Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “It’s a loose end. I don’t like loose ends,” said Davidson, with a tight smile. “I want them tied up. That way I can turn my full attention to justice for your husband.”

  “Is this your only copy?” She fingered the picture, running a perfectly manicured nail along the deckle edge.

  “It’s the only copy I have,” said Davidson.

  "Did this come from that woman's store?" Mrs. Wentworth's mouth turned down in a moue of disgust.

  "I can't tell you where I got it," said Davidson.

  “If it's that important, leave it with me. Josiah’s sister, Donna, will be here tomorrow. I’ll ask her to look at it. She might know who one of these boys is.”

  Davidson hesitated. “It’s my only copy and—”

  “Then you’ll have to trust me with it." With a smile, Mrs. Wentworth palmed the photograph.

  70

  ~Lou~

  Lou went into the kitchen with Davidson. Fernandez was diverted to the lanai where he would interview Phillip Coslow.

  "Can I help you?" LaTisha held a dishrag in front of her. Silver polish in a plastic tub gave off the smell of rotten eggs. On the marble island stood a stack of tarnished bowls and serving utensils two feet high. A large candleholder was covered halfway up the stem with pink paste.

  On the counter was a bowl with batter in it. The tantalizing scent of vanilla drifted in the air.

  "Mrs. Johnson, I need to talk to you for a minute about the visitors you had on Saturday. Mind if I take a chair?" asked Davidson.

  "Go on," she said. "Would you like some iced tea? Either of you? Mrs. Wentworth made it this morning. She makes the best iced tea in the world. I don't know how she does it. I have blueberry muffins in the oven."

  "Please," said Davidson. "The tea sounds great. I don't think we'll be here long enough for the muffins."

  "Me, too," added Lou, pulling up a chair next to his boss.

  As she bustled about, Davidson asked, "How had the Senator been feeling lately?"

  "Weak as a kitten. Puking. Seemed to get worse every day."

  "How long had that been going on?"

  She paused and did a mental calculation. "Shortly after Mrs. Wentworth came back from New York City. I remember because she was celebrating, and he was feeling poorly."

  "What was she celebrating?" Davidson asked, taking a sip of tea. The scent of the blueberries was beginning to fill the small space, drowning out the scent of the silver polish. Lou's mouth began to water.

  "Getting a New York publisher interested in a book about the Senator. She said it was going to make him go down in history."

  "I see," Davidson nodded. "I guess it would at that. We asked Mrs. Wentworth for a list of people who stop by regularly. She told us that Phillip lives here, you come in to help, there's a personal trainer, and grounds crew. She also told us that Adrian Green was stopping by twice a week to help the Senator with the book. Does that list sound about right to you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Can you think of anyone else?"

  "No."

  "If you do, please call me," said Davidson, reaching into his pocket for one of his cards. "Did Honora and Cara call before they showed up? Did Dick Potter?"

  "Yes, Honora called and asked me if the missus was home. Dick showed up on the front step. He's like that."

  "Did you see any of them get near the Senator's food or drink?"

  "I saw Miss Delgatto pick up his glass, but she only did that because the missus told her to."

  "How about Dick?"

  She shook her head. "He wasn't here but a minute when the missus found out and told him to leave."

  Davidson waited.

  LaTisha added, "But then, I was in and out of the lanai, so it wasn't like I was watching everyone every minute neither."

  "How long have you known Honora McAfee?"

  "Most of my life."

  "Mrs. Wentworth says that there was an issue between her husband and the Senator."

  "Uh-huh. That's true." LaTisha wiped pink paste off the bottom of the candlestick.

  "Can you tell me about it?"

  LaTisha went over to the kitchen door, did a quick scan, and came back. In a low voice she said, "It was when EveLynn was young, and they knew that child wasn't right. They needed money to go to a specialist. Mr. McAfee had all his money tied up in his appliance store. The Senator said he'd loan him money. Mr. McAfee was so upset about his daughter that he didn't read the paperwork carefully. He sold the entire business to the Senator for pennies."

