"Well, I do too, Miss Villars. I'd like to talk to him." Quincy cleared his throat and went back to interrogation mode. "I noticed both your brothers in the crowd footage from that night."
I pressed closer to the wall and rolled my eyes as far to the right as possible so I could see Nancy Villars. All the while I concentrated on not sneezing from the dust on the musty wall I'd lodged my nose up against.
Quincy went on. "That was early in the evening, around nineteen thirty hours."
Of course Sergeant Mackelroy felt the need to translate. "Seven thirty."
"There are crowd sweeps you and your brother, Percy, were in, and several neither of you could be seen in. The time stamp told me some of the places I couldn't find you were right at what we in law enforcement like to call—a critical time. The time I mentioned before when the ME believes the murder of your brother took place."
Nancy took in a quick, shallow breath. "Well, sure," she said. "I didn't hang around and watch them move lights and people the entire night. I went out there for a while, so did Elroy and Percy. Then we left for a mint julep at the bar. Percy and I left the bar. Elroy stayed, said he was meeting someone in a little while for a drink. He didn't say who. I don't know where Percy headed off to, but I was tired, so I just went on up to my room and went to bed."
"So Elroy stayed behind, did he?" Quincy's voice was thoughtful. "Did anyone see you, Miss Villars?"
"Sleeping?" Her tone was snide.
"Go into your room." There was no inflection in Quincy's tone. Neutral wasn't something he ever was, so I knew she needed to be careful how she answered.
"How the heck should I know?"
Quincy folded his arms over his chest. "Well, maybe you better ask around, Miss Villars. If you weren't in the documentary footage when your brother was murdered, and no one can verify where you were, that means you don't have an alibi. And that means, your name is still on our suspect list."
Quincy cast a sideways look at Pam Mackelroy, who winked at him then furiously scribbled on her notepad. I figured she'd just written down Nancy's name.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The good and wily Deputy's next target was Theresa Powell.
"Mrs. Powell," Quincy began, "I noticed there was a fairly long gap in the footage where your husband was on camera without you, and it just happened to be around twenty-two"—he looked at Pam Mackelroy—"ten o'clock. Do you have an explanation of where you disappeared to?"
Theresa ran the tip of her tongue slowly around her lips. Then she smiled a tantalizing, secret smile. Quincy stood waiting, seeming unaffected by the woman's sultry beauty. I couldn't help but be proud of him.
"Deputy." Voice like silk. "I was, mmm, indisposed."
My eyes moved back to Quincy—all cop. "Indisposed? Can you define indisposed?"
"It was a personal matter."
"Personal, Mrs. Powell?"
Theresa looked around the room before lifting one long-fingered hand to her throat. "Certainly, Deputy Boudreaux. I'm having my monthly visitor, and I had to excuse myself to our room for a short while."
I couldn't help noticing that Fabrizio, who'd been silent and motionless the entire time, suddenly buried his face in his hands.
"Do you need me to verify her alibi, sir?" It was Pam Mackelroy.
Quincy gave her a look like she'd just stepped off a flying saucer. "What? No. That won't be necessary, Sergeant." He turned back to the Powells. "At this point, we can take your word for it, and thank you for being so…candid, Mrs. Powell."
"No problem, Deputy. Anything you need. Anything at all."
"Mr. Powell, your turn. When you were off camera for a while during the time in question, what were you doing?"
I had trouble seeing Mr. Powell from my angle, so all I could do was listen as Archie cleared his throat before saying, "I'm well known, Officer. I've published articles in various magazines. In high demand on the speaking circuit. People know me."
"Famous? Huh. And what does that have to do with your absence?" Quincy asked, and I couldn't have put it better myself.
"Fans, Officer—"
"It's Chief Deputy, Mr. Powell."
"Fans, Chief Deputy. I stopped several times during the evening to sign autographs and interact with all my fans."
Nancy Villars spoke up. "I did see him talking to people in the crowd a few times."
"Many of those in the crowd were my people—aficionados of archeology. I owe it to my public to be accessible. Don't you agree?"
