4 Four Play (14 page)

***

“Something smells delicious,” Peter said as everyone converged on the kitchen. “I’ve worked up quite an appetite sleuthing.”

“With no results,” Rita muttered. She poked her head into the oven and informed us the chicken tetrazzini needed ten more minutes.

“I love chicken!” Frankie said.

Rita slowly lifted her head from checking on dinner, and Frankie lost his smile. “Algebra!” she snapped, and the kids dashed out.

She redirected her glare at me.

I glared back. “Frankie was only trying to be polite, Rita. He’s thrilled you invited him to dinner.”

“That better be the only thing that thrills him.”

I silently appealed to Peter. He nodded, and I excused myself to go talk to the teenagers.

“I will not tolerate these incessant delays,” Rita called out as I made my escape. “I know police brutality when I see it!”

I heard Peter remind her I am not a cop as an arm reached out from what must have been the den and yanked me inside.

***

I was immediately engulfed in the three-way hug, with much jumping up and down.

Eventually I was released, and Frankie and I watched as Lizzie hopped, skipped, and jumped across the room.

“I, like, can’t thank you enough!” she said as she recovered from bouncing mode. “My mother is in, like, such a good mood about Frankie and me!”

“That’s a good mood?”

“She’s being really nice!”

I mumbled something about needing to sit down, and the teenagers escorted me to the couch.

Lizzie must have seen me glance at the piano. “Would you like, like, me to play something?” she asked. “I know some Beatles songs, and Frankie told me you, like, like The Beatles, and I’m trying to get Mom to buy me an electric piano, so I can, like, join a girl group. Kristi St. Clair asked me, and she’s, like, this great singer and plays guitar, and Judy Tobler plays the drums, and—”

“Lizzie.” Frankie tapped her knee. “Miss Jessie isn’t here to talk about music.”

“Sleuthing! This is, like, great practice for me!” Lizzie deftly changed course. “Learning how to prove who’s, like, innocent, and who’s, like, guilty, since I want to be a lawyer like my father and Darcy. They have all these interesting cases. Like, right now Darcy’s defending a guy accused of murder, and she’s investigating just like we are!”

“Darcy is your father’s fiancée?”

“That’s right. Darcy Kovacs. She’s, like, why I want to be a lawyer.”

“Mr. Harrison thinks you want to be a pianist.”

Lizzie shrugged. “I, like, change my mind all the time. Do you think that’s okay, Ms. Hewitt?”

I said it seemed perfectly reasonable to me. “You’re only sixteen.”

“How about you?” she asked. “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer? Like, when you were young?”

Bless her heart, Lizzie seemed truly interested in my response, so I told her I had been interested in three things as a teenager. “English literature, shooting pool, and basketball. Somehow I knew I’d never earn a living at basketball.”

“So you became a novelist? Because, like, you knew you couldn’t make a living playing pool either?”

Frankie and I exchanged a meaningful look, and he reminded his girlfriend I was there to discuss Ms. Jilton. “What can we do to help?” he asked me.

“You can tell me why people think she was shot.”

“Because that’s what we told everyone,” he said.

“For Lord’s sake, why?”

“Because she was, wasn’t she?”

“Frankie,” I said. “Did you see any blood?”

“No.” He scowled. “But isn’t that how everyone gets killed?”

I thought about it and decided what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. “Stick to that same story if the subject comes up again,” I said, and they promised they would.

“Is that it?” Lizzie asked. “Like, can’t we help more than that?”

“Actually, you can answer some questions for me.” I assumed my most authoritative adult look. “But I’m depending on your discretion. Do you understand?”

They rolled their eyes. “We know what discretion means,” Frankie said.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, so tell me about Focus on Fiction.”

“Oh, yeah! Ms. Jilton was the judge for that.” He slumped. “I didn’t win.”

“Don’t tell me you were you a finalist?”

“No, but I entered. I wanted to do well so you’d be proud of me.”

“But I am proud of you!” I smiled. “And I absolutely must read your story.”

“You’ll love it!” Lizzie bounced forward. “It’s, like, a horror story, science fiction, and mystery all in one. There’s these lake monsters—the Septosauruses, or Septosauri—that come back to life after, like, millions of years, and they terrorize this little town, Lake Looksee, because Frankie wanted it to be like Lake Lookadoo, but, like, fictional, and, the Septosauri are, like, octopuses—octopi—but with only seven tentacles, and they get into everyone’s plumbing. Do you get it? Septo-Septic? They pop out of people’s sinks and stuff and, like, strangle people!” She squealed in delight. “Doesn’t that sound good!?”

