“Ah, I think I know the one you mean. Black hair, blue eyes, about my height, perfect figure?”
Marlene shook her head. “Oh heck no. Just the opposite. Real pale colored hair—almost white—and hazel eyes. Tiny frame, but well built, you know, kind of like Marilyn Monroe. She’s only been here a few times. Goodness, the last time she was lugging a box bigger than her. But the other one, another blonde, more on the golden side, real sexy, that chickie was practically living here for a while.” She leaned in and said in a low tone, “Personally, I think he’s in for trouble with that one. I saw a wedding ring on her finger. But”—she raised both hands—“it’s none of my business, really. I just notice things. Why, I’ve seen things around this complex that would set your hair on end. I really should write a book one day. Do you know there’s a man in number 2025—”
I cut her off before she could recount any more escapades. “To tell you the truth, we came here to pick up a still life from Taft. It’s, ah, a gift for my sister’s anniversary party tomorrow, and he said it would be ready today. So if you can just tell me which building he lives in—”
“Oh, isn’t that nice. What a thoughtful gift. She’ll love it, I’m sure. But he’s not home right now.”
Disappointment arrowed through me. “He’s not? But he’s not at the school today, so I just assumed—”
Her finger wagged to and fro under my nose. “See, that’s the problem when you assume. I know he’s not at the school today. This is his day at Sip ’n Slip. He usually bartends most nights, but Tuesdays he works the morning and early afternoon shift—helps out with the cooking and waitstaff.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s not far from here. If you leave now, you might be able to speak to him before his shift ends.” She shrugged her shoulders apologetically. “If he wasn’t such a stickler about it I’d let you into his place so you could get your painting, but I don’t need another scene, no sir.” She clasped her hands dramatically in front of her. “If I did that, why, he’d be very upset. Very.”
“No problem.” I whipped a card out of my purse and scribbled my phone number on it. “If I should miss him, though, could you give him this and ask him to call me?”
She glanced at the card before shoving it into her pocket. “Sure enough, Ms. St. Clair. Gee, that name sure does sound familiar. Any relation to the Pacific Grove St. Clairs?”
“Distant,” I answered. “Very, very distant.”
Once we were out of Marlene’s earshot, I let out the giant breath I’d been holding. “It seems as if our boy Tate might be involved more than we think. I wonder if he could be the one producing the forged paintings.”
“Well, I greatly doubt bartending is the ‘golden opportunity’ he couldn’t pass up. I’ve known quite a few bartenders in my day. They couldn’t have covered their rent if it weren’t for the tips, most of which went unreported to Uncle Sam, unless I miss my guess. It’s what they call ‘under the table’ income. Even still, I doubt it would be enough to afford the rent on that place.”
I nodded. “I wonder if the man she described could have been that Professor Foxworthy. He’s an ‘arty type’ with long hair and dark glasses.”
Ollie shrugged. “To be honest, guys that fit that description are a dime a dozen.”
“True, and, as far as I know, he’s got no ties to the gallery. I admit I’m far more interested in her descriptions of Taft’s lady friends. One is Giselle, no doubt, and the other . . . it sounded like Jenna Whitt, to a tee.”
“The girl you think wanted to snoop around your sister’s room. Hm.” Ollie mused. “Wonder what that connection could be?”
I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “I’d sure like to know what was in the box she said Jenna brought over. I’ll bet anything it didn’t contain art supplies.”
“Well, maybe now is the right time to get some answers.”
We climbed in the SUV and I programmed the GPS for directions to the pub, which fortunately wasn’t far away. We arrived at our destination in a little less than fifteen minutes, and I parked across the street from a low-slung black and red clapboard building in the business district of Pacific Grove. The gold lettering on the Sip ’n Slip sign was eye-catching set against the stark black background, but I thought there was an unnecessary amount of clutter and posters in the wide picture window that detracted from its overall appearance.
