He frowns. “Yes, Harold and I go way back, but he’s been acting so strangely lately, I’m almost not surprised by what happened.”
My ears perk up. “Oh? Why is that?”
“I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s just been…different the past month or so. I always knew he was kind of a womanizer and a drunk, but he didn’t never let it affect his job.” Didn’t never? “Last night, though, he was in rare form. He was glad-handing with everyone in the room, then talking about them behind their backs. Drunk off his a-s-s. Not very mayorly, if you ask me.”
“Do you know if anyone had a reason to kill him?” I ask.
“No one person any more than another. But…” He stops, seeming to be lost in thought.
“What?”
“He said something to me a while back about finding out he had a child. An adult child. He barely remembered having a relationship with the mother, and he wasn’t at all interested in a relationship with the child. He said he kept getting calls and letters, but he ignored them. The old codger was set in his ways, and he didn’t have no family to speak of, and evidently didn’t want no more.” His double negatives are making my right eye twitch. He shakes his head. “He was destined to die a lonely old man.”
That’s certainly interesting. And if the mayor was receiving (and ignoring) letters from this child, that could explain the partial angry letter I found in the fireplace.
“Do you know who this child is?” I ask.
“No. He never even said whether the child is a son or a daughter. It’s like he didn’t care.”
“That’s very sad.” Several feet away from us, I spy Bret, who is holding a tray of champagne flutes. “How about a drink?”
Now that I think Bret could be the killer, or at least the planter of the murder weapon, I’m a little nervous to talk to him. Gathering my courage, I catch his eye and wave him over, grabbing a drink for Mason and myself. “Hi, Bret. Another great party.”
“Thank you. Have a nice time, ma’am.” He doesn’t stay to chat, weaving quickly into the crowd. Damn. I need to talk to him again, but I need to give Mason the slip first.
Mason holds up his glass. “To Harold.”
“To Harold,” I echo, clinking my glass against his.
He cranes his neck, looking around the room. “The wife is around here somewhere. I lost her shortly after we come in.” Came in! “I’m sure she’d like to say hello.”
I’m surprised Mason hasn’t figured out by now that his wife, Bitsy, always ditches him at parties. In fact, it’s quite a joke around the office. Every time we have a party, we put bets down on how long it will take for Bitsy to get drunk and who she’ll try to hit on first. Everyone in town knows, except Mason, that she has been cheating on him for years.
Quickly gulping my champagne, I reply, “Yes, I’d like to say hi as well. But right now, I need to find the little girls’ room.”
I hurry away from Mason and lose myself in the crowd. I spot Blake and Aubrey over in a corner, speaking intently to one another, and just as I’m about to go over there and break it up, I literally run into Bret. Luckily, his tray is empty this time.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“It’s okay. And you don’t have to call me ma’am. My name’s Lizzie.”
He smiles. “Okay, Lizzie.”
“Hey, do you know the name of the server who got hurt last night and had to leave early?”
He chuckles. “Yeah. That was Jason Dean. Only I think he might have been faking.”
“That seems to be the consensus. Do you know why?”
Shuddering a bit, he replies, “Word was he hooked up with some horny cougar and decided to go home with her.”
My stomach rolls. “He…hooked up with someone at my party? Like, in the house?”
“On a desk, I think.”
I slap my forehead in disgust. Blake is going to have to throw that desk away and bleach his entire study. “Is Jason working tonight? I need to have a word with him.”
He looks around. “He’s here, but I think he’s with that woman again. I saw them headed down the hallway toward the circulation desk a few minutes ago.”
“Thanks, Bret.”
