“What are you talking about?” I ask, leaning over to see what he’s looking at. It’s Del Hargrave’s website. “Holy crap,” I say. The list of her services is long and detailed.
Travis looks up. “Our little Veronica is all growned-up now.” He’s affecting a Hillbilly accent.
Michael returns with his laptop. “We can see Veronica getting a mouthful of dirt.”
“How?” I ask.
“The nanny cam,” Michael says, pulling up the data on his computer.
I’d forgotten about the nanny cam. Juniper gave it to me after Griffin got too big for it, informing his mother that it was an invasion of his privacy. Now I’m wondering if he’s right. I stuck it in my office and promptly forgot all about it. “I don’t think I ever turned it on.”
“You don’t have to. It operates off a motion sensor. Whenever someone comes in the room, it turns on automatically,” Michael says.
“Maybe I should scroll through this before you see it. I didn’t realize I was recording myself.”
Michael ignores me. “From what I can tell, the camera is pointed at your client’s chair,” Michael says. He’s punching in the time and date.
We all lean in closer to look. There it is. Veronica is crying and breaking things, whirling around like that cartoon the Tasmanian Devil. Then I come in and we both yell and the entire rest of the incident is right there for all of us to see.
“Can we upload this to the web?” Travis asks.
“No!” both Michael and I say simultaneously.
“Why not?” Travis asks.
“Because you can’t record someone without their knowledge,” I say. That nanny cam has to go. Veronica and I have been known to have trysts in my office.
“But they do it all the time in convenience stores,” Travis says defensively.
“And they inform the customer by telling them they are under surveillance,” Michael says. “You’ve seen the signs: Smile! You’re on camera.” He keeps replaying the scene where Veronica gets a face full of potting soil. “This is so good,” he says, laughing. “If you play it backwards it looks like she’s Linda Blair, except with dirt instead of pea soup.
Travis looks over at me and smiles. “You did good. She’s had that coming for a long time.”
I wish I could show London. She hates Veronica, but I don’t want her to know I illegally recorded her. “We should destroy this,” I say.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Travis says, putting his arms in front of the computer.
“I don’t want to get in trouble. Knowing Veronica, she’ll prosecute,” I say.
“You need to keep this for leverage,” Michael says.
“Need I remind you that blackmail is also against the law?” I say.
“You wouldn’t be blackmailing her per se, you’re just keeping the upper hand, that’s all,” Michael says.
Travis smiles. Michael smiles. Then I smile, too. Having the upper hand for once feels good.
***
We’re all dressed head-to-toe in black. Travis wanted to paint our faces black, but I put the kibosh on that. I told him it was overkill. (Also, we could be mistaken for horrible, overt racists.) We’re standing at the gate, waiting for London and the tech to get here. The fairgrounds are creepy at night. It looks like a zombie apocalypse struck the fair and no one is left to roam around looking at farm equipment, giant vegetables, and eating food off sticks. I’m not the only one who thinks it’s creepy. Michael huddles in close to Travis.
“It’s scary in here like something bad might happen,” Michael says, shuddering.
“Let’s not go there,” I say.
“Did you bring your gun?” Travis asks.
“Of course not. We’re bringing in a well-armed police officer—that should cover it,” I snap.
“Yeah, that banana of yours is definitely out-gunned,” Travis says. He smirks.
We might have exchanged more words about my dislike of guns and how a banana, especially a green one, can be used to put out an eye.
London and Ben the tech arrive in her Crown Vic. She gets out and smiles at me, giving me a coy wink. She knows what that does to me—my hormones get all stirred up.
London introduces Ben. He’s got long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, a goatee, and his arms have full tat sleeves. He sees me staring. “You like my ink?”
“They’re beautiful,” I say reverently. No kidding, the art is like looking at the Sistine Chapel except on flesh.
He pulls up his T-shirt sleeve. “I’ve got the entire cast of Alice in Wonderland,” he says, pointing out Alice, the Cheshire cat, and the Mad Hatter. They are amazing and my longing for a tattoo resurfaces. I think a tattoo would add to my image of what a tough guy private eye I am. But it’s a decision that will have lifelong implications. That’s where I founder. I can’t decide on what tattoo I want to live with forever.
“Alice in Wonderland? Seems like an odd choice for a guy,” London says leaning in to look at Alice when she ate the mushroom and is really big.
“Dude, you do not understand the social issues that book contains. It’s all about life and the choices we make; the consequences of those choices; examples of the lunacy of the world; the power structure in a world that favors the rich and allows them unlimited powers,” Ben says.
London holds up her hand. “Sorry I said anything.”
“And I’m a feminist,” Ben adds.
“O-k-a-y,” London says. “Shall we get on with it?”
Michael hops up and down and then does the splits. “I can hardly wait. The anticipation is killing me. He pops up and executes a perfect pirouette.
“Dude, you should be in Cirque du Soleil,” Ben says.
“It’s just something I do when I’m stressed,” Michael says humbly.
“Yeah, we should go,” London says. “You’ve got the key?”
“There’s an entrance code and then the butter barn has a good old-fashioned key,” I say, holding it up.
