Having volunteered to bring the food, I stopped at the local pizza joint and picked up an unbaked super supreme. I’d ordered an uncooked pie so that we wouldn’t have to worry about it getting cold if Poppy was delayed. My dear friend wasn’t known for her promptness, and a quarter of an hour late was actually on time for her.
After shelling out nearly thirty bucks for the extra-large and an antipasto salad, I drove to Boone’s. He lived near Nadine in the old-money part of town. His neighborhood was full of majestic houses, none of which had been built anytime in the past hundred to hundred and fifty years.
When Boone’s parents made it clear to the older Mrs. St. Onge that they preferred their contemporary residence, she had left her grandson her Prairie-style home. Boone adored the place, showering it with both the contents of his bank account and his attention.
He had kept the original building intact, but had enlarged the master bathroom and had annexed one of the adjoining rooms for a walk-in closet. He’d also added a detached garage in the rear, claiming that his Mercedes couldn’t possibly sit out during the Missouri winters.
When architectural purists criticized him for the changes he’d made, Boone was quick to point out that while vintage was wonderful, there was no need to go crazy. After all, he loved Gone with the Wind, but he had no desire to live during a period when people bathed only once a week and there was no deodorant.
When I arrived at Boone’s, I parked in his narrow driveway. As always, I was the first to get there. One of the reasons I was inevitably early was due to Birdie’s influence. She felt tardiness was rude and had made sure I felt guilty if I wasn’t wherever I needed to be at least ten minutes before the appointed hour.
But a big part of my motivation was that if Poppy made it to Boone’s before me, her humongous Hummer would take up the entire driveway. Then I’d be forced to leave my Z4 on the street, where it would be vulnerable to all the idiot drivers who might sideswipe it.
I had minimal auto insurance and a sky-high deductible, which meant if the car got dented, having it repaired was a luxury I couldn’t afford. And call me superficial, but it would crush me to drive a battered vehicle. I know, pride cometh before a fall, but I’d already suffered several falls, so pride was all I had left.
As I got out of my BMW, I gazed at the house. No matter how often I visited Boone, I always stopped to admire the grouping of multipaned windows that were the focal point of the second floor. Boone kept them illuminated, and the result was stunning.
My BFF was waiting for me when I got to the door and ushered me into the foyer. Boone greeted me, then stood back to examine my outfit. I still wore the aqua silk T-shirt and white jeans I’d put on for my lunch date. When he frowned, I peeked in the mirror opposite the coat closet and cringed. My top was a mess.
Smoothing the shirt over my hips, I said, “Guess I should have changed. I was lying across my bed answering e-mail, and my clothes must have gotten wrinkled.”
Now that I could see my full-length self, I noticed that the silk top hugged my generous curves more tightly than I liked. With a body type more often seen in a Rubens painting than in a fashion magazine, I tended to wear looser clothing. As I was prone to comment, the only thing that should cling was plastic wrap.
As Boone tried to brush out some of the creases, he tsked. “Girl, don’t you ever look at yourself before leaving the house?”
“Of course I do.” I narrowed my eyes in mock outrage and retorted, “Just not as often as you. But then again, you’re much prettier than I am.”
“True.” Boone took the pizza box and salad container from the small table where I had placed it and led me into the kitchen. “But I prefer the word handsome.”
I followed him, biting my thumbnail. It would be tough asking Boone about the ancestor he was so proud of without sounding as if I suspected him of murdering my stepfather. And the last thing I wanted to do was offend one of my oldest and best friends.
Boone had always been there for me. When my father went to prison, my mother abandoned me, and Noah broke up with me, Boone had gathered the shattered pieces of my heart and glued them back together.
I watched Boone place the pizza carton in the refrigerator, and keeping my tone casual, I asked, “How are your folks?” It was lame, but it was the only thing I could think of to say, and I wanted to wait for Poppy before getting into the evening’s real topic. The one that would be so difficult.
“Same old, same old.”
“Still not talking to each other?” I asked.