We got out and I locked the car, and we walked across the street. It took a minute for my eyes to make the adjustment from bright sunlight to dim interior, and once they did, I took a quick look around. The bar was a wide affair that took up the entire right side of the room, extending from far back to right next to the wide window. If the shelves overflowing with bottles behind it were any indication, it was well stocked. Two men in battered jeans and wrinkled T-shirts sat hunched over the bar near the window, deep in conversation, half-full mugs of beer in front of them. They looked up as I entered, gave me a once-over, and then resumed talking as if I weren’t there. I wasn’t sure if I’d just been insulted or not.
The floor was clean and seemed to be divided between timber and tiles. There were brown leatherette stools flanking the bar, and to its left, a green and brown bench seating area that appeared to be in good condition. In the midst of the bench seating was a fireplace encased in nice yellow brick. A solid fuel stove added more charm. The walls were painted green and white, and I could hear Irish music playing softly in the background. A flat-screen TV turned on to a game show played right above the bar area, and near a door that I assumed led to restrooms were a gaming machine, a dart board, and a cigarette machine. A jukebox was at the rear of the room near another door, which I assumed led to the kitchen area. That was confirmed a moment later when it opened and Taft himself, carrying a tray on which rested two orders of French fries, emerged. He walked over to the two men, set the fries in front of them. While he did that I slid onto a stool at the other end of the bar, and Ollie settled himself near the other two men. Taft finished with them, and Ollie ordered a Sam Adams. Taft set a frosty mug in front of him, then turned in my direction. His eyes widened a bit as he saw me, but I caught no flicker of recognition in them as he approached, a wide smile on his face.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “What’s your pleasure, miss? We’ve got some nice Guinness on tap today, and Michelob Light as well.”
“Good afternoon, Taft,” I answered. “I think I’ll just have coffee for now.”
“Coming right up.” He moved over to a large pot on the back counter, filled a mug, and set it in front of me with a small pitcher of milk and a few sugar packets.
I poured some milk in, took a sip. “Mmm . . . good and hot. Thank you, Taft.”
He leaned across the bar, elbows up, cupping his chin. “Have we met somewhere? You seem to know me . . . and you do seem so familiar.” He stood back a bit and squinted at me. Then his expression cleared and he gave me one of his dazzling smiles. “Of course—now I remember. You were at the school. Abigail St. Clair, am I right? I never forget a pretty face.”
Or a thick checkbook, I thought. “We did meet at the school, but I’m afraid my name isn’t Abigail St. Clair.”
His eyes clouded, and one corner of his lips tugged downward. “No? But I could swear—”
“It’s the name I gave, but it’s not my real name. I felt it best at the time not to divulge my real identity.”
He barked out a laugh, but the look he shot me was a wary one. “Your real identity? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“My name’s Nora Charles. I’m Lacey’s sister. With everything going on, I’m sure you can understand why I chose not to disclose my identity.”
He reached underneath the counter, pulled out a rag, and started wiping down the bar. “Of course. It’s not pleasant, having a sibling accused of murder—particularly when the chances are excellent that she’s guilty.”
I leaned forward to rest my elbows o
n the bar’s smooth surface. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
His head jerked up, and his eyes narrowed into slits. “Now how would I know that?”
“You don’t have to play dumb with me, Taft. I know you lied about the night of the murder.”
“I beg your pardon? If anyone’s lying here, it’s you. I’m not the one hiding behind an assumed name.”
I ignored his remark and continued, “You know, I’ve got a sort of sixth sense—I can tell when someone’s not being honest.”
“Can you now?” His lips clamped into a thin line. “Well, you’ve got it wrong this time. I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Don’t you?” I slammed my fist down on the bar with enough force that the two guys at the other end paused in their conversation to look up. “You said that you were with Giselle Pitt at that fund-raiser the evening Pitt was killed, but that’s not true. Giselle left for a short time and went to the school.”
