by Penny Plume
Olson made fast notes. “And these were all between nine and ten at night?”
“I closed at eight, and they were coming and going from then until nine thirty, maybe nine forty. Then I started putting out the chairs and snacks for the meeting.”
“Did you see any of the other Main Street shop owners during that time?”
Jenna wanted to say yes, to get her friends off the suspect list, even if some of them (ahem, Belma) wouldn’t do the same for her. But she shook her head.
“No.”
“Would you say you and Ingrid were good friends?”
That took her by surprise, and a moment later Jenna realized surprise was exactly the point. He was trying to shake something loose. Well, if he wanted details…
She rambled on for a while about the gossip Ingrid liked to share, and how that and their Main Street shops had been the strongest bond between them. A shame, really, because sometimes women had a hard time finding really good friends. A few minutes into it Garrett was examining his knuckles and Olson’s eyes had glazed a bit.
He was probably thinking about about an early lunch, or golf.
Jenna was thinking: This is going pretty well. I’m the one getting interviewed, but I already know Olson has eliminated Kavanaugh and his bodyguard—no, Cabo—as suspects.
She certainly hadn’t, but it was good to know Kavanaugh wasn’t being looked at by the police. It meant she’d have to watch him even more closely.
She talked a bit about how nice Ingrid’s clothes were and wondered:
What else can I find out in here?
Jenna was mid-sentence, talking about the great job Ingrid had done with the ordinance for multiple waste bins, when Kavanaugh and Cabo entered the den. No knocking, no asking—just entering.
“What do we have?” Kavanaugh said.
Olson said, “Mr. Kavanaugh, please, I already asked you—”
“And I said I didn’t care,” Kavanaugh said. “If you want to run things your way, take everybody to the state police post or wherever, handcuff them to a desk, and start playing smart cop/dumb cop. This is a voluntary interview process, and I’m voluntarily involving myself.”
Garrett said, “It’s good cop/bad cop.”
Kavanaugh turned on him. “What?”
“You said smart cop/dumb cop.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I meant to say slow cop/fired cop. Now have we made any progress?”
Olson scratched his nose and flipped a page in his notebook. “Ms. Gallagher had very nice clothes and was ecologically responsible when it came to waste receptacles.”
“Good lord,” Kavanaugh said. “If I’d known it was this easy to get away with murder I’d have killed a dozen people by now, starting with my ex-wife.” He turned to Jenna. “Did you know about Wilford and Ingrid?”
“Mr. Kavanaugh,” Olson said.
Kavanaugh ignored him. “Well?”
“What about them?” Jenna said.
“That crazy old man came in here and said they were having a romantic relationship. A summer fling, he called it. Is that true?”
“How would I know?”
“Oh, you and Wilford are always going on about art and books at your silly little Main Street meetings. If he was creaking and gasping with Ingrid, he would have told you.”
“Well, he didn’t. Why are you so upset about it?”
“I’m not upset,” Kavanaugh said, his face turning red. He turned to Olson. “You see? Why would the old man keep it a secret if he wasn’t planning something? Something terrible.”
“Like a murder?” Olson said.
Kavanaugh addressed the room: “I think he’s finally catching up.”
“Secret affair to murder is a bit of a leap,” Olson said, “but I’m looking into it.”
“Right,” Kavanaugh said. “You keep looking into things, and I’ll let you know when I’ve done your job for you.”
A tense, awkward silence pressed against the windows. Cabo’s jaw muscles bounced—it looked like he was chewing the inside of his mouth in order to stay quiet. Olson rolled his pen across the notebook page and Garrett watched him, helpless to stop Kavanaugh from steamrolling.
Jenna shifted in her chair, unsure whether she should poke her head up. But when it came to Kavanaugh, what did she have to lose?
“Where was Wilford when Ingrid got killed?” she asked.
The detective looked at Kavanaugh. “You want to tell her, or can I?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Kavanaugh said.