Although Mr. and Mrs. St. Onge lived in the same house, except for a brief respite during a crisis, they hadn’t spoken for years. With the advent of modern technology, they utilized e-mail and texting for all their communication needs. Before that they’d made Boone their messenger.
“As far as I know.” Boone peered into the open fridge and said, “Do you want—”
“Wine?” I interrupted. “Yes, please.”
“How did you know what I was going to ask?” Boone grabbed a bottle.
“Because there comes a time in every day that whatever the question, the answer is wine.”
Boone chuckled, then said, “I’m surprised neither Dr. Dreadful nor Deputy Dawg are joining us tonight. I’d expect both your beaus to want to help you figure out who killed your stepfather.”
“I thought we needed a BFF night.” I hedged, reaching down to pet Boone’s cat, Tsar, who had materialized out of nowhere and was rubbing against my calf. “Besides, Jake is busy, and I know you aren’t all that fond of Noah.”
“What can I say?” Boone shrugged. “To quote Winston Churchill, Noah has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.”
I rolled my eyes, then glanced at the wall clock. “Poppy should be here soon. Maybe you should preheat the oven.”
“Sure. It’ll take at least ten minutes.” Boone spun the dial. “I think I heard her Hummer roar to a stop a couple of seconds ago.”
“That would mean she’s only eleven minutes late.” I pulled out a wooden slat-back chair from the matching square-leg table and sat down. “I think that just might be a record for her.”
Boone sniggered as he headed toward the foyer and let Poppy in.
Poppy hugged us both, then deposited a bakery box on the table.
Without asking, Boone poured us each a glass of merlot, grabbed a cheese and cracker tray that had been sitting on the counter covered in waxed paper, and said, “Shall we adjourn to the study?”
Poppy nodded, and I got to my feet, following her, Boone, and Tsar into my favorite room of his house. Its large windows were framed in golden brown curtains that brushed the shiny hickory floor, and an assortment of brass lamps were scattered throughout the space. An oak library table behind the sofa held a crystal vase full of fresh alstroemeria accented with pussy willows, and best of all, there were books everywhere.
Poppy and I shared the nutmeg leather couch, and Boone sat on a club chair to our right. No one spoke as we all sipped our wine.
Finally, Boone grabbed a cracker, spread a bit of Camembert on it, and asked, “So what did you two want to talk to me about?”
I opened my mouth, glanced at Poppy, and said, “We told you we want to go over the clues we’ve gathered about the murder.”
“What else?” Boone fed Tsar a sliver of cheddar and crooned to the cat, “Aunt Dev and Aunt Poppy are up to something.”
Poppy shot me a look, then turning to Boone, she admonished, “You’re always so suspicious. We wouldn’t ambush you.”
“Don’t give me that malarkey.” Boone adjusted the creases in his khakis. Pointing to Poppy, he said, “You didn’t hire a bartender just to have a pizza party with me.” He smiled sardonically and gestured at me. “And if we were really only discussing the murder investigation, one or more of your devoted swains would be here.”
I started
to protest, but the oven buzzed, indicating it was ready, so I jumped to my feet and ran into the kitchen. By the time I got the pizza cooking, set the timer for twenty minutes, and disposed of the cardboard box in the recycle bin outside the back door, I had almost figured out how to bring up the subject of Boone’s ancestor.
When I returned to the study, Boone was plying Poppy with liquor and ruthlessly grilling her for information. He had replaced her wine with a martini and was shooting questions at her faster than an Uzi.
Poppy narrowed her eyes and snapped, “Stop it right now, Boone St. Onge.” She fingered her white Giuseppe Zanottis and said, “Your boots may be made for walking, but mine are for kicking ass, and you’re about to become my target.”
Deciding to stay out of the debate, I stepped over to the brimming bookcases that covered three of the four walls. Tsar joined me, and we perused the shelves. I ran my fingers across the spines as my two BFFs competed in a battle of wits.
