“What was Rick talking about?” Paula asked. “What chocolate business?”
I reached into the pantry, took out a bag of chips, felt their weight in my hands, tilted one end of the bag up then down and felt the flow of the morsels inside. A comforting feeling. “Nothing. Rick claims to have a source of quality chocolate at a deep discount. Last night, for just the tiniest fraction of an instant, I thought about it.”
Paula gave a distinctly unladylike harrumph. “Had you been drinking wine at Fred’s?”
“Well, yes, a little.” Her suggestion made me feel better. Being drunk was preferable to being stupid.
After lunch rush was over, Paula and I were cleaning up when my phone played the first notes of Out of a Blue Clear Sky. Trent’s ringtone. A burst of sunshine amidst the dirty dishes.
I set my tray on the counter beside the sink and answered.
“I detained Rick as long as I could,” Trent said. “He wasn’t happy when he left here.”
“That’s good. When Rick’s happy, somebody else is unhappy. Did you get any information out of him?”
“His version of his encounter with Jeff Gabler differs a little from yours. He claims that he left after threatening Jeff with bodily harm should anything happen to you. Said that’s why he was reluctant to come in, because he had threatened a man who was murdered.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t agree to a lie detector test.”
“I don’t think it’s going to come to that. He has an alibi and no motive.”
“Bummer. I’d like to see him trying to con a lie detector.”
“Kathleen seems to like him. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
I moved a couple of plates into the sink. “I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing. If the two of them pool their talents, we’re all in danger.”
Trent was silent for a long moment. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. “Kathleen’s not perfect, but I can’t imagine she’d get involved in any of Rick’s shady deals.”
I could feel the flames shooting from the top of my head again. “Did you just say my ex is worse than your ex?”
“No, of course not! Kathleen has her faults—”
“Yeah, like being a pathological liar and greedy and trying to make me jealous by telling me she’s sleeping in your bed.” That last part had worked, but I wasn’t going to let him know. “And she killed her husband for the insurance.”
Another moment of silence. “I’m not even going to ask how you know about the insurance.”
Oops. “It’s what always happens on television.” That wasn’t a lie. I didn’t say I saw it on television. “Thank you for verifying it. Does that mean you do have her on your suspect list?” I knew he wouldn’t tell me, but I needed a diversion from the insurance thing.
It worked. Trent sighed. “I couldn’t tell you if she was.”
“If she’s not a suspect, I guess she’ll be going back to St. Louis soon. Get ready for the funeral and all that.” I was torn between wanting her to have to stay in town because she was a suspect and wanting her to get out of town and away from Trent. I’d even volunteer to drive her all the way to St. Louis. Perfect chance to see if my driving really could give a passenger a heart attack. Lots of speculation but no proof.
“That’s another reason I called,” Trent said. “Jeff’s memorial service will be in Pleasant Grove this Sunday. I thought you might want to come.”
“Oh! Yes, I would like to. Kathleen’s having the service here? What about their friends in St. Louis?” What about getting her skinny butt back to St. Louis and out of this town?
“It wasn’t her decision. The attorney who’s handling Jeff’s estate called. Jeff left instructions that his memorial service was to be held here. Kathleen, Gary, and I are to work together to set it up.”
“Oh,” I repeated. “That’s…” I wasn’t sure what it was. Sentimental? Sad? Strange?
“I guess he wanted the four of us to be together one last time.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll let you know the details when Kathy and I get them worked out.”
When Kathy and I get them worked out?
How cozy did that sound? He’d even returned to calling her by her old name.
“I’m sure Kathy will be thrilled about that.”
“Gotta go. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He’d already hung up.
I clenched my fists and leaned on the counter. Was I overreacting? I’d never been the jealous type, even when I discovered Rick was cheating on me. I hated him and I hated his women, but this emotion wasn’t the same. This was painful and a little scary.
“What’s Kathy going to be thrilled about?” Paula turned on the faucet and began rinsing dishes in the sink.
