Berry the Hatchet (21 page)

Monica involuntarily pushed back from the computer. The information wasn't what she had expected. She picked up her mug, but her tea had grown cold. She got up, stretched and made herself another cup. The wind had intensified and was hammering against the window and creeping around the edges of the old loose panes.

She grabbed a fleece she kept hanging from the coatrack and slipped into it, pulling it close around her. There were more entries listed—most of them from the
Times-Picayune
. She began reading the articles. Some were recaps of Beau Belair's life and career while others focused on the manner of his death. Nothing was said outright, nor was anything ever proven as far as she could tell, but the consensus seemed to be that Beau's young wife Jacy had somehow had a hand in his death.

Monica clicked to the next article, written several months after Beau's death. It seemed that Roger Tripp,
Beau's grandson, was not only contesting the will, but hiring a private investigator to look into his grandfather's death.

It was obvious there was no love lost between Roger and Jacy. But would he go so far as to incriminate her in a murder? Monica leaned back, her warm cup of tea cradled in her hands. Maybe in Roger's mind, he wanted Jacy to pay for what he imagined she had done to his grandfather . . . and for cheating him out of an inheritance he had most likely been counting on.

Monica was turning off her computer when her cell phone rang. As usual, it was at the bottom of her purse, and she was convinced she had missed the call, so she was surprised when someone answered her greeting.

“Monica? This is Detective Stevens. I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all.”

“I thought you would find this funny.” Stevens chuckled.

Monica couldn't imagine anything about this murder being even remotely amusing.

“What is that?”

“Do you remember the ring we found in Crowley's pocket on the day he died?”

“Yes. With the receipt from Bijou.”

“We'll be looking into Bijou as soon as this case is put to bed. Our dispatcher's father is a jeweler, and she's been around gems her whole life. The diamond looked fishy to her so she had her father take a look. It didn't take him long to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

“I don't know if it will make your mother and stepmother feel better or worse, but the diamond was fake.”

“Fake!” Monica exclaimed, turning around to see that Nancy had walked into the kitchen.

“What's fake?” Nancy asked when Monica clicked off the call. She opened one of the cupboards. “Do you have any ibuprofen?”

Monica got out a small bottle of tablets she kept in one of the kitchen drawers and handed it to her mother.

“The diamond ring found in Preston Crowley's pocket was fake.”

“Fake? I can't believe it,” Nancy said, her hands on her hips. “Did Preston really think he could fool me like that?” She frowned. “Maybe it was meant for Gina after all,” she added dismissively.

•   •   •

Monica was starting to get hungry despite all the hors d'oeuvres she'd eaten at the Pepper Pot. She really hadn't done much more than pick, she assured herself—plus everything had been bite-sized. She opened the refrigerator and looked inside: some beer for Jeff, a small wedge of cheese, a bag of apples, the usual condiments and not much else.

She was contemplating a run to the store when the telephone rang.

It was Greg—he was throwing together some dinner and wondered if she'd like to join him. He didn't have to ask twice.

Monica checked with her mother, and Nancy said she'd be fine—she wasn't hungry anyway, so she'd just have a cup of tea and another slice of the cranberry raisin pecan bread later.

Monica hummed as the Focus crested the hill into
town. Even though she'd seen Greg that afternoon, she was looking forward to seeing him again.

He lived in an apartment over the bookstore, so Monica parked in front of Danielle's, which had just closed for the winter, and headed down the block to Book 'Em.

Much like the building where Edith lived, the door to Greg's building was unmarked and next to the shop. Monica had probably passed it dozens of times without noticing it. She rang the brass doorbell that was off to the side.

She heard someone coming down the stairs and then Greg flung the door open. He was wearing a white chef's apron, and his hair looked as if he'd been running his hands through it.

“Come in.” He smiled when he saw Monica.

He led her up some carpeted stairs and through a doorway at the top.

“It's not much, but it's home.” He gestured around the small but cozy apartment. “After my wife died, I couldn't see rattling around in that house all by myself. I owned this building so I had this space fixed up and moved in.”

Monica looked around. There were books everywhere, of course—lying facedown on the coffee table, stacked next to the sofa and crammed into the bookshelves that ran along three of the walls in the dining area, where a small gateleg table had been pulled into the center of the room and set for dinner for two. The furniture was the type you could sink into with a good book and be comfortable for hours.

Monica followed Greg to the kitchen, which was little more than a galley. An open bottle of red wine sat out on the counter.

“I imagine this has breathed enough,” he said with a laugh. “Would you care for a glass?”

“Yes, thanks.”

He retrieved two balloon wineglasses from a cupboard, gave them a swift polish with a dish towel and filled them both. He handed one to Monica.

He motioned to a steak that sat out, its butcher paper wrapping suggesting it had come from Bart and not a supermarket.

“I'm not much of a cook, but I can grill a steak and make mashed potatoes. I hope that will do.”

“Perfectly.”

They took their wine out to the living room, where they sank into the overstuffed sofa.

“I've been thinking about Crowley's murder some more,” Monica said as she took a sip of her wine before placing the glass on the coffee table. “I did some investigating online.”

Greg grinned. “What would Miss Marple have made of Google, do you suppose?” He cradled his wineglass in his hands. “What did you discover?”

Monica told him about the articles in the
Times-Picayune
about Beau Belair.

“So Jacy really had been a rich summer tourist at one point.”

