by V. M. Burns
“What’s with the grilling?” Stephanie asked.
“Sorry. I was just trying to figure out who else knew he’d be there and who had the opportunity to put the gun in the car. That’s all.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Stephanie looked contrite but didn’t apologize.
I finished typing. “Who else?”
We couldn’t think of anyone else, but something in Officer Harrison’s eyes told me he had a suggestion.
“You know something?” I asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was wondering if there could be anything connected to the car dealership?”
“Something like what?” Stephanie asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, but something doesn’t feel right about that place. That guy, Chip Nelson, he just seems shady to me.”
I smiled, remembering how Officer Harrison had shut Chip down when he nearly ran into me at the dealership.
I turned to Stephanie. “I think you should tell him what you know about Chip.”
She nodded and shared the story she told me many moons ago about Chip’s drug problem.
Officer Harrison listened attentively, then nodded. “I suspected he was involved in drugs. I can ask around at the precinct and see if anyone knows anything more.”
“You won’t get in trouble?” Stephanie asked.
He shrugged. “Not if I’m careful.”
I typed Chip’s history into the spreadsheet I’d made. I loved spreadsheets. They were great at keeping numbers organized and would work equally well for keeping murder suspects organized. “Marilyn also has a problem, although her drug of choice is alcohol.”
“That’s obvious from her behavior the other day. Can you believe she actually got sloshed at a funeral?” Dixie added.
“I haven’t seen Marilyn for a number of years. I knew she had a problem back then, but I thought she went to some clinic and got cleaned up.”
“It wouldn’t happen to have been Lighthouse Dunes Therapy and Rehabilitation?” Officer Harrison asked.
A light bulb went off in my head. “That’s why Dr. Andrew Price’s name sounded so familiar. That’s his clinic!”
“So, the murder weapon was stolen from Dr. Price six months ago, and Dr. Price treated Marilyn Nelson for alcohol addiction,” Dixie said.
“Not just Marilyn Nelson.” Stephanie stared. “He also treated Chip Nelson.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” I typed.
“I’ll look into it,” Officer Harrison said. “I need you all to let me handle this. If Chip Nelson is responsible for stealing the gun, then he’s a dangerous man who may have killed twice already.”
David sat up straighter. “I almost forgot. Chip’s also the one who told me Bambi worked at the Purple Panther. He could have put the gun in the car.”
“I’ll look into it.” Officer Harrison’s eyes held a sparkle that hadn’t been there before. “This is a great lead.”
We were all excited that there was at least one other person on our list who might have killed Albert. However, Stephanie didn’t seem as excited as the rest of us.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Chip had the opportunity and the means—but why? Why kill Dad?”
That put a bit of a wet blanket over our celebration.
“Maybe Officer Harrison was right,” Dixie said. “Maybe there was something going on with the business. Maybe Albert was going to fire him.” She looked around, but no one looked excited about that theory.
“Or maybe he was stealing money from the company and Dad found out,” David added.
“I have the accounts. I’ll take a look at the financial statements and the business accounts and see if anything suspicious was going on.” I kept typing.
“Okay, but if you find anything, you let me know immediately. Don’t go off and confront anyone by yourself,” Detective Harrison cautioned.
I crossed my heart and held up three fingers in what I remembered to be the Girl Scout oath. He nodded his acceptance of my promise.
“Something’s been bothering me too.” I looked at Officer Harrison. “I know why the police believe I killed Albert, but why do they think I killed Bradley Hurston?”
Officer Harrison paused. “Someone heard him saying he saw what you did after the funeral.”
I looked at Stephanie and David, and the three of us burst into laughter.
“I wish someone would share the joke. I could use a good laugh.” Dixie looked from me to Stephanie and David.
“I’d like in on the joke too,” Officer Harrison said.
“Bradley Hurston is a sweet old man who had dementia,” I said. “He says that to literally everyone.”
“He sits in his living room looking out the window with his binoculars, and that’s the first thing he says to everyone he meets,” Stephanie said.
“He’s been saying the same thing for at least the last ten years.” David laughed.
“That explains a lot.” Officer Harrison smiled. “Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell the police about that.”
“Marianne would have told you, but she fainted after he was found shot and was taken to the hospital. I suspect she’s still there.” I made a mental note to send flowers.
We talked for a bit, and then Officer Harrison stood up. Turbo had gotten comfortable and wasn’t enthusiastic about leaving, but after a few stretches, he trotted alongside his master. “I’ll let you know what I find out, but promise me that you won’t do anything stupid and will leave the actual investigating to the professionals.”
We all held up three fingers. “Scouts’ honor.”
He shook his head with the first glimmer of a smile I’d seen, then left.
“My fingers were crossed behind my back.” Dixie held up her left hand and showed her crossed fingers.
We all lifted our hands with crossed fingers.
Dixie smiled. “Good. So, what’s the plan?”