While I couldn't see Archie Powell, I could see Quincy, who had a doubtful expression on his face. "Sure. Well, I think that's all I need at the moment. Mr. Villars, I want to thank you for vacating the premises and giving us full access for this extended period. It did help us complete our site investigation. Of course, now you can return to it any time you please."
"Thank you," Harry said. "As Fabrizio and I have nothing to add or refute here, are we free to go?"
Quincy nodded. "And the rest of y'all can be on your way too, f'sure." The charming Cajun was back. "Jes don't be thinking 'bout getting too mobile here for a while. Y'know?"
Murmurs of agreement followed his statement.
"Aren't you going to ask me where I was during that time?" It was Mr. Hollywood. "I mean…come on, you asked everyone else."
Quincy had turned and started for the door but stopped and turned back. "Why, Mr. Goodwin. That's what we always like to see, that spirit of cooperation. But I don't need to ask you 'bout what you might've been doing 'round that time. You were filming, weren't you? Documentaries don't' get made without a director, now do they? And while all these other folks have their motives—fame, fortune,"—he lifted a hand in the direction of the Powells, then Nancy Villars—"Those are things you already have. I can't for the life of me figure why you'd benefit from finding that letter. Not just yet anyway. So if you don't mind, I don't have a single question to ask you right now, but that could change at any moment. I'm goin' ask you to—let me see. How do they say it in Hollywood? I'm gonna ask you to stay fluid." Quincy laughed. "Yes, I think I like that. Fluid."
And with that, he offered the room a big old Quincy Boudreaux grin, turned, and left the room. All the others filed out behind him.
I waited in the dark about five more minutes, giving everyone enough time to leave the area before I stepped out of my hidey-hole.
But when I opened the door to the storage room, Quincy was across the hall, leaning against the wall.
He smiled when he saw me. "Chère, did you enjoy the session?"
Well, damn. I felt like stomping my foot. "How'd you know, you crazy Cajun?"
He shrugged. "I caught the change in the light when the panel was removed from behind the painting."
Double damn. "And how'd you know it was me?"
"Aw, chère, you like a sister to my lady. You think I don't know those green eyes when I see 'em? Now for da last time, I'm tellin' you to stay outta my investigation." He straightened away from the wall, winked at me, and walked away.
Triple damn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I stood there for a minute watching him walk away before putting my feet into motion. "Q," I hollered after him. "Wait up. There're a few things I want to tell you."
He stopped walking. "Things like what?"
"Not here," I said.
"Let's head over to the House of Cards. I want to check in with Cat 'bout the party tonight."
"What costume did you go with?" I fell in step beside him.
He looked down at his feet for a moment but didn't break stride. "Cat got it for me."
"And?"
"It goes with hers."
"And?"
"She's Tweedledee," he said, and nothing else was needed.
I tried to suppress the laugh but couldn't do it. "You're Tweedledum? Oh my."
"Mm-hmm. I couldn't talk her out of it."
The idea of Quincy all dressed up in red and yellow and a helicopter beanie just struck me funny, but I could tell Quincy didn
't like the idea nearly as much as I did. "Well, I'm sure the two of you are gonna be real cute together."
"Yeah." His voice was flat. "Right."
We went straight to the House of Cards in the main auxiliary wing and had to wait about ten minutes while Cat finished up a reading.
When the door opened and her customer walked out, I was shocked to be face-to-face with Jack's mother. "Mrs. Stockton?" I smiled and tried to sound as pleasant as possible. "What a nice surprise. Jack told me you were coming." It was all I could do not to cringe away when she stepped closer.
"Oh, Melanie, my dear, sweet child. I'm so delighted to see you again." Was she crying? And more importantly, was she actually being nice to me? She threw her arms around me, and all I could do was stare at Cat, who'd appeared in the open doorway behind her. Cat made a thumbs-up and winked as Mrs. Stockton said softly next to my ear, "I'm just devastated at how badly I treated you when you came to visit. I don't know what I must have been thinking. It was deplorable, and I promise I'm going to make it up to you."
