No Ponzi scheme here. Looks more like she actually improved most of her subs' finances, at least if all the rave reviews on her site are to be believed. P.S. I now have a fallback career if computer genius doesn't work out.
Don't tell your father about that. His head will literally explode. Not that Brett was a prude, but no man wanted to hear his daughter declare a major in ball busting.
Just like no public official would enjoy having his sister exposed as an exploiter of vulnerable men's finances. It was one thing to have it confined to her personal life but another that she was making a few bucks off the side business. I could see the headlines from where I sat.
And while Michael O'Flannigan and Elijah Hawthorn both had alibis, Congressman Whitmore—Alan—didn't. I'd called his personal assistant, Wesley Cummings, to check up.
"Wednesday night, you said? The congressman was due to speak at a teacher's meeting in South Boston, but he wasn't feeling well and went home early. I had to rearrange his whole schedule for the week." He sounded as teed off about the change of schedule as the cat was at being in the carrier.
I'd hung up the phone feeling a little sick. I hadn't wanted Alan Whitmore to be the bad guy. Not just because I was attracted to him, but he seemed so genuinely upset over the loss of his big sister. Yet the evidence was piling up. His motive looked stronger than anyone else's. The police had determined that Lois had known her killer, had taken him into the office. He'd rushed the medical examiner through the autopsy, to get Lois in the ground as soon as possible. With his career and reputation on the line and no alibi, had he decided to kill the sister who'd raised him?
The evidence might be circumstantial, but if I gave it to Len, he could use it to instill reasonable doubt for his client. And even the stink of suspicion would have detrimental effects on Whitmore's political career.
"See, cat, this is why I don't vote. There are no decent people left to root for. All their agendas are self-interested."
Hercules didn't respond.
"Giving me the silent treatment? Fine." I turned onto the road where Crystal's father lived, wondering if Hercules was going to become my permanent responsibility. I didn't want him, but neither did I want to just hand his cranky self over to a potential murderer. The guilt would eat me alive.
Not unlike the cat.
I had no trouble finding the house. It was halfway down the dead-end street, a dingy gray Cape Cod with a sagging roof. The gutters overflowed with last year's leaves, and the miniscule front yard had a plethora of branches and dormant weeds. The ancient Chevy had rust on the rear quarter panel. Even if I didn't know the backstory, I would have been able to tell the person who resided within had priorities other than home or automotive maintenance.
Like finding his next fix.
I fished my phone out of my pocket and wished I had pepper spray or a stun gun, something nonlethal that would help save my idiotic self if Crystal's drugged-out dad decided to get rough with me.
I eyed the cat carrier but dismissed it. I wouldn't traumatize the cat by setting him loose on the man. Even if part of me might like to see what he'd do.
Instead, I popped the trunk, reached in, and held on to a tire iron. Better than nothing, and as an added bonus I could use it to break a window if I saw him collapsed on the floor.
I decided to circle the house once and peek through the window to get a better read on the situation. Crystal had said she'd whacked him with the toaster when he'd come at her in the kitchen. If he hadn't rebounded from the altercation, that's where I'd find him. It was also possible that he would be passed out with a needle in his arm. Either way I was ready to call 9-1-1 if necessary.
After tucking the tire iron beneath my trench coat, I made my way up the cracked concrete walkway to the front door. I pressed the doorbell and stood back, all ready for an excuse about a missing cat if he answered.
Nothing.
I knocked. Waited. Still no response.
The backyard wasn't fenced. I peered into the windows along the left side as I went by. They were the old-fashioned aluminum frame, single-pane style and wore several layers of grime. I had to practically press my nose to the filmy glass to see anything.
The lack of proper seals and thin glass carried sound. A television was on. I couldn't see it, but judging from the noise, it sat almost directly beneath the window. The canned laughter of an old sitcom blaring from its tinny speakers. That told me nothing. It could have been on since Crystal left.