Olson checked his notes. “He said he was taking a short nap after cleaning up his gallery, before the meeting started. He has a small cot in the back office. No witnesses.”
“Sleeping,” Kavanaugh scoffed. “Has anyone checked that cot for signs of Ingrid?”
“The crime scene techs are waiting for a warrant,” Olson said.
Kavanaugh jabbed a finger at the door, apparently in Wilford’s direction. “See? He’s hiding something!”
“We just want to make sure we do this right,” Olson said. “We won’t go in until the paperwork is done.”
“Hold on,” Jenna said, sitting straight up in her chair. “I had to use my key to go into the café when I found Ingrid’s body. Garrett, you said the back door was locked too, right?”
Garrett nodded.
“So whoever killed her has to have a key. Who has keys for the café?” Jenna raised her hand. “I do, but you already knew that. Who else? I don’t think Wilford does.”
“We’re looking into that too,” Olson said, “but it isn’t that simple. If the doors were unlocked when the killer got there, all he or she had to do is grab an extra key from the office and lock the door on the way out.”
Jenna slumped a bit.
Olson went on: “Maybe somebody made a copy of the key months ago, didn’t tell anybody, and threw it in Lake Michigan after killing Ingrid.”
Jenna slouched.
Olson said, “I don’t think we’re going to find some guy with blood splattered on his face and a glowing key hanging around his neck. Sorry.”
Jenna nearly slid out of the chair.
Maybe this whole solving murders thing wasn’t for her after all.
Olson was talking again, but something he’d just said tugged at the edge of Jenna’s thoughts—what was it?
The detective was looking at her, waiting.
Jenna said, “I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked when the Main Street owners came to the meeting last night, was anybody acting strange?”
“They’re all kind of strange, pretty much all the time,” Jenna said.
Garrett grunted in agreement.
Olson said, “Nervous, out of breath, shaky. That kind of thing.”
She ran the beginning of the meeting through her head, went around the nook and tried to remember anything out of the ordinary. “No. Not that I noticed, anyway.”
“What about today? Anybody asking you to vouch for them, say you were together last night when you really weren’t?”
Jenna shook her head.
Olson said, “Mr. Donald seems to be hitting the sauce a little hard. Do you think he has a guilty conscience about something?”
“I think he has access to free high-end booze and would never forgive himself if he passed it up.”
“I hope he drinks it all,” Kavanaugh said. “I made sure the bar was fully stocked -- it’s like truth serum for some people.”
“Lawrence will tell you whatever you want to know, drunk or sober,” Jenna said, “and usually whether you want to hear it or not.”
Kavanaugh pointed at Cabo. “Tell McTavish to make the next Bloody Mary twice as strong. I want half of it on his shirt when he comes in here.”
Olson spread his hands. “Mr. Kavanaugh, that won’t be helpful.”
They barked back and forth, but Jenna didn’t hear them. The thing that had been tugging at her mind jumped out into the spotlight: Bloody Mary. Blood splatter.
“Blood!�
�� she shouted.
The room fell silent. Everyone stared at her except for Cabo, who checked the floor for body fluids.
“Blood?” Garrett said.
Jenna nodded. “The blood on Ingrid’s head. It was on the top of her head, right? Not the back or the sides.”
“That’s right,” Olson said, “but I’d appreciate you keeping it to yourself. You’re the only non-law enforcement person who saw the body, and that detail might help us nail the killer.”
“Or eliminate a suspect,” Jenna said.
Everyone waited.
“Wilford was shorter than Ingrid,” she said. “How could he hit her on the very top of her head, hard enough to crush her skull?”
“He could have climbed onto a chair,” Kavanaugh said. “Or a table.”
Jenna shook her head. “It takes him five minutes to get out of a chair. Climbing on and off of one would take a week.”