His brows shot skyward, and he shot a quick glance toward the other patrons, who were regarding us curiously. “Not so loud,” he hissed. “No one needs to know what we’re discussing, do they? Besides, where’d you get an idea like that?”
I leaned closer to him and dropped my voice a bit. “A parking ticket was issued at ten thirty-seven to a red Mercedes with the license plate TRPHYWF. We both know who that plate belongs to, so why don’t you drop the pretense and just admit you lied for her.”
He stared at me, then let out a mirthless chuckle. “Lady, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Impossible,” I bristled. “I’ve got the facts to back this up. You’re trapped, Taft. All you can do now is blow her alibi right out of the water. She wasn’t at that party; she was at her husband’s office. Tell me—did she kill Julia, too?”
His face blanched, and his eyes got round as saucers. He gripped the edge of the bar so hard his knuckles bled white. “What?” he whispered. “Julia’s dead?”
I nodded. “She was strangled the night before last, sometime before ten. At the Billings Warehouse.”
“Oh God.” He leaned against the counter, passed a hand across his eyes. “Julia . . . dead. I—I heard the account of that murder on the radio earlier, but they didn’t give out the victim’s name. I—I had no idea.” He swallowed. “This could change everything,” he murmured, so low I had to strain to catch the words.
“What does it change? Was Julia involved with this golden opportunity of yours? The reason you quit your job at the school?”
A flush climbed his neck. “My reasons for leaving are none of your business,” he barked. His hand raked through his hair, and he took a step backward. “I—I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”
“Not so fast.” My hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “Where were you Sunday night, Taft?”
“Sunday night?” He stared at me blankly, and then his gaze hardened. “Oh no, no way. I see what you want to do. You’re not pinning Julia’s murder on me. I was here that night, working till almost midnight.”
“Why should I believe you? You lied about what happened the night Pitt died.”
He tossed his rag over to one side of the counter and splayed both palms on the counter. “You can ask Dave—he’s the owner; he’ll be in soon. He’ll vouch for me, plus there are about fifteen other people I waited on who can, too. I’d be glad to get you a list of names, if that’ll satisfy you.”
“And what about Giselle Pitt? Could they vouch for her, too? Or are you planning to fabricate another lie to cover her?”
He let out another mirthless chuckle. “Giselle doesn’t need me to provide her with an alibi for that night. It’s her yoga night. Between nine and eleven, she was doing Rocking Boats and Dog Stretches in front of about twenty other people. Besides, she had no reason to kill Julia.”
“Maybe not—but she had about a million good ones to kill her husband.”
“She didn’t leave the party. She couldn’t have.”
I balled my hand into a fist. “You don’t have to lie anymore, Taft. The ticket proves otherwise.”
“No, all the ticket proves is that the car was at the scene of the murder.”
“The car? Sure, but someone still had to drive it there.”
He let out a breath. “Giselle didn’t drive to the school and park illegally. I did. Giselle was covering up for me.”
I stared at him, hardly daring to believe what I’d just heard. Why had he confessed so easily? “It was you? You went back to kill Pitt?”
“No, no.” He waved his hands back and forth. “I didn’t kill Pitt. I argued with the old boy a few days ago but I honestly didn’t understand what he was talking about. He just yelled at me one day, called me stupid, told me if I couldn’t tell left from right I’d be hard-pressed to make it in this world.”
“That is odd. What do you suppose he meant?”
“With Pitt—heck, who knows? He was eccentric to the point of being anal. It wasn’t the first time he screamed and shouted at me over something that made no sense at all. Anyway, Giselle let me borrow her car, and she thought it best if we agreed to say we were together. It never occurred to me anyone would check on the parking ticket.”
“Why did you go back to the school?”
He shifted his weight. “I—I had an appointment. I was meeting someone.”
“Who?”
His eyes darted nervously around the room. “I’d rather not say.”