I lead them to the service entrance of the fairgrounds, enter the code, and the gate pops open. “Betty Butter notified security that we were coming, but there’s not much of a chance of running into them. I’m thinking butter theft is not a high priority.”
“So, it wouldn’t be difficult to get in here if you were a butter contestant,” London says as we make our way to the butter barn.
“Betty says that the butter carvers do come in to practice. Not everyone has a cold room in their house,” I say.
We pass the dairy barn where the ranchers have their trailers. Some lights emanate dimly from the travel trailers. All in all, it’s pretty quiet.
London studies the group of trailers. “Do these people have access to the entire fairgrounds?”
I see where she’s going with this. “I think so. They’re here because of the animals. They need to be close to their stock.”
“It also increases the number of suspects,” London says.
“It’s Caroline Swank, I’m sure of it,” Travis says, looking at the cluster of trailers.
“Hunch?” London says.
“Deep in my core. She’s the only one who stands to benefit. A hundred thousand is a lot of money. People murder for a lot less,” Travis says.
“Dude’s got a point,” Ben says. He adjusts the shoulder strap of his kit bag.
I’m excited to see what’s in it. I’ve seen them do a blood splatter test on television but never up close.
We get to the butter barn. I open it up. The street lights from the fair scatter patches of light across the large room.
Michael locates the light switches. “Watch your eyes.”
We see what he means as the whole place lights up.
“Wow,” London says. “Pretty bright place to commit a murder.”
“There’s a back room behind the butter booths,” Travis says. “Follow me.”
Crossing the room, I look over at Caroline’s block of butter. It seems abnormally tall like she intends to sculpt the Empire
State building. I look over at Travis’s block. Caroline’s block is at least a foot taller.
“Travis, has Caroline told anyone what she plans on carving?”
He shakes his head. “No. She’s keeping it a secret. I asked Arthur if that’s normal and he said lots of the carvers don’t want their competition knowing anything.”
The back room is long and narrow. The giant cooler that holds the blocks of butter is at one end. The rest of the room has tables and equipment. On one wall hangs aprons that the carvers use to hold tools and keep their clothes from getting buttery.
“Where do you want me to start?” Ben asks.
Travis pipes up, “I think we should do Caroline’s carving area and then Lehane’s station.”
“Probably the cooler, too,” Michael says, not wanting to be outdone by Travis.
“I’m on it,” Ben says.
London looks at the temperature gauge that controls the butter booths. “Thirty-seven degrees, huh?”
“They need it cold enough to keep the butter from getting too soft when they carve,” I explain. “Why? You think the temperature is important?
“A morgue cooler is kept at roughly the same temperature,” London says.
“So, the perp could put a dead body in the cooler while she or he makes plans for disposal?” I ask.
“It’s a possibility,” London says. “Hey, Ben, check the butter booths as well.”
“Got it,” he responds.
Michael and Travis lean over Ben’s shoulders as he gathers up his equipment. Picking up a spray bottle and grabbing a blue light, Ben makes his way around the walls of the back room with Travis and Michael at his heels. He doesn’t seem to mind. I stand with London. She appears to be thinking. Right now, I need her insight. It’s two days from the competition and time is running out. Someone killed Lehane Noster and I aim to prove it.
“What’s in the spray bottle?” Travis asks.
“Luminol,” Ben says. “It makes blood glow in the dark.”
“Hmm…” Travis says. He clasps his hands behind his back and looks attentive as he follows Ben around.
“Do you think that Caroline would’ve used a gun?” I ask London.
“It’s pretty loud, but let’s check to see if she’s got a permit,” London says. She whips out her cell phone.
“She seems like too much of a lady to go blasting people away,” Michael says.
“There’ve been some very lady-like killers before, believe me,” London says, staring intently at her phone and scrolling.
“Really?” Michael says delighted. “Who are they? Oh, wait, can you reveal their identities?”
“It’s part of the public record,” London says not looking up from her phone.
“Travis,” Michael calls out. “We absolutely have to look up dangerous lady killers.”
“Okay, whatever you say,” Travis says. He’s holding a rolling pin and testing its weight. He looks over at me and raises one eyebrow.
“Blunt head trauma?” I venture.
“It’s made of marble,” Travis says, bringing it over to me and London. “And I found it wrapped up under Caroline’s carving table.”
London puts her phone away and considers the rolling pin. “Well, it’s not a bad hunch. Caroline Swank is not a gun owner.” She takes the rolling pin from Travis and hefts it. “It’s definitely possible. Hey, Ben, I need you to spray the carving tools and this rolling pin when you’re done there,” London calls out.
Ben sticks his head out of one of the butter booths. “Sure thing, boss.” He heads over to the carving tables and sprays. He looks around, checking to see if he’s missed anything. Satisfied, he pulls out a Cliff energy bar from his kit bag. “It takes a few minutes for the Luminol to work.” He holds up his energy bar. “Anyone want one? I got a whole box here.”
“I’ll take one,” Michael says.
“Totally, Dude, with those moves you make, you need your strength.”
Ben’s phone rings. He looks down at his screen. “It’s my girlfriend checking up on me.” He sighs and picks up. He rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not done yet. Just go to bed.” This is followed by, “I know. I know. I know.”