  "Did Honora hold a grudge against the Senator?"

  LaTisha turned sad eyes on him. "Wouldn't you?"

  71

  ~Lou~

  Davidson and Lou thanked LaTisha for her time and moved to the hallway, where. Fernandez and Joliffe were waiting. An impatient Melinda stood behind the two men. Wearing a scowl, she tapped her pencil against a clipboard that she held to her chest like a shield.

  "I shall escort you out of the house," she said, in an oh-so-prissy voice. "I certainly hope this matter will be concluded soon. Mrs. Wentworth is incredibly busy, answering condolence calls and planning the ceremony. She really doesn't have time for this. A new book on the Senator will be coming out this fall, and the publisher is already scheduling interviews."

  "That's odd," said Davidson. "I was under the impression she wants her husband's murderer to come to justice."

  "Of course she does," said Melinda with a frosty glare. "But that's your job, not hers."

  She slammed the front door behind them.

  The men walked to their cars. Joliffe gave them a nod of farewell and climbed into his cruiser. George Fernandez said to Davidson, “My office? See you there.”

  Since he was parked behind the Police Captain, he pulled out first.

  Davidson had just thrown the car into reverse when LaTisha came running out the back door and waving furiously. Davidson rolled down his window.

  "I brought you some of those muffins," she called out, as she hurried down the crushed stone path.

  When she was even with the car, she handed Davidson a small container. She also put one hand on the door. It was a signal: Don’t leave yet.

  "I couldn't talk in there, but there's more you should know." Her eyes were narrow with concern.

  "Not long before Mrs. Wentworth went to New York, the Senator had started drinking again. A lot. He was calling people on the phone. Asking them about ‘his boys.’ Mrs. Wentworth came home from a big to-do at the club and overheard him. My, oh, my but she was angry!"

  LaTisha took a deep breath. "She asked me what he’d been doing all day. I told her straight that he had been making phone calls. Then she up and found the Senator sitting in that office. He was on the computer, looking at…at pictures. Dirty pictures. She slammed the door behind her, but I could hear her screaming at her husband. She told him, 'All these years I've covered up for you!' Then she warned him to keep his mouth shut. She said, 'I'm not having you ruin your legacy!' and such like. It was terrible. I thought for sure she’d have a heart attack."

  "Any idea what he was making calls about?" asked Davidson. He held up a muffin so that anyone watching from the house would think he was talking about the baked good.

  "I know he’s had regrets. One time after he’d been drinking, he told me he'd been a sinner. I told him that was between him and the Lord, and that I didn't want to hear about it," she said, quickly. “Right after shouting match, Mrs. Wentworth made him watch while she poured out all his booze. She started keeping a real close eye on the Senator. You’d think he’d get to feeling better after a while without all that drinking, once he got it out of his system. But he didn’t. He began doing poorly a couple of weeks or so later."

  72

  ~Lou~

  “What do you think about that?” asked Davidson, as they drove away from the Wentworths’ house.

  “I think we’ve found our motive for killing the Senator,” said Lou. “Whatever he was doing, it must have been unbecoming.�
�

  “She sure is invested in his reputation.”

  Lou shrugged. “What else does she have? They are childless. Living on an island full of millionaires. He’s losing his marbles. She’s losing her looks.”

  Davidson turned the police cruiser onto Gomez. "That leaves her as the caretaker of his legacy. Can you believe that she began planning a press conference the moment we told her the news that he’d been poisoned?"

  “I’ve heard of spin, but that was ridiculous,” Lou agreed. “Calling her public relations agency? Her husband was a martyr? Am I missing something here?”

  "What's that line from MacBeth?" asked Davidson. "'I fear she doth protest too much'? If I thought my spouse had been poisoned, I wouldn't have wasted time worrying about a drinking glass.”

  "No kidding," said Lou. “Did you really give her the only copy you had of that photo?”