“Well, you’d better say.” I leaned forward. “Samms knows about the parking ticket. He’s going to reach the same conclusion I did—that it was Giselle that went to the school. And if he puts pressure on her, do you think she’ll keep your cover—or crack to save her own skin? The time for lies is past—the only way to stay out of trouble is to be honest. Now, shall we try this again?”
He bit down hard on his lower lip. “Fine. If you must know, I was meeting another girl.”
Before I could challenge him on whether the other woman was Jenna, the door to the pub opened, and a tall girl with hair the color of corn silk entered. She glanced our way, shot Taft a shy smile, and wiggled two fingers in greeting before she disappeared through a rear door. I slid Taft a glance, and there was no mistaking the light in his eyes as he looked at her.
I jerked my thumb in the blonde’s direction. “Her? Seriously? You arranged a secret meeting with her at the school?”
He nodded. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks. Tammie’s a student at U of C. She’s majoring in art. We got to talking and . . . she thought she’d like to enroll at Pitt Institute after she graduates, so I was—ah—showing her around.”
My eyebrows lifted. “At ten o’clock at night? Try again.”
“Okay, fine. Giselle’s great, but sometimes I get a yen for companionship nearer my own age. There’s a nice big storeroom adjacent to Foxworthy’s classroom.”
I started. “Foxworthy?”
“Yeah. I did a few errands for him, and in return, he let me use the storeroom. And, if you’re still not satisfied . . . we got, ah, a little vocal. Jake Rawlings, the night janitor, came to investigate. I paid him pretty good to keep his mouth shut, but if you get your friend Detective Samms to flash his badge, I’m sure he’d freely admit what he saw.” He paused, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Then there are the nude photos on my iPhone—if one puts stock in photos, that is.”
I set my jaw. At this moment I had to agree with the secretary in Admissions—I didn’t like Taft too much, either. “So you cheated on Giselle with this waitress. Did you also cheat on her with Jenna?”
“Jenna?” He had the nerve to look insulted. “Heck no. Is that what you thought? Jenna and I don’t have a romantic relationship.”
“What sort of relationship do you have? The realtor said she saw her at your apartment a few times. Was she modeling for you?”
“Hell no. Jenna couldn’t stay s
till long enough to model for a painting if her life depended on it.”
“Well, then, why was she visiting you?”
He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Fine. You want to know? Jenna’s the one who got me into the gallery.”
That startled me. I stopped toying with the handle of my cup and jerked my eyes upward. “Jenna got you in?” I remembered something Marlene McKay had said and leaned forward. “Does it have something to do with the big boxes the real estate lady saw her with? Was she delivering something to you? Maybe paintings to copy?”
I saw a muscle twitch in his lower jaw, and his eyes took on a steely glint. “For the record, Ms. Charles, let’s get something straight. I had nothing to do with Pitt’s murder, or Julia’s, either, and I have witnesses—real witnesses—who can back me up. So now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
He started to turn away, but I wasn’t finished. “Wait. Why did you quit your job at the school? Ms. Bowman in Admissions said you told her you had a golden opportunity. Did it have anything to do with Julia? Is that what you meant when you said it could change everything?”
He slanted me a glance over one shoulder. “Things might have been different, if Julia were still alive, but since she’s dead, it’s business as usual. I guess now I’m gonna have to grovel and do many mea culpas to get my modeling job back.”
He reclaimed the rag and started to wipe down the counter, but I was far from finished with him. “What can you tell me about the forged paintings, Taft? You have something to do with them, don’t you?” I paused as another thought occurred to me. “What did you do for Foxworthy in return for his letting you in to that storeroom? I’m sure he didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart. So, was it anything to do with the gallery?”
His lip curled. “You know, what I do or did do for people is none of your concern.”
“There’s been two murders. That’s cause enough to be concerned about anything out of the ordinary, wouldn’t you say?”
He let out an exasperated sigh, threw the cloth to the side, and whirled on me. “Let me give you some advice, Ms. Charles. You really want to avoid making accusations you can’t prove.”
Claws for Alarm Page 18