I ducked down and went to the next window, this one in no better shape. A different angle on the living room. I could see the brick mantel surrounding the fireplace, and in the opposite corner a brown Barcalounger sagged in lonely exhaustion. A tatty couch sat next to it.
No man on the floor or on the furniture. On to the kitchen.
The next window was an arrow-slit style, too high up for me to peer into. A bathroom or maybe the laundry room. What was I going to do if I couldn't see him from out here? Break in and risk having to call Len to bail me out of jail? Or call the police and turn Crystal over to them myself? Maybe call Hunter and drop the whole mess on his broad shoulders.
Except I didn't want to do that. I knew the man well enough to know he would handle it, but I didn't want Crystal having even that much power over my man, nor to ask him to save her because she was too incompetent to save herself.
Plus, I had to admit I sort of…got her. I'd been all set to instantly dislike her because she'd played games with my man and then tossed him away. I'd imagined her to be manipulative and selfish, especially after seeing her naked in his bed. But she wasn't like that, not really. She'd been afraid, and honestly, she hadn't known about me or that Hunter was involved with someone else. If I felt my life or Mac's was on the line, wouldn't I try anything to feel safe, up to and including seduction?
Not that we were going to hit the mall together or anything, but she was going to extreme lengths to help take care of a man who'd tried to kill her because he was her kin. If she hadn't been the woman who'd broken Hunter's heart, we might have even been friends.
The back door had a pane of glass in the center bisected both horizontally and vertically. This was the cleanest glass I'd seen, probably because the door looked new. Really new, like it still had a sticker on the glass.
I moved in closer until I could see inside. No lights on, but there was enough ambient light to see the grimy kitchen. Plates and dishes in the sink, processed food wrappers on the table. No body on the floor. Taking a deep breath, I rapped smartly against the window.
"He ain't home." The voice was thick with Southie and cigarettes.
I turned and spied a middle-aged Caucasian woman wearing a purple bathrobe and the curliest hair I'd ever seen. The curls weren't tight like a perm, just big loose floppy things that looked like noodles. "Hi, I'm Mackenzie. When was the last time you saw him, Ms…?"
"O'Dell. Margie O'Dell."
"When was the last time you saw your neighbor?"
She shook her head, sausage curls bouncing. "Don't know. There was a ruckus a few nights ago, hollerin' and stuff being tossed around. I called the cops, but it was quiet by the time they showed. The place has been dark for days."
I'd gotten in the habit of stuffing a few business cards into my jacket pocket. I retrieved one and handed it to her. "Do me a favor. If you see him, give me a call."
"See him again?" She tilted her head and studied my card. "What's a PI want with a loser like Gus?"
"Nothing bad," I assured her. "He may have information about a case I'm working on."
"It's your funeral," she muttered and then ducked back into her house.
"Speaking of which…" I ran for Helga.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"People hide their true natures for all sorts of reasons. Don't rush to judge someone based on the façade they present to the world." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI
The funeral for Lois O'Flannigan
was a graveside ceremony. Metal folding chairs with padded seats and backs had been lined up in neat rows. Thanks to Crystal and her father, I was both late and not properly dressed for a funeral, so I slipped into a vacant chair, the cat carrier at my feet. I spied Alan Whitmore immediately, standing by himself off to one side in a black wool trench coat. His gaze was fixed on the casket, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He looked angry, and I wondered why. Wesley Cummings stood a discreet several feet away, his head turned down in respect.
Several familiar faces from The Shipping Lane were present, including the cute bartender who liked to play kitty. There was no sign of my father or Michael O'Flannigan. Elijah Hawthorn sat in the third row directly across the aisle from me. His red-rimmed eyes focused at the mahogany coffin littered with lilies and carnations. He stared at the casket as though he could burn holes through it with his eyes.
The flowers stood out brilliantly against the gray afternoon sky. No rain fell, but the wind tugged at coats and hair and carried the minister's voice back to where I sat.