  “Yes,” said Davidson. “I gave her my only copy, but I kept the original. I had Valerie Blaze scan the photo and make a print of it. She's pretty good with techie stuff like that.”

  “Smart man.”

  Davidson pointed the car south, driving deeper into the island, back into the tangle of asphalt road that rimmed the golf course. Signage suggested these quiet buildings with white clapboard siding were offices, not homes. When they reached a low, broad building labeled Office of Public Safety, Davidson turned off the engine. "This is George’s office."

  He rolled down the windows to let in the breeze off the Intracoastal. The car soon filled up with the smell of the many life forms that thrived at the edge of the water. There was a faint scent of decay, overridden by the fresh fragrance of rebirth. Pine, tar, brine, and a floral scent all combined in a way unique to the beach.

  Davidson and Lou waited in the car for the Director. “You’ll need to talk to Dick Potter again,” said the Police Captain. “See if he knows anything about the Senator’s past.”

  “Will do,” said Lou. “I’ll get right on it.”

  The Director showed up seconds later and hopped quickly out of his cruiser. On his way to his office, he spoke to the receptionist, an officer in uniform. “Get those bags we’re holding, will you?”

  Davidson explained to Lou, "They have a concierge trash and recycling service here for residents. The last pick-ups are on Wednesday. George and I decided they should bag up everything from the Wentworth's house and save it for our crime scene investigators. We have a lab, and they don’t here on the island."

  "What’s the thinking?" Lou asked.

  "Whoever killed Josiah Wentworth planned his murder carefully,” said Fernandez. “We know that the old man was poisoned over a long period. The first thing we teach our staff here on Jupiter Island is to keep their mouths shut. 'You see nothing, and you say nothing.' Many of our residents are high-profile executives. A handful of celebrities. Retired CEOs. They move here for privacy. Can you imagine having your trash hauler spill all your secrets? No way. So Davidson and I figured that the killer would think it was safe to toss empty bottles of antifreeze into the trash or recycling. He or she might have depended on our code of silence for protection."

  "What about Mrs. Wentworth's accusations?" Lou asked. “I can’t see Cara, Dick, or Honora as our doer.”

  "It looks to me like none of the three has had ongoing access to the Senator. Is that how you see it, George?” Davidson turned to the Director.

  Fernandez nodded. “I can run a check through our security cameras. See if their vehicles have been on the island, but I’m not sure it’s worth the bother. We have a list of suspects from Mrs. Wentworth. People who had re-occurring contact with the Senator. Those are the names we need to concentrate on. We’re looking for a person with ongoing access over a period of at least a month. The only one of the three who stopped by the Wentworth house regularly was Mrs. Honora McAfee.”

  73

  ~Cara~

  4:55 p.m. on Saturday

  The Treasure Chest

  Hand-sanding is tedious work. The few customers who drifted in got my full and enthusiastic attention. The day seemed to drag on and on.

  My cell phone vibrated right at closing time. Thinking it was Tommy, I answered right away.

  “How about going to dinner with me tonight?” asked Adrian Green. “I got a new set of wheels, and all I need is a lovely lady to share them with me. I thought you’d enjoy a nice ride down to West Palm. We can drive with the top down and enjoy this rare day of sunshine.”

  I couldn’t believe my sudden popularity. First roses from Jason, dinner with Davidson, and now this. “I’d love to, but I can’t. I have a standing tradition that I eat dinner on Saturdays with my grandfather. Can I have a rain check?”

  “Are you sure that the old man can’t fend for himself? Just this once?”

  “Sorry. We have an urgent matter we need to discuss,” I said. “It can’t wait.”

  Actually, it had waited, almost too long. I’d been putting off looking for a document regarding Tommy’s tuition. I wasn’t sure that Poppy could help me, but he’d volunteered to go through the boxes of my dad’s paperwork with me. Two sets of eyes would move the process along faster. Given how personal the papers might be, I didn’t want to involve anyone else but family in my search.

