Goody Goody Gunshots

by Sammi Carter

  I felt myself flinch, but I forced myself to hold my ground. He wasn’t out of control yet, but he was trying to intimidate me. “Can you prove that?”

  “I don’t have to. Not to you.”

  “No, but you might have to prove it to the police. Where were you last Monday night, Dwayne?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Does that mean you don’t have an alibi?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was right here, working.”

  “What time?”

  “All evening. Whatever time Lou Hobbs got himself whacked.” He stared at me, hard. “I didn’t kill him, so get the hell out of here, and let me get back to work.”

  That sounded like good advice, but I still had a couple of questions, and I might not get another chance to ask them. “How did you know him?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Did you know him when he used to live here?”

  In the blink of an eye, the anger left his face, and nervousness replaced it. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Around. Is that how you know him?”

  “Lou Hobbs never lived here,” he said, leaning in so close I could smell something sour on his breath. “You got that?”

  An uncomfortable warning darted up my spine, and this time I did draw back. “I don’t believe you. I think Hobbs did live somewhere around here, and I think that’s how you and Quentin and Kerry know him.”

  Dwayne straightened sharply. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? You think you have it all figured out, but you don’t know shit.”

  The look in his eyes stopped me cold, and suddenly I understood the reason for his edginess. “You know who killed him, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “I think you do. I think you know exactly what happened, and I think you know why. So why haven’t you gone to the police?”

  In one quick movement, Dwayne took me by the shoulders, spun me around, and propelled me toward the door. “I don’t know anything,” he said again, “especially not who killed Lou Hobbs.” He shoved me out onto the lawn with such force, I nearly lost my balance. “Now go away and leave me alone.”

  He slammed the door between us, I heard the lock turn, and reluctantly I admitted that our conversation was over. I could see Marion watching me from her kitchen window, and I knew I’d just lost a friend and Divinity had lost a long-time customer. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that she was in serious denial. Dwayne was lying. I could feel that in every cell of my body. He knew who the murderer was. All I had to do now was get him to tell the police.

  Chapter 32

  I tried to call Jawarski on my way back to Divinity, but ended up having to leave a message. The delay in telling him what I knew chafed, but there was nothing I could do. I’d see him that night for Richie and Dylan’s party, but I didn’t want to talk about the murder there.

  He’d apologized, Jawarski style, for the comment he’d made while we were in his office, and I was no longer hurt by it, but I couldn’t forget it. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t only interested in him for his connections, and the best way I knew to do that was to avoid talking about the murder.

  I went straight back to work. Karen had been pulling so much of the weight around Divinity lately, I gave her the afternoon off and spent the rest of the day catching up on all of the things I should have been doing in the shop.

  By the time we locked the doors, Liberty and I had polished most of the glass, mopped the black-and-white checked floors, and given the wrought-iron chairs and tables a thorough cleaning. We’d restocked the shelves Karen hadn’t been able to get to, and even spent a few minutes brainstorming next month’s window display.

  At seven, I raced upstairs, changed into a new pair of black pants and a suede tunic in a shade the online catalog had called “bark.” Satisfied that the color really didn’t wash out my skin tone or make me look ready to pass out, I slipped on a pair of low heels (I am so not a stiletto gal) and gave my appearance a final once-over.

  Jawarski and I had agreed to meet at the party, so I opened a jar of peanut butter so Max would have something to do besides chew my shoes and take inventory of the bathroom garbage. Once I was satisfied that Max was content, I headed out.

  Parking near the Silver River Inn is impossible under normal circumstances. When Richie and Dylan entertain, it’s a nightmare. I circled the inn forever before I finally found a spot wide enough to wedge the Jetta into. Slipping my keys into my pocket, I resisted the urge to rush up the stairs. Making a good entrance into a room isn’t my strong point, but I do try not to barge in red-faced and out of breath.

  Richie spotted me the instant I came inside and swept down on me like a hawk. “Don’t you look fabulous? Where did you find that gorgeous blouse?”

  I started to tell him, and he put a finger to my lips and stared at me, horrified. “Darling, never tell where you got your clothes. Never, ever, ever. Be flattered that someone asks, but don’t give away your secrets.”

  “It’s not much of a secret,” I told him.

  He waved me off with a flick of his wrist and a purse of his lips. “And that’s part of your problem, if you don’t mind me saying.” He weaved a little on his feet, and I caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath, which is how I knew we were in for a long night filled with lots of gossip. Richie loves hanging over the back fence any time, but especially after he’s had a drink or two.

  I linked my arm through his and strolled into the room with him in tow. Since my last visit, the place had been transformed. Hundreds of tiny white lights twinkled from the rock around the fireplace, the support pillars that held up the loft overhead, and every other surface that could possibly be lit. The cornucopia centerpieces spilled their bounty onto tables set with sparkling crystal and gleaming silver. The china looked old and exquisite, each piece rimmed by a single gold band that blended perfectly with the centerpieces.

  Guests milled about, most holding a glass and taking care not to bump into the tables. “This is beautiful,” I told Richie. “Did you do this?”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Dylan did most of it. Isn’t he incredible?”