The minister had a booming voice that held more stage presence than comfort as he read from the Bible. "…and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die."
At that moment the congressman looked up and caught my gaze. His expression was anguished.
He didn't do it. I don't know where the surety came from, but my inner voice believed every word. I had to fight the impulse to move to Alan's side and reach for his broad back to place a comforting hand on it. Had to struggle to keep all Mac had unearthed in the front of my mind. I was here as an observer, someone who could hopefully help bring Lois's killer to justice, not to comfort her brother. This was my job, he was a suspect, and my stupid feelings had no place here.
He held my gaze as the clergyman stepped back, closed his Bible. Held it as the casket was lowered into the ground. I searched for remorse, guilt, even anger, relief, anything that might indicate his guilt.
But all I could see was sorrow.
And looking into his eyes at that moment, I experienced the heartache, too. Not for Lois but for Uncle Al, the last person I'd watched lowered into the ground. My father. I'd been sad of course, but I had barely known the man, hadn't even known enough to mourn him properly. He'd given me so much, though, and my hand instinctively went into my purse until I found the much-loved copy of his unpublished manuscript that I'd taken to carrying around since I found out about our connection. I lived in the man's apartment, drove his car, and did his job. I was only sorry he wasn't there to see any of it.
The coffin reached the bottom, and Alan turned away. He picked a wreath of pink and yellow roses off a nearby table and moved toward the grave. He bowed his head for a full minute. No one said a word. It was such a private moment to witness as he said good-bye. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I caught a flicker of movement as his assistant wiped at his eyes. Funny, I hadn't thought of Wesley as having emotions beyond agitation and stress. I wondered how long he'd worked for the congressman and how well he'd known Lois.
"Let me through," a voice bellowed from behind me. I, along with every other person in the crowd, turned just in time to see Michael O'Flannigan trying to tug himself free from the grip of a couple of big guys who were dressed in black and had wires trailing up over their ears. Two security goons for the congressman most likely. "She was my wife!"
I turned just in time to catch Alan Whitmore's reaction. His lips pressed into a grim line, and his eyes burned. My gaze slid first to Elijah Hawthorn and then to Sean the bartending cat man. Elijah had gotten to his feet, and Sean stared stupidly, as though he didn't know what to make of the spectacle.
The beefy Irishman yanked one arm free and stumbled, landing face first onto the dormant grass. The cat in the carrier beside me hissed, and people had started to murmur.
"Mikey." This from Reg Taylor, who'd just jogged into view up the hill. "Come on, man. Don't do this."
"She was my treasure," Michael roared. "The love of my life."
"Get him out of here," Alan barked to his security personnel.
"I have every right to be here!" O'Flannigan boomed as the burly brutes closed in around him. "You can flex the law and bribe your judge friends all you want, but it doesn't change the fact I would never kill Lois! She was the best thing that ever happened to me."
More murmurs in the crowd. And then one voice, clear as crystal. "If not you, then who?"
Elijah Hawthorn looked furious, his hands clenched into fists. Behind him, the congressman had paled to the color of ash.
Michael blinked at him, no sign of recognition on his face. I wondered if he'd drunk away the memory of the band members or if Elijah just wasn't that memorable. I was having a hard time placing him, and he was standing right in front of me.
"Who the devil are you?" Michael staggered, and the Captain caught him.
Elijah's chin jutted. "I was her lover."
"One of them," someone near me muttered. "She was making time with the younger O'Flannigan too. Wonder why he's not here?"
"Didn't you hear?" The woman in front of her turned around. "He got run over only last night."
Java preserve me, the funeral was a hairsbreadth from turning into a total free-for-all gossip bashing the deceased.
Hercules yowled again. I stared down at him, and he looked up at me, big yellow eyes pleading.
My father was still trying to talk sense into his business partner, extending one hand to keep the second security officer at bay. With luck he would keep his mouth shut the same way he had about Uncle Al for the last few months.