I turned to my daughter. “Stephanie, maybe you could reach out to Charles Nelson, you know, lawyer to lawyer, and find out about your father’s will.” I shared the agreement I’d made with Albert to host his grandmother’s birthday bash as long as he promised to keep the children as his beneficiaries.
“I wondered why you agreed to do that,” Dixie said.
“It’s sad you had to resort to that. He was our father, after all.” David sounded bitter.
I shrugged. “Maybe he would have done it anyway. I just wanted to make sure. Anyway, I’m hoping if you’re a beneficiary, then he’ll share the contents of the will with you.”
Stephanie nodded.
I turned to David. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but could you stomach another trip back to the Purple Panther?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t believe my mom is sending me to a strip club.” He grinned. “Sure, what do you want me to do?”
“Bambi didn’t strike me as the sharpest tack in the box.”
“You can say that again.” Dixie rolled her eyes.
“I was hoping you could ask her a few questions. Find out if she had any expectations of receiving money.”
“She certainly seemed to have expectations when she was rifling through his things at the car dealership.”
I nodded. “Do you think you could do that?”
“I’m an actor. I shall put on the performance of a lifetime.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm and then a low bow.
“What about me?” Dixie scooted to the edge of her seat.
I stared at the dogs lying on the floor. “Did you tell me your dogs are registered therapy assistant dogs?”
She looked at the lounging poodles and nodded. “Yep. Both of them are registered with Therapy Dogs International.”
“So, they can go into
hospitals, right?”
She nodded.
“What’s a registered therapy dog?” David asked.
Dixie’s voice took on the teacher tone she always got when talking about the work she did with dogs. “A registered therapy dog means the dogs have been trained to provide affection and comfort for people in hospitals or nursing homes. Sometimes they also go into schools or disaster areas. They’ve even been used to help people with autism. The dogs must pass a test, certifying they have the right temperament for the work.”
“Are they service dogs like Joe’s dog, Turbo?”
Dixie shook her head. “Not necessarily. Service dogs go through a lot more rigorous training than a therapy dog. A service dog could be a therapy dog, but the two things are not necessarily the same thing. Turbo is a trained police dog, so his skill set is vastly different from a service or assist dog.” She smiled. “I suspect he wouldn’t make the best therapy dog, but I might be wrong.”
David looked at the poodles with a new respect.
Dixie looked at me. “Now, why do you want to know about Chyna and Leia?”
“I was hoping you could take them to the hospital to visit Marianne. Maybe you could ask her some questions. I’m hoping she heard or saw something without knowing she saw it.”
Dixie nodded. “Sure thing. Now, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go through Albert’s books with a fine-tooth comb. If there’s anything amiss in his books, I’m going to find it.”
We talked awhile longer and then went to bed. It had been a long day, and I was tired.
I lay in bed and cuddled with Aggie, thankful to be back in my comfortable room and out of that cell. Something kept flittering around in my head, but I couldn’t remember what it was. Every time I tried to catch it, it floated out of reach. I decided to focus on other things and hoped it would come to me later.
I had just drifted off to sleep when the telephone rang. I looked over at the clock on my nightstand. It was two in the morning. No good phone calls happened at two in the morning. I took a deep breath and braced myself for bad news.
Before I could get the greeting out of my mouth, I heard Bambi’s screeching voice. “Someone stole my car. Was it you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It was you, wasn’t it? You stole my car. You told me I could have the Corvette and then you came and took it back. I should have known you wouldn’t keep your word.”
“Bambi, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t give me that. I always park the car outside the Purple Panther, and it’s never been a problem, but now, all of a sudden, it gets broken into one day and then stolen. I know it was you, and you can’t get away with it. I’ll call Albert’s attorney, and he’ll make you give the car back. You promised and—”
“I don’t have the car. If someone stole it, I suggest you file a report with the police.”
I hung up, turned off my phone, and went back to sleep.
CHAPTER 12
I woke up with a headache. My sheets were in knots, and Aggie, who normally slept curled up beside me, was asleep on the bench at the foot of the bed. Apparently, I’d kicked too much during the night and she sought shelter a little farther away. I had a vague recollection of being chased by a large yellow steam roller. At some point, the steam roller turned into purple poodles that growled and snarled and chased me through the Louvre Museum. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I couldn’t remember much more.
A long, hot shower, two aspirin, and a hot cup of coffee helped. Stephanie and David came down when I was on my second cup.
“Would you two like breakfast?”
“I think Aunt Dixie went to pick up some pastries to go with the breakfast casserole you made for Marianne yesterday.” Stephanie took the casserole out of the refrigerator and placed it on the counter.
“I can always make her another one,” I said.
“Our thoughts exactly.” Stephanie set the timer on the oven, sat down, and poured herself a cup of coffee.
We drank in silence until the preheat timer went off.
David got up. “Allow me.” He opened the oven door and put the casserole inside.