  I also wanted to ask Poppy more questions about his visit to the Wentworths. Was there anything he hadn’t told me? Anything more that I should know? Information I should pass on to Davidson?

  “Well, then, could I take you to the funeral on Monday? You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am, but I’ve already accepted an offer from someone else who’s going.”

  His tone changed. “I’m striking out on all my at-bats, aren’t I?”

  Normally, I would have explained that I’m never this busy. But the tone of his voice irked me. He sounded as though I was doing something wrong. I didn’t like that.

  “As I said, maybe we can go another time.”

  “That might be difficult,” he said. “Actually, I’m moving house. As you lot say, ‘I’m blowing this popcorn stand.’ The publisher accepted my final version of my book. I have a big fat deposit in my checking account, and a sure bestseller on the horizon. My people in New York have told me they plan to make a huge media splash. Sending the book to the press early. They've already sold the international rights. So I’m going home, back to London. Can't wait to shove this up the snog of the journalistic establishment. Local boy makes good and all that.”

  His smug attitude rankled me. I really didn’t care whether I ever saw him again or not. Out of politeness, I said, “Good for you. How thrilling.”

  “Isn’t it just? You’ll be able to tell people that you knew me when. If you come to one of my book signings, I’ll wave you to the front of the queue.”

  That wasn’t likely to happen. First of all, I read almost everything on my Kindle, and second, I couldn’t imagine standing in line for a signature by Adrian Green. No way.

  “I’ll hold you to it,” I said, trying to make nice. “When I’m in the back of the line. I’ll tell the bookseller that I knew you in a previous life. Too bad about the rain check.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Perhaps I can work you into my busy schedule before I leave town.”

  You do that, buddy, I thought to myself as I ended the call. But I’m not holding my breath.

  74

  ~ Cara~

  5:30 p.m. on Sunday

  Poppy’s house in Stuart, Florida

  Poppy shuffled to the door and opened it just enough for me to slip through. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. He definitely needed a shave. His peck on my cheek left my skin smarting as though he’d scrubbed me with a Brillo pad. As he ambled over to his La-Z-Boy, I noticed that he needed a haircut and a shower.

  Maybe I should tie him down in the back of his truck and drive him through a car wash.

  The air inside his bungalow smelled stale. A pile of dirty dishes teetered on his coffee table. A plastic basket of rumpled clothes bloc
ked the path to his garage. Half-eaten bags of chips littered the flat surfaces.

  To sit on his sofa, I had to shovel piles of papers onto the floor. In the middle of the pile, I found a desiccated slice of pizza. Goodness knows how old it was.

  “You aren’t taking care of yourself,” I said. “That wasn’t our deal.”

  “I got back from vacation only a few days ago. Tomorrow’s the anniversary of your grandmother’s death. I think even you could cut me a little slack, Miss Perfect Goody-Goody Two Shoes.”

  Oh, boy.

  I’d traded dinner with an eligible bachelor for a smack-down with Mr. Grouchy Pants. Perfect. Considering all the ways I could have been spending my Saturday night, I’d obviously made a wrong choice. Or was it simpler than that? If I was honest with myself, I’d acknowledge that any time spent with Poppy would be fraught with tension. My grandfather was not an easy person to love. When he wasn’t taking care of himself, he was even more difficult. His diabetes caused him to get grouchy.

  But Poppy had his pride. He didn’t want to admit he needed help. Okay, I got that. However, I could not allow him to live in squalor. This house was a dump. Soon the cockroaches would get wind of his neglect. They would move in by the thousands and multiply by the millions.

  As for his personal hygiene, well, he looked like a homeless person—and that really got me worried. When he’s healthy, he usually takes great pride in his appearance.

  Poppy was not handling his temporary retirement well. Cooper had promised my grandfather a job as a mechanic when the new gas station was up and running, but until then Poppy had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Watching the old Gas E Bait being torn down was torture for him. In many ways, that gas station had been the center of Poppy’s existence.