  “That’s almost an understatement,” I agreed. “Have you seen Jawarski yet? I’m supposed to meet him here.”

  “Not yet.” Richie waved to someone across the room and nudged me farther into the room. “Rachel’s here somewhere, though, and Ginger—the owner of the antique shop I was telling you about—?” He paused and waited for me to indicate that I remembered. “She’s right over there. See the tall blond guy by the window?”

  I spotted Ginger talking to a tall man with wheat-blond hair and a superior smile. A few feet away, Marshall stood by himself, watching Richie and me. His gaze made me uncomfortable, and the memory of that stupid kiss came rushing back. I shoved it away and focused on Ginger’s companion. “You invited Quentin Ingersol?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “We’ve met.”

  Richie pulled his gaze away from whatever he’d been watching and settled it on me. “Is there a problem there I should know about?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. I went to his office to ask him some questions. Let’s just say he was pretty creative with his answers.”

  “Quentin? That surprises me. Dylan really likes him. Me?” Richie held out a hand and wiggled it from side to side. “Not so much. So what were you asking him about?”

  At the risk of getting creative with my own answers, I decided that telling Richie the truth in his current condition would be only slightly less public than putting my response on a billboard. “I don’t even remember. It wasn’t important.”

  Richie seemed to accept that, but about ten seconds later he whipped around, mouth open, and wagged a hand at me. “I know what it was. You were talking to him about the murder, weren’t you?”

  A movement in the hallway behind me caught my eye, and I saw Jawarski coming toward me. Richie
had announced his guess so loudly, several people standing nearby turned to look at us. I motioned for Richie to be quiet and lowered my own voice as far as I could and still be heard. “I really don’t want to talk about that tonight, okay?”

  “But it was, wasn’t it?”

  I tugged Richie toward the kitchen and whispered urgently, “Listen, Richie, this is important. I really don’t want to talk about the murder while Jawarski is here. So will you drop it, please?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Well, of course, Abs. Anything for you.” Before I could seal the deal, his face brightened, and he surged forward, arms wide. “Here he is now, the man of the hour. We were just talking about you, Jawarski. Was your nose itching?”

  Jawarski tossed a smile in his direction and leaned in to kiss my cheek. I lifted my face and took a breath of the air around him, mentally listing each part of his unique scent before I realized what I was doing. Like it or not, he was becoming important to me.

  “How was your day?” he asked as he drew away.

  It was an innocent question, but in light of my conversations with Corelle, Marion, and Dwayne, I felt heat creeping into my face. This would be the ideal time to tell him what I’d learned if I hadn’t vowed to avoid the subject.

  I smiled and walked slowly toward the makeshift bar Richie and Dylan had set up near the cash register. Dylan stood behind the counter, entertaining a couple of guests. “My day was fine,” I said. “How was yours?”

  “Fine. Busy.” He stiffened noticeably, and I realized he’d spotted Marshall. He put his hand on the small of my back, one of those protective gestures I like—unless the guy’s being possessive. I didn’t know how to interpret Jawarski’s move.

  He guided me around a couple who’d stopped walking abruptly. “The boys have gone all out tonight, haven’t they?”

  I glanced around again and noticed with relief that Marshall had joined a conversation with a couple of other guests. “And they said it was just a casual dinner party.”

  “Maybe this is casual for Richie.”

  We reached the bar. Jawarski asked for a Heineken, Dylan poured me a Chardonnay, and we wandered back through the crowded room making small talk until the crowd and the alcohol made us both long for fresh air. Since neither Richie nor Dylan had made any noises about dinner, Jawarski and I wandered out onto the front porch and stood in the chilly evening breeze looking out at the city.

  “Do you ever regret moving here?” I asked after a few minutes.

  Jawarski shook his head. “Nope. It’s a good place. It seems to fit me.”

  “You don’t regret living so far away from your kids?”

  He slanted a look at me. “I miss ’em. No doubt about that. But I think they do better when their mom and I aren’t in the same place.”

  “You wouldn’t have to live in the same town. Even if you lived across the state, you’d be closer than you are now.”

  Jawarski turned so he could look at me better. “What’s going on, Shaw? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  I grinned and shook my head. “No, of course not. I’m starting to like having you around.” I let my gaze travel down to the street, where a truck rattled past. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just trying to make sure you’re not going anywhere before I let myself get too close.”

  We fell silent for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the town around us and the party through the open doors. A flash of headlights swept the street, and another truck appeared on the road. It rolled past the inn slowly, its bed filled with a tarp-covered load. I started to look away, but something about it made me hesitate.

  Jawarski followed my gaze. “Something wrong?”

  The truck turned slowly off the street and pulled into the parking strip next to the antique shop. I watched to see if it was going to back out again, but the taillights blinked out, and the truck’s door opened. “A delivery? This late?”

  Jawarski’s posture stiffened. “Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?”

  Before I could answer, Ginger Ames came into view two floors below at street level. She must have seen the truck coming and let herself out a service door in the basement. “Must not be anything to worry about,” I said to Jawarski. “She’s the shop’s owner.”

  He let out a heavy breath, and his shoulders relaxed again. “Good. I’m not in the mood to work tonight.”