Finally, Poppy took a sip of her drink and said to Boone, “Do you want to keep interrogating me, or should we actually discuss the case?”
“I suppose thumbscrews are out of the question?” Boone pursed his mouth in a pout. “Or how about Chinese water torture?”
I looked at Poppy and said, “Your attitude is contagious.”
“So I’ve been told.” She smirked. “But I hear that the CDC is looking for a cure.”
I shook my head, took my seat, and said. “Let me summarize what Jake and I learned at the police station, then go from there.” Leaning forward, I made a face. “Basically, the cops are stumped.”
“What did they find at the scene?” Boone sat back in his chair.
“They haven’t processed all the trace yet. There was tiny bit of magnesium there, but nothing obvious, like fingerprints or what was used to bash in his skull,” I answered. “Time of death is between twelve thirty and one thirty.”
“Unless my dad is lying,” Poppy sneered. “You know you can’t trust him.”
“Jake got most of the information from the dispatcher.” I rolled my eyes. I sure wished Poppy would give the evil-father thing a rest.
“Humph.” Poppy grabbed a cube of Monterey Jack and stuffed it in her mouth.
“What else have you found out?” Boone asked, evidently having decided that he couldn’t rush what we had come to discuss.
“The country clubbers oppose the library.” I reached for my glass and was surprised to find it empty. When had I finished my wine?
“All of them?” Poppy raised a brow. “And how did you find that out?”
After explaining about the overheard conversation and the lack of actual names, I got up and refilled my glass with merlot.
Boone’s lawyerly logic appeared. “Hard to pin something like that down, which means it’s too vague to be very useful.”
“Unfortunately,” I agreed. Now was the time to ease Boone into the subject of Shadow Bend’s possibly-not-so-honorable war heroes. “But Jake’s uncle Tony overheard Nadine tell one of her cronies that Jett needed to stop poking his nose in places it didn’t belong, so Jake and I went to talk to her about it.”
“Oooh!” Poppy yipped, causing Tsar, who had been sitting at her feet, to run out of the room. “That must have been an interesting visit.”
“Yeah.” Boone drew out the word. “But I bet she was overjoyed that you were with a handsome guy that wasn’t her son.”
“Strangely, not so much.” I shrugged. “I doubt anything I could do would make Nadine Underwood happy. On the other hand, she did talk to us.”
“You blackmailed her into having that conversation by saying you would tell Noah she upset you,” Poppy guessed.
“Hey.” I held up my hands in mock surrender. “It’s my parents’ lives on the line. I did what I had to do to get Nadine’s cooperation.”
“Who cares how you got her to talk?” Boone bounced on his seat. “Just tell us what she had to say before my head explodes.”
While I was happy to see Boone focusing on the case, I knew I was approaching shaky ground and carefully considered how to phrase my description of the interview Jake and I had had with Nadine.
Finally, I said, “It turns out that Jett’s research had to do with Shadow Bend’s part in the Civil War.” I turned to Boone and smiled. “But you probably know more about that, since you were so active in bringing him to town and working with him to fund the library.”
“Actually, your stepfather said his research was top secret. He was afraid some other scholar would beat him to it and publish a book before Jett could get his out. I knew it concerned Missouri in the Civil War, but not Shadow Bend in particular.” Boone’s expression was puzzled. “I wonder why he didn’t mention that.”
“According to Nadine, Jett was planning to expose one of the town’s heroes.”
I watched as a variety of emotions chased across my friend’s face.
“How did she come to that conclusion?” Boone asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Because Jett demanded to see some super-secret papers about Colonel Underwood and threatened her if she didn’t produce them.” I took a deep breath. Now for the hard part. “In fact, Noah and I spoke to Miss Ophelia, who is apparently the foremost authority on Shadow Bend’s part in the Civil War.”
“Oh?” Boone mumbled noncommittally, clearly beginning to see where I was going.