By the time the breakfast casserole was ready, Dixie returned, juggling two white boxes and a grocery bag. David and Stephanie jumped up to relieve her of her bags and she slumped into one of the vacant kitchen chairs. She had a large Styrofoam cup, which bore the same French Pastry logo as that of the boxes.
“I thought you were just going to pick up a few pastries.” I stared at the strawberry tarts, bear claws, lemon squares, and apple turnovers Stephanie displayed on the table.
“I did, but I guess I got a little carried away. Everything looked so tasty. I couldn’t decide what to get.”
“So, you got one of everything?” Stephanie moaned as she bit into a lemon square and the yellow filling oozed out of the side of her mouth.
I handed her a napkin to wipe away the powdered sugar that now coated her mouth.
“Besides, it’s the least I could do, considering the racket the girls kept up last night.” Dixie picked up an apple turnover and bit into it.
“What racket?” I asked around a mouth full of strawberry tart.
“Are you joking?” She stared at me as though I’d suddenly grown another appendage. “They heard something outside and nearly lost their minds.”
“Really?” David added.
She looked from one of us to the other. “None of you heard it?”
We each shook our heads.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” Dixie said.
At some point, I’d have to find out what that meant, but at the moment, I was consumed by strawberries with a bright glaze that reflected the sugar crystals and melted in my mouth.
We made short work of the breakfast casserole and pastries. I looked at the box that had been filled with delicious treats and now lay barren, with one sole chocolate éclair left behind.
“I can’t believe we ate that entire box of pastries.” I looked at the counter, where two other boxes sat. “How many boxes did you buy?”
Dixie held up three fingers. “Actually, I got one box to take to the hospital. Marianne might be more willing to chat with me if she has some delicious sweets to tempt her.”
Stephanie laughed, and David nearly choked as he swallowed the last éclair.
“Marianne Carpenter won’t need any inducement to talk,” Stephanie said.
“The trouble will be getting her to stop talking.” David gulped down the last of his coffee.
“Well, what she doesn’t eat, the nurses and doctors will appreciate,” Dixie said.
“That’s a great idea. Why don’t you take my car?” I got up and grabbed my purse from the counter and rummaged around for the keys. “No sense in driving that big RV around town. Parking at the hospital will be scarce anyway.”
I felt around in my purse, which felt like the bottomless pit. Eventually, I dumped the contents on the table. The keys were hiding in my wallet. I gave them to Dixie and started putting things back when I noticed an envelope. “What’s this?” I stared at the envelope.
“One way to find out?” David handed me a letter opener.
I slit the envelope open and gasped when I read the single sheet of paper folded inside.
“Lilly Anne, you’re as white as a sheet. What is it?” Dixie asked.
Stephanie and David looked concerned.
“I feel lightheaded and dizzy.”
“Put your head down.” Dixie stood up and shoved my head down between my legs.
The blood rushed to my head and, in seconds, I felt better. “I’m fine.” I sat up and shoved the letter at Stephanie.
She took the letter and nearly stumbled.
“Not you too?” Dixie made a mov
e toward Stephanie.
Stephanie recovered herself better than me and held up a hand to fend off assistance. She had been leaning against the sink and turned, got a glass of water, and drank half of the glass. Then she turned. “It’s from Daddy.”
“Oh my.” Dixie sank into her chair.
David looked flushed and got up and stood, looking over Stephanie’s shoulder.
“He’s made a new will.” Stephanie scanned the document. “He’s leaving everything to Mom.” She looked up.
I leaned back down and put my head through my legs. When I had gotten enough blood to my brain, I sat up. Someone had gotten me a glass of water. My hands shook while I drank, so I only took a few gulps and set the glass on the table. “When? How?”
“Why?” Dixie asked.
Stephanie stared at the letter again. “It’s dated the day of Bisnonna’s birthday party.”
I groaned. “I told him to make you two the beneficiaries, not me.”
“Is it legal?” Dixie asked.
Stephanie shrugged. “It looks to be in order. This looks like his handwriting.” She looked at me and I nodded. “It’s signed, dated and witnessed.”
“Who are the witnesses?” I asked.
“Uncle Gino and Uncle Vinnie,” she said.
I groaned. “I guess that explains why the entire Conti family thinks I killed Albert.”
“But why did he put it in your purse? Why not give it to his attorney?” David asked.
I shrugged.
Dixie whistled. “Can you imagine what would happen if the police knew about this?”
I put my head between my knees again. When I sat up this time, I felt more at ease. “Well, nothing we can do about it now.” I looked at Stephanie. “You’ll need to hand that over to Charles Nelson when you talk to him and also make sure you tell Officer Harrison about it.”
David rubbed the back of his neck and paced. “But, Mom, I—”
I looked across at Stephanie. She was wearing a T-shirt and the words leapt out at me. It was from my alma mater, Northwestern University, and read Quaecumque Sunt Vera. I pointed to her shirt. “‘Whatsoever things are true.’ We have to do the right thing. We have to trust that the truth will make you free.”