“I can’t wait to read it!”

***

Believe it or not, we somehow managed to forget about the Septosauri and focus our attention on the Focus on Fiction finalists.

I point-blank asked the kids if any of the sore losers could have committed murder.

They pursed their lips and gave it some thought. “No” was the mutual conclusion.

“Good,” I said. I again mentioned the discretion thing and asked about Paige Ashton and Cory Hanks. “Anything interesting there?”

“Paige’s father was seeing Ms. Jilton,” Frankie said.

I groaned out loud. “Let me guess. You knew about this all along.”

“Like, everyone knew,” Lizzie said.

“I have news for you, Lizzie! Captain Rye spent a lot of time figuring out that little detail.”

“Like, really?”

I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. “Was Paige okay with her father dating her teacher?”

“She was embarrassed,” Lizzie said. “That’s why she started seeing Cory. To, like, embarrass her father back.”

I asked why dating Cory Hanks would be an issue and learned he was a bit of a trouble-maker. But he was also a bit of a clown, and Frankie and Lizzie liked him.

“Paige broke up with him today,” Frankie said.

“Oh?”

“I have biology class with Mary Alice Meyer, who’s, like, Paige’s best friend,” Lizzie said. “Mary Alice told me Paige got, like, really sad for her father yesterday, because he was crying all day, and so she broke up with Cory to, like, make her father feel better.”

“How did Cory feel about that?” I asked. “Was he upset?”

“He was relieved,” Frankie said. “He joked around about it during gym. He said if Paige had broken up with him before the cotillion, he wouldn’t have had to wear a penguin suit on Saturday. Isn’t that a great name for a tuxedo, Miss Jessie? Penguin suit?”

“Cory comes up with funny stuff like that, like, all the time,” Lizzie told me, and I had to agree Cory Hanks sounded like quite the card.

Chapter 19

The good news? Sullivan Street was demonstration-free by the time Peter and I arrived home.

The bad news? Everyone and his brother had called, at least once, while I was away from home and without my cell phone. Candy held the record, with three messages on my land line and four on my cell. The poor woman. If memory served, I promised her I’d run right back upstairs to hear her urgent news when I had gone downstairs—I checked the time—six hours earlier.

I saved her and Karen for last, told Snowflake life is short, and set about hitting delete.

Needless to say, Jimmy Beak’s three messages were the first to go.

Also deleted with nary a second thought were the various messages from my ex-husband. Like I said, life is short. And after months of angst and anger after our divorce, I do believe I had finally learned to ignore Mr. Ian Crawcheck.

“He must be upset about the hullabaloo with Alistair,” I told Snowflake as my index finger worked the delete key. “And isn’t it a pleasant bonus he has a bird’s-eye view, just like us?”

I reminded the cat that Ian’s office is just a hop, skip and jump from the corner of Sullivan and Vine as I deleted the last of the his messages. “Zip!” I said and moved on to Rita Sistina’s numerous messages.

With a zip here, and a zap there, those disappeared also. After all, Rita had apprised me of her litany of complaints whilst serving me dinner.

I asked Snowflake for advice on the one message from Roslynn Mayweather. We agreed she had likely called to brag about her sales figures now that she was leading the Romance Rocks counter-demonstration.

“Zip,” I said and hit delete.

“Zip, zap,” I said again as I rid my machines of the four messages from Geez Louise Urko. No doubt, my hyperactive literary agent also wanted to talk sales figures, since no doubt, Roslynn was keeping her posted on the whole book-banning debacle.

“If I know Louise, she’s happy about this latest publicity,” I said, and Snowflake yawned.

“But what about Gabby?” I asked. Remembering that Superintendent Yates is not accustomed to waiting, I hit the play button.

“Did I do okay with Jimmy?” Her voice sounded almost breathless. “If I didn’t, I can try again tomorrow.” She skipped a beat. “But perhaps we should wait and see about this new stunt he’s threatening.”

I hit re-dial.

***

“What stunt?” I asked.

“Jessie?” Gabby answered. “I’ve been waiting for your call. How did it go today? What did you learn?”