I stood up and spoke out loud. "I'd like to say something."
The minister's eyes were the size of duck eggs, but he beckoned me forward.
Cat carrier in hand, I picked my way around the row until I could stand before the hole in the ground. Alan Whitmore stood rooted to the spot. I could feel his eyes on me as I spoke.
"I didn't know Lois very long before she died," I began. "She had her secrets, the way we all do. Things we don't talk about in polite company. Some of them are just private. Others are darker and can eat away at us from the inside. But I believe she was a good person. Someone who'd spent her life trying to help people. This was her cat." I held Hercules aloft. "He's a grouchy and miserable beast, entitled and spoiled rotten. He's scratched me and my dog since he's been at my place, and my daughter is afraid of him. I sort of hate him a little bit."
A few chuckles.
I pushed on. "But Lois was different. She made room in her heart to love him, to take care of him, in spite of all his flaws. She raised her little brother, helped him to succeed. She gave and gave and asked for very little in return. Even knowing her for a short while has brought back my faith in human decency. We should all have someone like Lois in our lives."
A hand landed on my shoulder. I turned and looked up into the grateful eyes of Congressman Whitmore.
"Thank you," he said softly.
I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I just nodded.
On the hilltop, Michael O'Flannigan had quit struggling, and Elijah Hawthorn dissolved into tears. Sean the Irish cat man winked at me. I shuddered and turned away.
The Captain stared at me as though he'd never seen me before with something like…respect in his gaze.
The moment was one of the best ones of my life.
Until it shattered.
"Isn't that your daughter?" Michael's voice carried over the quiet hillside. "The PI we hired to find the treasure?"
* * *
"You're a PI?" Alan Whitmore's tone sounded deceptively calm. "A PI hired by my sister's ex-husband?"
Alan had waited to approach me until the crowd had thinned, waited until after I'd helped the Captain load Michael O'Flannigan into the back seat of his Cadillac. Part of me wanted to go with them, to escape the comeuppance. But that was the coward's way out.
Squaring my shoulders, I turned to face the man I'd been lying to. "I can explain."
He didn't l
ook furious, just hurt. "Did you even know her?"
I probably knew her better than he did, what with all the unearthing of her private affairs, but I didn't want to mention that. "We'd met."
"You came to her house, told me you two were friends, and I believed you. You lied to my face, and I believed you. But you were using me the entire time."
The martyr act made my hackles rise. "Look, I had a job to do. I didn't want to lie to you, but I needed an in. I'm not a bad person." Even if I kinda felt like one in the moment.
He took a deep breath. "Was any of it real?"
Before I could respond, he shook his head. "Of course not. How could it be when everything you told me was part of the deception."
He had me squarely on the defensive, and I needed to turn it back around on him. "Oh, come on. You surround yourself with habitual liars for a living. I bet you've fudged a few truths to get what you wanted."
Instead of getting his back up, he agreed with me. "I have, and you're right. That's why I strive for total honesty in my personal relationships."
"We weren't in a relationship," I pointed out.
"No," he agreed. "And now we never will be."
He moved to walk away. It was too bad. We did have that spark. Ultimately though it couldn't go anywhere. Maybe if we'd met under other circumstances, things might have been different.
Stuffing down my hurt at the missed opportunity, I caught his arm. "Where were you the night Lois was killed?"
The question took a minute to sink in. His face turned from blank to shock. "Are you asking if I murdered my sister?"
"Just checking to see if you have an alibi."
He exhaled. "I had an event, but I wasn't feeling well, so I went home early."
"Anyone who can vouch for you?"
"My driver and security team. Feel free to question them."
The damage was already done. I might as well see this through. "Anyone not in your employ?"
He tugged free of me. "Mackenzie, I had no reason to hurt my sister. I loved her. And if you don't know that by now, we have nothing further to say."
Sleuthing for the Weekend Page 18
