was just telling Nate here about ho
w Croft is going to contribute to the scholarship fund.”
“Dana died in his establishment, and he sends you in his place?” Suddenly Phoebe sounded a lot like her imperious sister.
“He’s working at the Fox and Hound today, and since I’m going to help him with the auction, he thought . . .” I trailed off.
“What auction?”
“He’s going to sell the last books your sister signed and donate all the money to this.” I gestured at the booth.
“Last books . . . you mean the books she was signing when . . . good heavens.” She took a deep breath. “Well! I think you’d better announce that to everyone so you’ll get lots of bidders. Come on, Katie.”
“Where?”
“To the microphone. I don’t want anyone to miss out.”
My fear of public speaking raised its cobralike head. “Perhaps you could tell them,” I began.
“Nonsense. I don’t know any of the details.”
Neither did I, actually. “We’re still working some of that out.”
She looked askance at me. Of course, if she’d been in charge of the auction, not only would the details be worked out, but she’d have pamphlets to hand out at the memorial and a dedicated Web site.
“We only came up with the idea this morning,” I tried again. “The books are still in his back room—at least until tomorrow.” I said the last loud enough for Nate to hear. A quick glance his way confirmed he was still paying attention.
Avid attention, actually.
Good.
“I’ll help you set it up,” Phoebe said, apparently unable to resist. “We can use Croft’s Web site, and there are online auction tools available. Now, let’s make the announcement. I just set up the microphone so people can share their stories about my sister.”
Sure enough, there was a tiny portable stage over by the photo easel now, complete with mic. She grabbed my arm and pulled me over to it. I stopped right in front and watched as she marched up to the mic and turned it on with an expert hand. I wondered how many times she’d done that for her sister.