“She told us that several of Shadow Bend’s Civil War heroes might not be as wonderful as we were led to believe.” I licked my lips. “Although she didn’t have any dirt on Colonel Underwood, she said Captain Sinclair claimed that the Union train that his unit had been sent to raid never showed up, but the speculation was that the Sinclairs were Union sympathizers.”
“Who else did she mention?” Boone asked, his brow wrinkling.
“Some folks thought it was odd that except for the final battle, Major Boone never fought with his men in the front lines and they claimed he was a coward.” I put my hand over Boone’s. “But not being in the front lines wasn’t unusual for officers.”
Boone froze for a solid minute, then abruptly shook off my fingers and shouted, “And you and Poppy are wondering if I killed your stepfather to keep that information out of the history books?”
“No!” I yelped. This was exactly what I was afraid would happen. “Did you even know about those rumors concerning your great-great-great-great-grandfather?”
“Of course I did. My parents told me about them when I did a paper on the major for a history class.” Boone slumped in his chair. “The rumors had surfaced before I was born, just about the time Mom was in the process of joining the CDM. However, there was no other evidence that the major had acted in a dishonorable manner, so the matter was dropped.” Boone narrowed his eyes at me and said, “Do you also suspect one of your relatives of trying to stop Jett’s research? Your ancestor’s name might be muddied, too.”
“Nope. None of the Sinclairs really ever cared about that stuff.” I twitched my shoulders. “Mom was the only one who gave a damn about joining the CDM. And she doesn’t exactly have a Prada in that fashion show anymore.”
“That’s true,” Poppy said. “And Nadine has an alibi.”
“And so do I,” Boone snapped. “I was over in the county seat in court during the TOD.” He looked at me and bared his teeth. “Are you satisfied, or do you want me to give you the judge’s name so you can check?”
“No. Neither Poppy nor I ever suspected you. We just wanted to see what you had to say on the matter.” I could hear the pleading in my voice and didn’t like it. “We thought maybe you knew about someone else who Jett might have antagonized with his research.”
“Well . . . Okay.” Boone sighed. “And no, I haven’t heard anything about other families having issues with him investigating their ancestors.”
The three of us were silent as we processed the near hit to
our friendship. A few seconds later, the timer beeped, and we all trooped into the kitchen for pizza. As we ate, the conversation turned to other subjects, and I hoped that Boone had truly forgiven us.
CHAPTER 21
At nine o’clock, full of pizza and reassured that Boone had forgiven us, Poppy and I said good-bye. She sprinted down the front walk to her Hummer, blew a kiss at me, and hopped inside the giant SUV. Waving back at her, I headed toward my Z4 in the driveway.
Just as my hand touched the BMW’s door handle, a shadowy figure moved toward me. I squealed and jumped back, half convinced that my stepfather’s killer had decided to eliminate the whole family.
Before I could unglue my feet from the cement and make a run for safety, the would-be murderer emerged into the streetlamp’s pool of light and said, “Sorry to startle you. It’s just me.”
“Noah Underwood, don’t you ever sneak up on me like that again.” Taking a deep breath, I waited for my heartbeat to slow before adding, “What in the world are you doing skulking around my car?”
“I am so sorry.” Noah wrapped his arms around me. “I didn’t realize that it was too dark for you to recognize me until you screamed.”
Leaning back, I studied Noah’s face. He seemed sad—no, that wasn’t quite right. Dejected. Uh-uh. Maybe discouraged was the word I was searching for. I noticed all this while I continued to yell at him for scaring me half to death.
Finally, once I’d calmed down enough to think, I said, “Has something happened?”
“I had dinner with my mother.” Noah continued to hold me loosely in the circle of his arms, but his expression was unreadable.
“Oh,” I said cautiously. Had Nadine finally persuaded Noah to dump me?
“She’s drinking a lot more than I realized.” Noah rested his forehead against mine. “And I think her obsession with staying thin might be getting out of hand as well. She hardly ate anything, and when I texted her aide after I left, Janson reported that her appetite’s been poor for the past few weeks.”
Between a Book and a Hard Place Page 19