“There's more. Roger Tripp is the grandson of Jacy's late husband, and it seems he was quite disappointed when the family inheritance went to Jacy instead of to him.”

Greg whistled. “That puts things in a whole new light, don't you think?”

“Yes. And although nothing was ever proven, Roger
was convinced that Jacy had had a hand in his grandfather's sudden death.”

“Sour grapes at losing the inheritance?”

“I don't know.” Monica reached for her wineglass. “According to the articles, the police did look into Tripp's claim, but Beau had been cremated, and there wasn't enough evidence to warrant going any further.”

“So Roger obviously holds quite a grudge against Jacy. That supports our theory that he's trying to frame her for Crowley's murder. He certainly had enough reasons to hate Crowley as well.” Greg put his hands on his knees and started to get up. “How about I start our steak? I don't know about you, but I'm starved all of a sudden.”

They went out to the kitchen, where Greg lit the broiler and rubbed the steak with garlic and some seasoned salt. Monica leaned against the doorjamb watching him. She was suddenly overcome with a rush of affection that surprised her.

Monica told Greg about the conversation she'd overheard between Roger and Jacy—where Roger had been demanding money for something.

Greg stopped with his hand on the refrigerator door. He spun around toward Monica. “Do you think he's blackmailing her?”

“That's what it sounded like to me.”

“All the more reason to try to pin the murder on her then.” Greg brought a salad out of the refrigerator and carried it over to the table in the dining area.

Something was niggling at the back of Monica's mind, but she couldn't get hold of the thought. She felt as if she was missing something—something important. A clue?
Or the meaning behind a clue? The harder she thought, the more elusive the information became. Perhaps it would come to her later.

Greg grilled the steak and heated the mashed potatoes while Monica whisked dressing for the salad.

“Would you like a refill?” Greg pointed to her nearly empty glass.

Monica held it out. “Yes, please.”

They carried their glasses and the food to the table. Greg held out a chair for Monica and then sat down opposite.

They chatted companionably through dinner—mostly about books, but also about themselves. That elusive thought still haunted Monica, but whenever she felt she was about to grab it, it floated away again.

They were clearing away the dishes when Monica finally realized what was wrong with the conclusions they'd drawn about the murder.

She was so startled, she exclaimed, “Oh!”

“What is it?” Greg turned in alarm. “Are you okay?”

“I thought of something. It's been nagging at me all night.” Monica ran through everything in her mind. It made sense. “We've got hold of the wrong end of the stick, as they say.”

“How so?” Greg closed the dishwasher and leaned against the counter.

“I don't think Roger Tripp is trying to frame Jacy. I think it's the other way around—Jacy's trying to frame Roger.”

“Whoa! What makes you think that?” Greg asked as he refilled their wineglasses. He gestured toward the doorway. “Shall we go sit down?”

They sat on the sofa and Monica began to explain her
theory—piecing it together in her own mind as she went along.

“First there's this button from Jacy's coat—the coat she claims was stolen.”

“The button you found in Roger Tripp's restaurant.”

“Yes. So obviously we—I—thought Roger was the one who stole Jacy's coat with the intention of covering up his part in the murder and, coincidentally, incriminating her.”

“So what's wrong with that theory?”

“Another button from that coat was found in Tempest's shop—Twilight. Crowley was killed with an athame Tempest claims must have been stolen from her shop because she didn't sell it to anyone.”

“So Roger stole the athame—”

Monica was already shaking her head. “If Roger was the one who took it, why would he bring Jacy's coat with him to the shop? He wouldn't want to be seen with it, don't you think? He'd have stashed it in his car or gone back to the restaurant with it first.”

“So you think that—”

“Yes. Jacy stole the athame. And the button fell off her coat while she was in the shop.”

“But you found the other matching button in Roger's restaurant.”

“Yes. In the ladies' room. Jacy was being too clever for her own good. Why would Roger have brought the coat into the ladies' room? Why would he even go into the ladies' room?”

“To clean it?”

“Possibly. But not while wearing Jacy's coat.”

“True.”

“Jacy wanted me to find that button and draw the
conclusions I did—the wrong ones. She must have noticed I was headed toward the restrooms so she dashed in ahead of me and dropped that button into the toilet.” Monica snapped her fingers. “Another thing. I noticed a perfumed scent in the ladies' room. I thought it was some sort of room spray but it was Jacy's perfume. She was wearing a lot and the scent lingered even after she'd left.”

Greg frowned. “If all that is true, then Jacy had to have killed Preston Crowley, and what motive would she have had for that?”

“Crowley had a diamond ring in his pocket when he died along with a receipt for the ring from Bijou. The police had it examined, and the diamond was fake.”

“Hmmm,” Greg murmured. “And the day before he was murdered I saw Crowley coming out of Bijou looking like a volcano about to erupt.”

Monica fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. “My guess is he had had the ring appraised independently, discovered it was nearly worthless and went back to complain. Since he left in such a fury, I'm guessing he didn't get any satisfaction from Jacy. Plus the ring was still in his pocket.” Monica turned toward Greg. “Crowley probably threatened to go to the police, and Jacy couldn't let him do that. I imagine there's more than one fake gem in her shop.”

“A scheme she must have cooked up to make the money she needed to pay Roger the cash he was demanding.”

“And remember the day of the book club? I think it was Phyllis Bouma who said Jacy had lost most of the money left to her by her husband. She probably thought this crooked scenario was the only way she could stay afloat.”