“The forensics team is still analyzing the evidence,” Olson said, “but I would say it’s unlikely Wilford has the physical capability to be Ms. Gallagher’s killer.”
“But possible,” Kavanaugh said.
“And unlikely,” Olson repeated.
Jenna felt something in her chest loosen a bit. Wilford might not be off the suspect list entirely, but he was on the edge.
That was good enough for now.
Detective Olson held out a business card. “Thank you for your time, Jenna. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”
Jenna took the card and stood up. “We’re all done?”
“I might have some more questions for you, but we’re set for now.”
Garrett stood. “I’ll walk you out.”
Cabo opened the door to the receiving room and held it. Before Jenna got there Kavanaugh said, “Wait outside. I have some more questions for you right now.”
“About what?”
“About things I want to know.”
“I already told Detective Olson everything. And I need to go open my shop.”
Kavanaugh spoke through his teeth: “Just wait outside.”
He pointed at Cabo again. “Go with her. And tell McTavish about the drink.”
Jenna felt an outburst building in her throat, a rush of words about treating people the right way, how having money didn’t mean you could constantly be a bane to society. Probably something about bad taste in books too, just to crush him, even though it was a lie.
Garrett recognized the look and hustled her to the door. “You’re almost done. Just hang on a few more minutes, okay? You did great.”
He turned to go back into the den and almost ran into Cabo, who filled the doorway. Garrett’s face was about level with the bodyguard’s chest. He stepped back and puffed his own chest a bit.
“Just, uh, watch out for her, okay?”
Cabo nodded and stepped aside. Garrett went into the den. Cabo closed the door and looked at Jenna for a moment, seemed like he wanted to say something, then squinted and scanned the room and bar. Both were obviously empty.
“I don’t see McTavish.”
“Nope,” Jenna said. The tirade she’d worked up for Kavanaugh still simmered, and she had to be careful not to unleash it on an innocent bystander.
“I’ll go find him.”
“Good.”
Cabo opened his mouth to say something else, but nothing came out. His mouth stayed open and tried to form some sort of reassuring smile.
Jenna frowned.
They stared at each other, the awkwardness building.
Jenna said, “Is there a restroom nearby?”
“Oh thank God,” Cabo blurted. “Take a right in the hallway, first door on the left.”
“Thank you very much.”
Cabo headed for the door at the end of the bar that led to the dining room. “I’ll find McTavish. Let’s meet back here, okay?”
“Fine.”
“Go team.”
Jenna frowned again. Go team?
She walked through the furniture and up the steps into the hallway. She was turning right, toward the restroom, when she heard billiard balls clacking together.
Without thinking she spun on her heel and ran toward the game room.
She didn’t have much time.
Lawrence was still at the pool table. He had a half-full Bloody Mary balanced on the rim and was trying to poke the billiard balls into the holes using the butt-end of a hockey stick. The massive flatscreen TV showed golf highlights, which to Jenna seemed like an oxymoron.
Jenna kept one ear toward the hallway and said, “Lawrence, you--”
“Shush. This is a very important shot.”
He concentrated, slid the hockey stick back and forth across the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, then jabbed it against the cue ball, which corkscrewed ninety degrees to the left and hit nothing.
“Huh.” Lawrence let the hockey stick clatter to the floor. “I guess I’ll never be the world champion of Pockey.”
“Pockey?”
“Combination of pool and hockey. Full contact and no helmets. I just made it up.” He sipped his drink. “Wanna play? I bet you stink at it.”
“No, listen, I just had my interrogation, interview, whatever it was, and Kavanaugh was in there trying to point Detective Olson at different people. You were one of them.”
“Me? Why?” Lawrence spoke into his glass, which he’d tipped up to drain.
“Because you’re drunk, and he thinks it’s because you feel guilty.”
His brow furrowed. “About being drunk?”
“No, about killing Ingrid.”
“Pfft. Well, I didn’t do that, so poop on him.”