"Uh, well…well…I—"
"Well, I have to run along now. I'm going to the masquerade ball this evening, and I haven't yet picked out a costume." She pulled away and dabbed at her nose with a white lacy handkerchief. "I will see you there tonight, won't I, dear?"
I had absolutely no idea what was going on.
She repeated. "Are you going tonight?"
I nodded dumbly. She patted my hand, and I watched her walk away in the direction of the Masquerade Emporium, her hundred and eighty-dollar peach-colored hairstyle flouncing, her Chico's tunic-top swirling, her block-heeled Naturalizer pumps landing solidly on the carpeted hallway with every purposeful stride.
What in the heck is going on?
"Mel?" It was Cat. "You coming in?"
"That was Jack's mother," I said, knowing I sounded stupid but unable to do anything about it. "Did you say something to her? That was a whole different woman than the one I met in Florida."
Cat just shrugged and turned up her cheek for Quincy's kiss. "She came for a reading. I gave her one." It was the old bait and switch. "What are the two of you up to?"
"If you have a few minutes before your next appointment, we need to tell Quincy what all we know about the Villars and the Powells and the murder."
Quincy frowned at Cat. "We? You've been meddling in the case too?"
"Why, darlin'," she cooed. "Just the teeny-tiniest little ol' bit. Nothing to amount to much."
"You know better," he said.
Her dark eyes narrowed, flashing heat at him. "And you know better than to tell me to butt out. It'd serve you right if we didn't fill you in on what we learned about Nancy Villars…"
The ball was in my court. "…and Percy and his fiancée and the Powells and the mysterious death they were connected to in Montana."
I'd always known Quincy Boudreaux, Cat's beloved, was one smart cookie, and he didn't disappoint me then. He sat down in one of the chairs, crossed his ankle over the other knee, steepled his fingers across his flat stomach, and said, "All right, my beauties. Tell me."
So we did—about everything we knew. Even about the pin and the receipt, both of which he demanded I produce at the earliest opportunity.
I finished with, "For the longest time, I truly did believe Percy Villars couldn't have possibly killed his twin. Then I began to wonder if greed might have made him kill him so he didn't have to split the advance. And now there's this other thing with his girlfriend, Juliette. Greed, revenge, envy, maybe even hate. Serious motives. Right?"
"Good 'n' serious," he agreed.
"I heard Nancy Villars say that Elroy was supposed to meet someone in the bar that night."
Quincy cocked an eyebrow at me. "You mean while you were hiding behind the wall?"
I hung my head and tried to look guilty, but I didn't think it worked. "Yeah. Then."
He shook his head. "No idea. Thought maybe I'd check with the bartender later."
"Oh, brilliant." Maybe I'd beat him to the punch.
My cell rang, and I took a look at the screen. It was a long-distance area code, and I wondered if it might not be the dude ranch lady. I excused myself, got up, and went out into the hallway to answer the call.
"Hello?"
"Hi'ya, this is Mabel Ann Gunderson of the Rocking Bar G Guest Ranch. I appreciate your patience, young lady, but here I am finally returning your call. What can I do you for?"
I told her who I was and asked her about her husband's death. She didn't offer anything for a long minute, and I was beginning to think the connection had been a dead end. But she finally answered.
"I'm gonna tell you here, Missy, but only because selling that dang old rifle to Archie and Theresa saved my hide when I needed money, and I'm beholden to them.
"Ya see, my husband was a no-good cheating and lying son of a gun. One day while I was out tending the ranch, which was what he should've been about, he died from a heart attack in our bedroom with his trousers down around his ankles while he was with a skanky hooker from over in Billings.
"When I came home and saw how things were, I sent the girl away, and you know I just couldn't bring myself to admit to folks how it had been with him. So I moved things around some, you know, to make it look like the old fool had been drinking and fallen down and died." She laughed. No, it wasn't exactly a laugh, more like a honk. "I musta not done all that good o' job because the sheriff, he was suspicious all right. There was even some talk about whether the Powells had been in cahoots with me, so's they could make a deal for Crazy Horse's rifle my husband had refused to sell them. But the old goat died on his own. Nobody had nothing to do with it unless you want to pin it on the idiot who invented that Viagra."