London walks over and takes his phone. She presses it to her own ear and says, “Look Cynthia, we’re in the middle of a murder investigation. He’ll be home when he gets home.” She clicks off.
“Thanks, Dude. She’s jealous of you, you know. I’ve told her like a zillion times you’re a lesbian but she’s still suspicious. I told her that once you go woman you don’t go back. Then she brings up Melissa Etheridge’s girlfriend, you know the one that was married to that La Bamba guy.”
“Exception to the rule,” I say in defense of my sister lesbians. “I’m not even sure she was a lesbian.”
“Evidently, Melissa found that out the hard way,” London says.
“She’s in a better place now,” I say.
“How much blood would we be looking at?” London asks Ben, “If he got hit from behind with a rolling pin or another implement?”
“Not that much. It’d pool rather than spatter,” he says. He shoves the rest of his energy bar in his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly. “Ready for lights out?” he inquires.
“Sure,” London says. She gives me the signal and I hit the lights.
We look around in the semi-darkness. The room has some light that seeps in through the windows. We all begin to look around hoping to find the one crucial piece of evidence that proves Lehane was killed here.
Much to our disappointment, the rolling pin shows no blood. London coordinates quadrants for each of us to check out. “It’ll save time, but look closely,” she tells us. The two of us head toward the butter cooler.
“Is this a wild goose chase?” I ask uncertainly.
London opens the door to the cooler. We stare at the far wall of the cooler. At the base of it there’s a small pool of fluorescent-glowing blood. “Nope.”
I know it’s in poor taste to fist-pump a pool of blood, but I can’t help myself. “Yes!”
“I’ll need to take statements from all the people that had access to the cooler,” London says.
Travis finds us. He stares at the glowing spot. “I was going to be all disappointed because we couldn’t find any proof. And here it is! Michael, come look,” he calls out. Michael and Ben race over.
“I’ll get a sample, so we can check the DNA but I’d say we found our murder spot,” Ben says.
“Now we just need to find our murderer,” I say.
Chapter Twelve
I’m sitting with Travis and Michael at the beer tent. Pardon me, the Biergarten. It’s only ten-thirty in the morning, so business is slow. London is conducting interviews, using Betty Butter’s office, and Ivan is napping at my feet. I have my elbows on the bar and my head in my hands. I’m exhausted from our late-night escapades.
Last night, I felt good about what we found. I felt like we’d triumphed, but now I’m not so sure. How can we prove that Caroline did it when there’s no body? We can’t even come up with a time of death. So, unless Caroline confesses, we’re stuck. London is a great interrogator but being able to tell if someone is lying doesn’t mean it’ll hold up in court. At this point, London doesn’t have enough proof to get a search warrant. She told me all this last night before she kissed me good night.
“Why are you so glum?” Travis asks.
“We need a body, or we don’t really have a case,” I say.
“She did it. I can feel it in my bones,” Michael says. He hands me a bag of tiny donuts and a coffee. I thank him.
“So, all we need to do is scare her and she’ll make a move,” Travis says.
“And how do we do that?” I ask. “We’ve only got one more day before the competition. Then Caroline will get her one hundred thousand dollars and leave the country or something and poor Lehane’s murder goes unsolved. He deserves better than that.”
I munch on the donuts and sip the coffee. The sugar and
caffeine lift my mood a little. I think about what Travis says. Caroline wants to win so badly that she killed. What if she doesn’t win the competition? Would that be enough to set her off? But how would we do that? I don’t think the judges would go for that. A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money and to rig the contest would open a whole can of worms and could delegitimize the butter competition forever. I think of Arthur and the others and how much of their lives they’ve devoted to this. It’s an ethical quandary. I hate those.
London comes over. She’s been interviewing people since eight o’clock this morning. She doesn’t look happy. I offer her a donut. She eats it and gets sugar on her lips. I have to tamp down my urge to lick it off. I can’t believe I’m having sexual thoughts when we’re in the middle of a murder investigation.
“I interviewed Caroline Swank,” London says.
“What happened? Michael asks breathlessly.
“I didn’t get a confession, let’s just start there. Caroline told us that Lehane cut his hand last time she saw him, which was the same day he went missing. Although, we don’t know when he really went missing. That puts us at a real disadvantage. I thought maybe by interviewing Caroline, she’d let something slip, but she is one cool cucumber.”
“What about the cover up?” Travis asks.
“Cover up?” London asks raising her eyebrows.
“Why did the blood get cleaned up?” Travis replies. “Someone tried to hide it.”
“I inquired about that. According to the maintenance man, the coolers get cleaned with bleach every day. He didn’t see anything when he mopped the cooler. Lehane could’ve cleaned it up himself,” London says.
We all slump our shoulders in mutual disappointment. “What we need is a body, which we don’t have,” London says.
“We should brainstorm over cocktails at Burt’s tonight,” Travis says. “Thursdays are usually slow.”
“All right,” London says. She touches my shoulder. “We’ll find who did this, okay?”
I nod.
“I’ll see you all tonight, then,” London says.
For Butter or Worse Page 15