  I heard Richie call everyone to dinner and turned away just as the truck’s driver hopped from the cab. This time I knew exactly what made me stop. “That’s Dwayne Escott,” I said, and all the suspicions I’d entertained while I was in his garage turned into reality. I wondered if Ginger knew what he was doing and hoped like hell she didn’t.

  “Who’s Dwayne Escott?”

  Still determined not to talk about the murder, I said only, “I’ve known him since we were kids. His grandmother and my mother knew each other. I haven’t seen him in years, but he’s back in town and living with his grandmother about two miles out of town on Motherlode.”

  I wondered if Jawarski would make the connection with Hammond Junction, but he didn’t say anything, so neither did I. “According to Marion, he’s refurbishing secondhand furniture and selling it to bring in a few extra dollars, but I was out there this afternoon, and I think he’s creating phony antiques. I think his grandmother is so used to protecting him, she can’t even see what he’s up to.”

  I didn’t want Dwayne to see me, so I moved a couple of steps to the right, behind a cluster of scrub oak. When a second door slammed and Kerry Hendrix came around the back of the truck, I was very glad I’d followed my instincts.

  Jawarski looked away from Dwayne, Kerry, and Ginger long enough to glance at me. “You were out there this afternoon?”

  “I promised to take Marion some caramels.”

  “And you took advantage of the opportunity to check out Dwayne’s operation?”

  “I talked to him for a few minutes.”

  “Because you thought he was creating fake antiques, or because you thought he had a connection to Lou Hobbs’s murder?”

  I hesitated, torn between my vow not to discuss the murder tonight and the urge to tell Jawarski what I knew. I liked to think I was a woman of my word, but I’d made that promise to myself before Dwayne Escott came rolling down the street, bold as brass, with a truck full of phony goods.

  “Because I knew he had a connection to Lou Hobbs,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t know if he’s connected to the murder.”

  Jawarski wagged his head from side to side. “Apparently, feeding you information isn’t a real deterrent to this compulsion of yours.” He watched as Dwayne began unhooking the clamps keeping the tarp in place. “All right. What’s his connection to Hobbs, and when were you planning to tell me about it?”

  “I was going to tell you in the morning—and the only reason I planned to wait that long is that I didn’t want you thinking that I only like you for your murders.”

  Jawarski took a second to digest that before asking, “And his connection to Hobbs?”

  “He was with Hobbs when Hobbs rented the room from Corelle Davies. According to Corelle, Dwayne guaranteed that Hobbs’s rent would be paid.”

  “She told you all of this?”

  “Only after she found out that I’m related to Aunt Grace.” Across the street, Dwayne pulled the tarp off the load in his truck. We weren’t close enough to see the furniture in detail, but I could tell that he’d stuck a couple of small pieces in with one large highboy dresser.

  “And I suppose you asked Dwayne about the rent arrangement while you were touring his workshop.”

  “Yes, but he denied it. And he didn’t take me on a tour. In fact, he did everything he could to keep me from seeing what he was doing.” Dwayne lowered the truck’s tailgate, and I frowned. “Do you think Ginger knows what Dwayne’s up to?”

  “She’s meeting him after hours to accept a shipment of furniture,” Jawarski pointed out. “I’d say it’s a safe bet to say that she does.”

&
nbsp; “So are you going to do anything?”

  “About what? Right now, neither of them is doing anything illegal. As a matter of fact, you don’t know that Dwayne is actually faking antiques, so what I have right now is a great big pile of nothing.” He held up a hand to stem the protest he must have sensed coming. “And yes, I’ll check into it. If they’re scamming the public, we’ll take care of it.”

  “But—”

  “If the antiques are fake, and she tries to pass them off on the public, we’ll get her,” he said again. “Now come on, let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

  His reassurances should have made me relax, but they didn’t. Trying to figure out who killed Lou Hobbs was starting to feel like a game of Six Degrees. I was becoming convinced that everything going on in Paradise was connected; I just didn’t know how. But somewhere out there was a piece of the puzzle that would link Lou Hobbs, Ginger Ames, Quentin Ingersol, Kerry Hendrix, and Dwayne Escott together.

  All I had to do was find it.

  Chapter 33

  “The two of you certainly seem to be getting along well,” Richie said a couple of hours later. As if I couldn’t figure out what he meant, he grinned suggestively and nudged me with his shoulder.

  I was standing over a sink of hot, soapy water, up to my elbows in bubbles, but the heat that crept into my face had nothing to do with the crystal I was washing. In the other room, Jawarski was helping Dylan clean away the dinner mess and get the dining area ready for the breakfast crowd. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t going to come in and catch us gossiping like a couple of teenagers before I nodded. “Yeah, I think we are.”

  “Well, I, for one, couldn’t be happier.” Richie carried a tray filled with dirty glasses across the kitchen and slid it onto the counter beside me. “It’s about time we saw you smile.”

  I gaped at him. “I smile.”

  “Not like this, you don’t. And don’t go getting all embarrassed and everything,” he warned. “You’ve been such a loner since you came back to Paradise. It’s about time you came out to play with the rest of us.”