I thanked her and went back into the House of Cards. "Well," I said. "Doesn't look like the Powells are killers, not as far as the rancher in Montana anyway. That poor old guy bought the farm due to modern medicine."
Both Cat and Quincy gave me an odd look but didn't ask any questions.
"Looks like we're back to Percy and Nancy then." Quincy stood. "The two of you lovelies have uncovered a lot of good stuff here, you know it? And I'm gonna hafta follow up on all of it." He took Cat by the hand, pulled her up from her chair, and kissed her hand. "And I'm gonna start dat right now."
"Right now?" The suspicion in Cat's voice was hard to miss. "I don't like the sound of that."
"I didn't think you'd like it much."
"You're not coming to the masquerade ball tonight, are you?" she said. "Well, dammit all, Q."
"I know, sweet thing." He shrugged. "But what can I do? You and Mel, you done such good work, gave me so much motive and information. My boss, he'd have hisself a fit if I didn't follow up with it."
Cat thinned her lips. "Well, go on then. Git."
His big brown eyes were apologetic but amused as he blew kisses with both hands and left.
"Oh, Cat, I'm so sorry," I said.
She took in a deep breath and let it out. "It doesn't really matter. I know that one too well. He wouldn't be any good to me, just be chomping at the bit to get on with his case. But that just leaves me with one question."
I looked at her, and she went on. "I'm gonna need a Tweedledum to my Tweedledee."
I shook my head. "Aw, Cat. Don't go there."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The pirate wench outfit was so cute and sexy and as it turned out, a perfect complement for Jack Stockton's Captain Jack Sparrow costume—and, ironically, we hadn't even talked to each other about our costumes. Unfortunately the pirate wench costume hung in the closet of my room at The Mansion when I waddled through the double doors to the ballroom beside my best girlfriend for life, Catalina Gabor.
At least part of her singular Tweedle status was my fault. So she didn't look or feel foolish, I'd reluctantly consented to be her counterpart.
Yes. That's "Miss" Tweedledum, if you please. The only places the costume had to fit me were the legs, arms, and shoulders, and those parts w
ere all stretchy fabric and not a problem. The rest stood away from my body like I'd swallowed a beach ball. I wasn't feeling exactly glamorous, so of course the first person my gaze fell on when we walked in was Jack.
He looked amazing, just like the pirate Cap'n Jack from my dream fantasy.
The bandana wrapped low on his brow made his eyes more prominent, the black eyeliner either he (or more likely someone else, and I prayed it hadn't been Sydney) had applied dramatically around his amber eyes made them burn like hot coals. Intense eyes, yes, but a sweet and open smile.
He stopped in front of me. "I see we're of like minds."
Were we ever. It occurred to me then that I hadn't seen Sydney Baxter all day. Maybe she'd finally gotten the message and given up, hit the trail, tucked her tail between her legs, vamboozled on outta here. Was it too much to hope for?
The four-piece band struck up Nora Jones's "Come Away With Me," and he said, "May I have this dance?" and held out a hand palm up, an invitation in itself.
I went with him out to the dance floor. As usual the ballroom had been decorated to the hilt. Bats and skeletons and pumpkins and all other creepy crawlies that come to mind for Halloween were everywhere. And the tables and other decorations were traditional orange and black. It was amazing.
Jack pulled me as close as my hooped belly would allow. We moved to the easy rhythm, and I felt like I'd come home after a long, tiring journey. "Jack, about Sydney. I know this has been hard on you too, and I'm sor—"
"No." He said it so forcefully the propeller on top of my helicopter hat began to spin. "You don't have to say it."
My awesome Cap'n Jack Stockton evidently subscribed to the philosophy that Love means never having to say you're sorry.
But I wanted to, needed to say it anyway. "I'm sorry."
Neither of us spoke. We were barely moving, mostly just standing in one spot, swaying. Because of my awkward costume, his hands were on my shoulders and mine on his sides.
The song ended, but we stayed as we were for a few beats longer until the band rolled into The Beatles' "Yesterday."
Mystic Mischief Page 15