Using a great force of will, I unclenched my fists. “Seems Ransom left instructions for a big reunion at his funeral. Trent, Kathleen, and Gary. All the old gang, right here in Pleasant Grove. Working together. Trent’s going to help Kathy with the details.”
Paula opened the dishwasher and positioned a plate inside then reached for another. “That’s interesting.”
“Interesting? I think it’s creepy.” I clenched my fists again and slammed one on the counter. “He stole his best friend’s wife. Now he wants the two of them to work together on his funeral? Is he trying to assuage his guilt by getting them back together? I thought Ransom was my friend!”
She paused with a wet plate in her hand. “Lindsay, you need to take a deep breath, drink a Coke, and eat some chocolate. I’m sure Ransom set up that request a long time before he met you, and, yes, he probably was feeling guilty when he did it. But you said their other friend, Gary, is included. So it’ll be the three of them, not just Trent and, uh, Kathy.”
“I hate it when you’re logical. I liked it better when you called Kathleen a skank.”
“She’s still a skank.”
“Thank you.”
We had just finished cleaning when my cell phone rang.
Fred.
“I was going to call you,” I said. “I have new information.”
“Tell me.”
I told him about the memorial service to be hosted by Trent and Kathy.
“That might explain why Corey Paggett checked into the Pleasant Grove Manor this morning,” he said. “He’s an associate with Hoskins, Morris and Gabler. Jeff Gabler was his mentor.”
“Ransom’s friends are gathering to say good-bye.” Suddenly the whole memorial thing became real. It wasn’t about Trent and Kathleen spending time together. It was an occasion to bid farewell to someone who would be missed, someone I wished I’d had the opportunity to know better, someone who’d been murdered. If Kathleen killed her husband, she should be punished for ending his life, not just as a convenience for me to get her out of Trent’s life, though that would be a pleasant side effect. “We need to talk to Corey Paggett. If he was close to Ransom, he may be able to tell us something about that key or maybe even that Ransom told him, If anything happens to me, Kathleen did it.”
“I scheduled an appointment for seven o’clock this evening.”
“Great! Black suit? Lawyer garb?”
“Remember the red, purple, green, orange, and teal skirt you wore when you dressed as a hippie for a Halloween party?”
“Yes, I remember, but how do you know about it? I hadn’t met you then. Have you got some kind of device that lets you see into the past?”
“You told me about the skirt a few months ago when we were preparing to visit Seventh Gate. At that time I deemed it inappropriate for the occasion. Tonight, it will be appropriate. Be at my house at six fifteen.”
Having conveyed all the information he felt necessary, Fred hung up.
That gave me time to go home, feed Henry, eat dinner, change clothes, make fresh cookies for Fred, and worry that Rick was going to show up before I got away. I hadn’t
had a chance to call him as I’d promised. Things had been busy at the restaurant, and I couldn’t be expected to talk on a cell phone while I drove home. Trent was always telling me how dangerous that was, especially when I was talking to him while driving.
So Rick called me a few times…six or seven or ten or twelve. I quit counting after the second one.
Henry was off somewhere patrolling his territory when I walked through the gathering dusk to Fred’s house. The evening shadows were cooler than the daytime sunlight, but I was comfortable in my hippie skirt, matching scarf, and peasant blouse. The outfit made me feel rebellious. I was intentionally a minute late. The time was sixteen minutes after six when I reached his porch.
He was ready. His 1968 white Mercedes waited in the driveway. It usually lives in his garage that stands upright at a ninety degree angle in contrast to mine which lists a little toward the southeast most of the time. When there’s a strong north wind, it sometimes stands as straight as Fred’s.
Fred greeted me at the door. He wore dark blue slacks with a gray blazer, a white shirt, and an ascot.
“An ascot? Seriously? I’m a hippie and you’re going to the races?”
“You’re late.”
I handed him the cookies.