“Lawrence, look at me. Do you have an alibi for last night, right before the meeting? Anything that proves you didn’t kill her?”
“How about my word of honor?” Lawrence yelled. He tried to slam the glass down on an end table, missed, and had to catch himself so he wouldn’t crack his face on the edge. In the process he lost a shoe and farted quietly.
Jenna took the glass from him. “No more of these. Do you have an alibi or not? I won’t lie for you, but if there is anything else I can do to keep Kavanaugh from framing you, I’ll do it.”
“I don’t need your help.” Lawrence picked his shoe up and put it in his pocket like he’d planned to do that all along. “I happen to have a very good alibi for last night.”
Jenna waited. “Well?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Lawrence, stop screwing around.”
“I mean it, I can’t. I have to keep it secret, which sort of makes it the worst alibi ever, now that I think about it.”
“If it’s true, you have to tell Detective Olson.”
“Oh, it’s true.” Lawrence winced.
“If you don’t tell Olson, Kavanaugh will accuse you of murder. Not to mention, the real murderer might come after you next.”
Lawrence said nothing. He just held his breath and let his cheeks puff out.
“What is it?” Jenna asked.
He let the air escape in a wave of flammable fumes. “Okay. I was--”
“There you are.”
Jenna jumped and turned. Cabo loomed in the doorway holding half of an apple. The other half was in his mouth, getting pulverized.
“I thought we were gonna meet in the receiving room.”
“Right,” Jenna said. “I got lost.”
“Been there,” Cabo said. “Mr. Kavanaugh is waiting for you.” He looked past her at Lawrence. “And Detective Olson would like to see you now.”
“Do I have time to get another drink first?”
“Sure,” Cabo said, simultaneously with Jenna’s “No.”
Lawrence limped around her toward the door. He glanced down at his bare foot and seemed confused by it.
“Lawrence,” Jenna said.
“Hm?”
“Be careful.”
“Hey babe. I’m always careful.”
He tried to wink and point a finger gu
n at her, then ran into the door jamb.
Jenna followed Cabo down the hall, still simmering about Kavanaugh ordering her around.
Wait outside.
Tell me what I want to know.
Go here, do this.
Don’t go there or else.
They entered the receiving room and Jenna caught a last glimpse of Lawrence before he disappeared into the den. She moved toward the steps, looking for Kavanaugh, mostly so she could tell him to stick it.
“This way,” Cabo said. He walked toward the stairway to the second floor.
Jenna crossed her arms and didn’t follow. “Where are we going?”
“He wants to talk in the library.”
“The library?”
All those books.
The smells.
The reading chair!
“Yeah, it’s private,” Cabo said. “Nobody ever goes in there.”
Jenna followed. “Well, I guess I should at least hear him out…”
Kavanaugh stood near the far-right window reading a thick leather-bound volume.
Jenna waited near the door, resisting the pull of the shelves closest to her. There was a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird with a dark blue cloth spine and golden foil lettering almost close enough to reach, and it begged to be drawn out, eased open, and inhaled.
Cabo stood near the wall and seemed unsure about leaning against it.
Kavanaugh hefted the book. “One of my favorites. A Treatise on Fair Negotiations in the Lumber Industry.”
“That sounds like the most boring book ever,” Jenna said, eyeing its gorgeous paper, nearly tan with age, from afar. “How many pages?”
“Seven hundred and sixty four,” he said, without having to check.
“Yep. That’s a lot of boring.”
Kavanaugh chuckled, closed the book, and slid it into a gap among similar spines. The sound of it sliding against the other books and thumping into place made Jenna sigh.
Kavanaugh turned to her and put his hands in his pockets. “What do you know about Lost Haven?”
“The whole town?”
“The history,” Kavanaugh said.
Was this a trick question? She was the town historian…
“Everything,” Jenna said.
Kavanaugh pushed his lips out and nodded. “Everything. That’s good. How about Sanctuary?”