I hurry out the door and down the hall, intent on first ripping this Jason guy a new asshole for fornicating on Blake’s desk and then finding out whether he had anything to do with the mayor’s murder. There’s no one in the main part of the library and most of the lights are off, which would make it a great place for a quickie. I go past row after row of bookshelves, but find no one. I reach the back of the library, and the only place left to search is the Daughters of the American Revolution research room. I fling the door open and get the immediate urge to vomit. I clap my hand over my eyes, but it’s too late. I can still see the image of a guy my age with his pants down, bending Bitsy Mason over a copy machine. Holy shit. My grandmother and her little old DAR lady friends are probably rolling over in their graves right now.
My hand still firmly covering my eyes, I cry, “What the hell do you two think you’re doing in here?”
I hear Bitsy laugh. She slurs, “I think it’s pretty obvious what we’re doing. Want to join us, Lizzie?”
“Eww! No! Now get your clothes on. I need to ask you both some questions about last night.”
I hear both of them grumbling, but I also hear the sound of belt buckles rattling and clothing being shaken out, so I feel a little better.
“We’re dressed. You can look now,” the guy says.
I peek through my fingers, just in case, before I take my hand completely off my eyes. Whew. At least that’s over. “Are you Jason Dean?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“I heard you were screwing someone on the desk in my fiancé’s study during my engagement party last night.”
Jason and Bitsy share a coy glance. He shrugs. “When the mood hits you, you gotta scratch that itch.”
I look disdainfully at Bitsy. “Nice choice, Bitsy. This guy’s a real catch.”
My sarcasm goes over her head. Leaning against him, she replies, “I think so.”
“I need to know when you went in the study and what was on the desk before you started to…you know.”
Jason thinks for a minute. “I think we left the party around eight, so it was before that.”
Bitsy giggles. “Yes, we couldn’t get enough of each other, so I convinced him I’d make it worth his while to make up an excuse to leave work early.”
I think for a moment, trying not to concentrate on Bitsy’s last icky comment. They left the party right around the time Blake and I found the mayor, and right around the time Aubrey said she was going into the study.
“Did you see a woman going into the study as you were leaving?” I ask.
Jason nods. “Some hot chick.” Aubrey. Bitsy frowns at his comment, but he doesn’t seem to care. He adds, “And for the record, we did it on the chair, not the desk.”
Yuck. “Did either of you see anything unusual or out of place on the desk?”
Bitsy says, “There was a rolled-up napkin, like you had on the buffet. I thought it was odd to see it there since that room was closed off to guests.” She winks at Jason. “Well, most guests.”
“And the napkin was there when you two went in the room?” I ask.
“Yes, I went in first, and it was already there. We came in separately and left separately in hopes no one would realize we were in there together,” Bitsy replies.
Bitsy might be a cheater, but she’s no liar. I sigh. “Okay. Good enough for me.” I turn to leave, but stop to add, “You owe Blake a new chair, by the way.”
Completely exhausted in every way, I drag myself back to the conference room. The party is still going full force, but I can’t think of anything besides getting the hell out of here and going straight to bed. Even after everything that’s happened, I still have to work tomorrow.
I find Blake and Aubrey talking with Mr. Mason. Ooh. He’s the last person I want to stand around and c
hat with right now after walking in on another guy humping his wife. I wave Blake and Aubrey over and lead the way outside.
“You disappeared on me. Where have you been?” Blake demands.
I glare at him. “Trying to find a wire brush for my eyes. I needed something to scrub away the image of Jason Dean nailing Bitsy Mason against a copy machine.”
“Who’s Jason Dean?”
My mouth drops open. “That’s your takeaway from what I just said?”
He rubs his eyes tiredly. “Just tell me.”
“Before I forget, you need to throw away your desk chair at home. They did it there, too.” While Blake and Aubrey are busy being grossed out, I explain, “Jason Dean is the server Mia said went home early last night because of a supposed injury. The real reason is that he and Bitsy wanted to be alone. Bitsy said she saw a white napkin on top of your desk before Jason came in the room, so he didn’t plant it there. He’s the one Aubrey saw coming out of the study. He saw her going in.”
Aubrey’s face is white. “I sat in that chair!”