“Thank you. You’re not very late.” He took the cookies inside.
I strolled over to his car. He caught up to me and opened the door before I had a chance to touch the handle. Was he being polite or fearful I’d get fingerprints on his car?
Probably both.
We drove to the hotel in plush comfort, always going precisely the speed limit. Fred was capable of driving faster. The car was capable of going faster. Fred refused to go faster unless we were being chased by a crazy man in a monster truck.
“What’s my name tonight?” I asked as he took a corner on all four wheels.
“Elizabeth Shelby.”
Better than Abigail Sommers. Yes, he actually introduced me by that name during one of our field trips. “What’s your name?”
“Walter Keats.”
“Let me guess. We’re poets.”
“Close. I’m a teacher. You’re my graduate assistant.”
“Aren’t I a little old to be a student, even a graduate assistant?”
He turned into the parking lot for the Pleasant Grove Manor. “You can be a non-traditional student, coming back to school after deciding on a career change, or you can be a professional student who has six hundred credit hours but doesn’t want to graduate and be forced to go to work.”
“Option one sounds better. I was formerly a stripper but now I’m going to be an English teacher.”
Fred steered the car into the precise middle between the two lines of a parking spot. “No, you weren’t a stripper.”
“Okay, I was a prostitute. What’s our story?”
“We don’t have to discuss your former profession. We’re doing an article about Jeff for our newsletter. We want our readers to see him through the eyes of the man he mentored.”
We walked across the dimly lit lot to the ornate front door of the hotel.
The six-story Victorian style building was built in 1904 when the area was booming from the railroad that continued on to Kansas City. Now Pleasant Grove is a suburb of Kansas City and the main attraction…besides my chocolate…is the historical authenticity.
People in business or evening clothes moved about the high-ceilinged lobby, talking, smiling, frowning. Yesterday the lobby had probably been filled with policemen and yellow crime scene tape. Today it was business as usual.
The faint sound of piano music drifted from a bar on one side of the room. An arrangement of chairs and small tables filled the rest of that area. Fred pointed to a man sitting alone at one of those tables, a half-empty martini glass in front of him.
We started toward him, working our way through the maze of chairs, tables, and people. He rose and flashed unnaturally white teeth in the midst of his short beard. His dark hair was stylishly moussed and spiked. He wore a skin tight knit shirt tucked into skin tight jeans. He had nice muscles and a flat stomach, but somehow the way he stood as if posing for a picture made the package unattractive.
“Corey Paggett?” Fred asked.
“Yes, I’m Corey. You must be Doctor Keats.”
He and Fred shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, Corey. Yes, I’m Walter Keats, Jeffrey’s former professor and the creator of the Society of Poets and Pirates. Please call me Walter. There’s no need to be formal when we shared a close friend.” He released Corey’s hand and gestured toward me. “This is Elizabeth Shelby, my graduate assistant.”
Corey offered his hand to me. His smile became even wider, and his gaze raked over my fully clothed body as if it weren’t. “You were friends with Jeff too?”
I nodded. “Yes. I was.”
Corey’s grip was strong. Usually I like that in a man, but somehow his cool, dry hand felt slimy.
I withdrew my hand and wiped it on my skirt.
“Please have a seat.” Corey indicated the other chairs at the table. “Would you like a drink?” He waved toward a waitress crossing the room. “Honey, would you bring my friends a drink?”
Honey stopped and looked at us.
“Coke,” I said.
“A glass of Pinot Grigio. The house brand will be fine.” Fred’s as picky about wine as he is about coffee. The house wine was likely only a prop to go with the ascot. I felt certain he had no intention of drinking it.
We sat.
Corey handed Fred a business card.
Fred handed Corey a business card.
Corey studied the card. “So you’re an attorney as well as a college professor?”
Fred crossed his legs and looked nonchalant. There’s nothing nonchalant about Fred. “That’s the pirate part of the society. I’m licensed to practice in a few states, but I leave the hard work to you dedicated guys. Really sorry to hear about Jeffrey’s death. I hope that won’t have a bad effect on your career at the firm.”