“Not much.” I summarized the basics of my sleuthing efforts and concluded Miriam Jilton was stellar. “But how about you?” I asked. “What have you learned?”

“Nothing.” Gabby sighed. “I called a faculty staff meeting after school this afternoon. But as you know, Dr. Dempsey wasn’t even there, and everyone else was tight-lipped. I was reduced to begging. ‘Can’t anyone tell me anything?’ I asked, and some clown in the back of the auditorium called out ‘Anything-schmenything!’”

The superintendent huffed and puffed. “I’ll give them anything-schmenything!” she said and hung up.

“But, Gabby!” I said to the dial tone. “What about Jimmy’s stunt?”

***

“Where are you!?” the frantic voice of Candy Poppe asked. Remembering life is short, I had skipped her earlier messages and gone straight to the last. “I have something to tell you,” she continued. “I’ve been waiting and waiting, and calling and calling. Why don’t you answer? Did you even watch TV tonight? Do you even know about Jimmy Beak’s stunt?”

She took a deep breath. “Meet me at the bar,” she said. “Karen and I need a drink.”

The lone phone message from Karen was equally disconcerting. “Didn’t I warn you to keep your friends close and your enemies even closer?” she asked. “Kiddo and I are headed to the bar. We need a drink.”

I turned off both phones and told Snowflake I’d be at the bar. “Apparently I need a drink.”

***

My friends rushed over the moment they saw me, took me by the elbows, and escorted me through The Stone Fountain to our regular spot at the bar.

“Champagne!” Candy ordered, and Charlie handed me a glass before my bottom even hit the bar stool.

Karen gestured to Matthew. “We need The Beatles over here!”

“Already on it.” Matthew looked up from fumbling with the stereo and pointed to the speakers. “This fits,” he said, and I listened to the first line of “Help!”

Everyone watched while I took a slow sip of bubbly. “Okay, I’m ready.” I braced myself. “Exactly why do I need help?”

Matthew and Charlie went back to busying themselves with bartending tasks, Karen became exceedingly interested in her Corona, and Candy started chewing her knuckle—never a good sign.

Nevertheless, I remained calm and apologized for not getting back to her sooner. “Things with Peter took longer than expected,” I said. I turned to Karen and explained my afternoon sleuthing expedition. “Peter graciously agreed to be my chauffeur for that round.”

“Wilson’s gonna kill you.”

“Well then, he’ll happy to know I’m getting nowhere. There are far too many good guys in this case, and zero bad. And speaking of bad guys.” I faced Candy. “What’s Jimmy Beak up to? What’s this stunt everyone’s alluding to?”

She removed her fist from her mouth. “He’s going after your past, Jessie.”

***

“Surprise interview! Surprise interview!” Candy flapped her arms, imitating Jimmy Beak, and I pulled myself out of shock.

“Who?” I asked.

“It’s a surprise. Don’t you know what surprise means?”

“Whoever it is, you won’t have to wonder for long,” Karen said. “Jimmy’s promising to broadcast this stunt tomorrow morning.”

“A ‘mystery guest’ from your past.” Candy made air quotes with her fingers. “I think he’s trying to embarrass you.”

“You think?”

“Yes,” they said in unison, and I rolled my eyes.

“Maybe it’s Ian,” Karen suggested, and I groaned accordingly.

Had Ian called to gloat in all those phone messages I had erased so recklessly? Had he actually spoken to Jimmy? About me?

I blinked twice.

My ex did know a few things about my past that Jimmy could twist and distort. More specifically, Ian knew about my glory days sharking in pool halls.

“No,” I said firmly. Perhaps a bit too firmly. “Ian wouldn’t risk ruining his own reputation by mentioning anything even remotely embarrassing about me.”

“Well then, you’re safe,” Karen said. “It’s not like you have a sordid past anyway.”

“Karen.” I pulled her close and whispered. “I have a minor arrest record, remember? From my pool-hustling days.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t even born yet.” That was Candy. “No one can hold something that ancient against you.”

Karen agreed. She argued, quietly, that some might even consider me pool-sharking my way through college as proof of my glowing character. “It shows you’re resourceful.”

“And that arrest was way back in the sixties,” Candy added.

I folded my arms and glared. “Try 1982. I was in college, for Lord’s sake. Not grade school.”

“Even so, a misdemeanor at age twenty is no big deal.”

I asked if she thought Alistair Pritt would be quite so open-minded.

***