I bite my lip hard and duck my head to keep from bursting out laughing. Gotta love karma.
Blake ignores us both, saying, “We spoke to Bret Howell but didn’t get anything out of him. He refused to talk about his police record or the fact that he left the house after his altercation with the mayor. In fact, he got angry and defensive when I brought it up.”
“He’s still our best suspect, other than the mayor’s love child.”
“What? Love child?” he cries. “When were you going to get around to telling me the mayor had a love child?”
Poor Blake. I can see how exhausted he is. I take his hand. “I’ll fill you in on the way home.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I repeat to Blake what Mason told me about the child Mayor Taggart wanted nothing to do with. Aubrey sits in the back seat pouting while we discuss the burned letter and whether it’s significant in the murder case.
As we’re pulling into Blake’s driveway, he says, “Unless we can find out the identity of the mayor’s child and place that person at our party, we’re stuck with Howell as our only lead.” Frowning, he turns the car off. “Although the more I think about it, he’s a pretty viable suspect. Didn’t Amber mention that the mayor did something unspeakable to Howell’s mother at some point, and because of that he developed a vendetta?”
“Yes, I remember.” I think for a moment and gasp, “Wait a minute! For some reason, I had assumed the incident happened fairly recently, but what if this ‘unspeakable’ thing he did was decades ago? Like nine months before Bret was born?”
Blake’s eyes widen. “Are you thinking the mayor may have raped Howell’s mother?”
“Rape could definitely be considered an unspeakable offense that would prompt retaliation by someone other than the victim. And it could explain why the mayor would want nothing to do with the child resulting from his crime.”
He grins at me and leans over, giving me a big kiss. “Future Mrs. Morgan, you gorgeous genius, you may have just cracked this case wide open!”
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. Morgan.”
I hear Aubrey grunt and hop out of the back seat, slamming the door and stalking toward the house. What a drama queen. I don’t care, though. Blake and I are back in action, and I’m so thrilled, I practically float into the house.
When we get inside, however, and find Luke and Aubrey awkwardly standing together in the foyer, I crash back to reality. The two of them are leaving early in the morning to head back to Chicago, but Luke and Blake still need to patch things up.
I take Blake’s hands. “I’m going upstairs so you and your brother can have some time to talk.” I reach up and give him a kiss on the cheek and whisper, “Good luck.”
I’m still not happy about all the trouble Luke caused by bringing Aubrey here with him, so I say simply, “Luke, thanks for coming down for the party. I’ll see you soon.”
I give Aubrey my fakest smile. “And Aubrey, I’d love to say it’s been a pleasure meeting you, but in fact it’s been quite the opposite. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”
As she’s angrily sputtering, I hightail it upstairs, reveling in having the last word.
***
I’d already been asleep for a while when Blake slips into bed next to me. Groggily, I ask, “How’d it go?”
Even though my eyes are closed, I can hear the smile in his voice. “Better than I expected. Aubrey really put one over on my brother. She’d told him she and I had worked things out and were friends now, and had even managed to convince him I would be happy that they were together. He didn’t bring her here to hurt me.”
I reach out and pull him toward me. “She’s one crazy bitch. Tell me she’s gone for good.”
“She’s gone for good.”
Finally content, I snuggle in next to him and drift quickly back to sleep.
***
I am a total zombie. I’ve been at work for two hours, and I don’t think I’ve proofread a single article all the way through. I keep nodding off. I’ve had three cups of coffee, and they’re not even beginning to cut my overwhelming sleepiness. Not only that, but I have a huge vase on my desk with two dozen perfect red roses to admire (a Valentine’s gift from Blake), and I can’t even stay awake enough to do that.
Blake comes over and sits on the edge of my desk. “Do you think we have enough evidence on Bret Howell to take to the police, or do you think we need confirmation that he’s the mayor’s bastard son?”
“Hmm. As much as I want this to be over with, I really think we need more information about him to make them sit up and listen. Speaking of the cops, whatever happened with your friend John?”