Corey shook his head. “The mentor thing was just a formality. I graduated in the top ten percent of my class. I’m in.”
I wanted to ask if that class had been online from a third world country, but we were there to get information from the guy, not insult him. Maybe after we got the information I could do that.
The waitress brought my Coke and Fred’s wine.
“Put it on my tab.” Corey waved a hand and gave the waitress her share of his ultra-bright smile.
If I’d known that, I’d have ordered Dom Perignon.
“Jeffrey was an excellent poet.” Fred lifted his glass and took a very small sip. “Did you read his work?”
Corey shook his head. “First I ever heard of him being a poet was when you called. His petitions and pleadings were pretty prosaic.” He laughed at his own comment.
Fred laughed softly and insincerely. I took a drink of Coke. It was watery and flat, like Corey’s attempt at humor.
Fred took a small pad and pen from inside his jacket. “May I quote you on that?”
Corey picked up his drink and draped an arm across the back of his chair. “You bet. What can I tell you about working with Jeff?”
Fred asked a couple of benign questions, and Corey answered with stories that always featured his own expertise. My mind drifted to more interesting things…whether the bulb in my bedside lamp was due to burn out soon, if the moon was waxing or waning, if Henry had enough catnip to get him through the week.
Fred leaned back.
I snapped to attention.
“Jeffrey had such a tough time with the drinking. You’ve only been with the firm a little over a year so you probably missed most of that.”
“I interned there a couple of summers, but I didn’t know about his problem until recently. He hid it well.”
Fred nodded. “He was a strong man. He held it together even through the worst times. You know, a lot of creative people struggle with addictions. Look at Edgar Allan Poe, Tennessee William
s, Dylan Thomas, F. Scott Fitzgerald…” He paused and sighed. “It’s as if we have to pay for the gift of talent. Elizabeth had her own struggle with alcoholism.”
I don’t know if Fred thinks he’s training my ability to react quickly with startling revelations during our interviews or if he just makes this stuff up on the fly. I suspect the latter. I nodded gravely. At least, that was the expression I was trying for. Who knows if I looked grave or strange? “Just plain Coke now.” I lifted my glass.
Corey gave me a cursory glance. He was more interested in telling his story than in my beverage choices. “Jeff couldn’t have maintained much longer. People were starting to talk.”
Fred arched a skeptical eyebrow. “They were? He got sober around a year ago.”
Corey snorted, tossed down the rest of his drink, and held his empty glass aloft. “Honey, can you bring me another one?” He set the glass on the table. “That was his story, but he never quit.”
Ransom had told me he hadn’t had a drink in over a year. I’d just met the man. He had no reason to lie to me.
But neither did Corey.
“Why do you think that?” I asked. “Did you see him drunk?”
Another snort. “I didn’t have to. Other people did.”
I waited for him to provide details.
“Other attorneys at the firm?” Fred wasn’t good at waiting.
Corey regarded Fred silently for a moment.
The waitress arrived, set a fresh drink on the table, and took his empty glass.
He sipped the new drink, set it carefully on the table, looked at me, then looked at Fred.
“When he was drunk, he liked to beat his wife.”
I sucked in a quick breath. He had just corroborated Kathleen’s story.
“Elizabeth, would you like another soda?” Fred’s voice was untroubled.
“No. Thank you.” I could have used a real Coke, one with fizz and flavor, but I didn’t want any more of the hotel stuff.
“Did you see it happen?” Fred asked.
“I didn’t have to. I saw the evidence. I saw the bruises. It wasn’t the first time. Your sensitive poet was an abusive drunk.”
I stared at Corey, at the tight shirt and spiked hair.
He saw the evidence? He saw Kathleen’s bruises?
Deadly Chocolate Addiction (Death by Chocolate Book 6) Page 6