Blake grimaces. “I shot him a text earlier, but I haven’t heard from him yet this morning. I heard they held him all day and didn’t let him go until late last night.”
“That’s not good, but at least he’s out now. Let me think about the Bret angle for a while. Mason didn’t know the identity of the mayor’s kid, and we can’t exactly use the letter I found as proof of anything, because there’s no way we can tell who wrote it.”
“Plus you obtained it illegally.”
“And that.”
Once Blake goes back to his desk, I buckle down and speed check six articles in a row and get them sent off for print. I’ve wasted enough time zoning today, and I need to get some work done if for no other reason than to blow it off later to deal with the Bret situation. As I’m starting article number seven, a thought strikes me. I hop up from my seat and hurry over to Blake’s desk.
“How do you find a prostitute?”
He looks up at me dubiously. “Why do you need a prostitute? Are you dissatisfied with my performance?”
I laugh. “Of course not. I’m talking about Crystal.”
“Kinky, but kind of gross.”
“I want to talk with her, not have sex with her.”
“I hear lots of lonely people hire prostitutes for that very reason.”
Slapping him on the arm, I say, “Come on, genius. Think about it. Who would be the one person the mayor might confide his deepest, darkest secrets in? Like the name of his illegitimate child?”
He snaps his fingers. “His standing Sunday nooner. Pillow talk often is the most real conversation people have.”
“Exactly. Now will you buy me a few minutes with a prostitute, honey?”
Smiling, he says, “Anything for you, my love.”
***
“I find it disturbing that you can make one phone call and get a prostitute.”
Blake shrugs. “I know a guy.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Is your guy a pimp?”
“Not exactly.”
“You called him and he provided you with a prostitute. How is it that he’s not a pimp?”
Chuckling, he says, “Maybe I wasn’t clear. He’s not only a pimp. He’s also a bookie and a used auto parts dealer and—”
I cut him of
f. “I get the idea.”
Instead of sharing a romantic Valentine’s Day lunch at a charming café, my fiancé and I are meeting a hooker in the shelter house at Independence Lake. Crystal is already there when we pull up, sitting on top of one of the picnic benches. When we approach, she breaks into a toothless smile.
“I’ve never done a threesome outside before,” she says. “But it sounds kind of fun. You two are mighty pretty.”
I shudder at the thought, but Blake manages to say, “Like I said on the phone, Crystal, we just want to talk. We’ll be happy to pay you for your time, but we definitely don’t want anything beyond a little information.”
She shrugs. “Your loss.”
“We know the mayor was a frequent customer of yours.”
Her smile fades. “No one is supposed to know that.”
“We were hoping if we told you something we know that you’d tell us something you know.”
Her eyes dart back and forth between Blake and me, and she begins scratching at her pockmarked forearms.
Blake says, “We know the mayor has a child who has been trying to get in touch with him. Can you give us a name?”
Crystal shakes her head vehemently. “Harold told me about a daughter, but he never told me her name.”
Blake snaps his head toward me, giving me a confused look.
“You’re sure he said daughter?” I ask.
“Positive. He mostly called her ‘that bitch’s stupid kid,’ though.”
Nice. I press on. “Did he ever mention the mother’s name?”
“No. ‘Bitch’ was actually one of the nicer things he called her.” Crystal peers at me for a moment. “I know you.”
“Oh?” I reply, taken a little aback.
“Lizzie Hart, right?”
“Yes.”
She breaks into a big smile. “We went to high school together! Don’t you remember me? Crystal Schafer?”
Holy hell. Crystal is not in fact a middle-aged hooker. Well, she’s a hooker, but she’s not middle aged. She’s actually Becca’s age, only two years older than I am. The years (and the meth) have not been kind to her. Her face, once very pretty, is sunken in all the wrong places. Tears spring to my eyes, but I try to keep my cool.
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