Dolled Up for Murder (33 page)

“Right—and he did another segment on how to get illegal weapons.” I thought for a moment. “He must have tried to break into my place, too, also probably on impulse, but saw the bolts on the door and the security cameras and knew it was too risky. Have they found that remote, by the way?”

“Yup. In his car's glove compartment,” Wes said, nibbling bacon. “His real car, the only one registered under his actual name. They also found the red wig and aviator glasses he wore with Eric and the phone he used to call Ian.”

“With both men dead, we'll never know what they talked about.”

“Which means we'll probably never know for sure if Ian's death was suicide or murder,” Wes said. “What do you think?”

“Why do you suppose Penn didn't kill Eric?” I asked, delaying answering his question. “Wasn't he taking a risk Eric could ID him?”

“Apparently not a big one. Eric couldn't. Neither could you. Despite all the publicity, no one could.”

“True. Still … you'd think that once you murder one person, the rest would come easy.”

“Jeez, Josie, that's cold.”

“I'm a realist,” I said, shrugging, “and it's possible he did kill a second time … Ian.”

“I think he did it.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Penn lied in his broadcast when he said that Ian was despondent. The implications didn't occur to me at the time, but when I spoke to Ian the next morning, he didn't sound the least bit despondent. He sounded angrier and more determined than ever. Penn hoped the police would believe that Ian, in the throes of despair, turned the gun on himself. He also hoped he'd find the diary before I did.”

“I can't believe Penn fell for your trap, which, by the way, you should have told me about in advance.”

“I couldn't tell you. I promised Chief Hunter I wouldn't.”

“You promised him you wouldn't show up, too, but you did.”

“No, I didn't. He told me to stay away. I never agreed that I would.”

Wes sighed. “Whatever. Wouldn't you have thought that Penn was smarter than that?”

“No. Actually, I'm not surprised at all that Penn gave it a try. Desperate men do desperate things.”

“Hard to believe his desperation was all about money,” Wes said, shaking his head. “Money and maintaining his position. Do you care about money that much?”

“Well, yeah. Sure, I care about money. Don't you?”

“Not really. I care about work.”

“Doing good work leads to money,” I said.

He chuckled. “Not at the
Seacoast Star,
it doesn't. I figure my attitude toward money is why I don't have a girlfriend.”

“What happened to that girl? You know … it was a while ago. You asked me to recommend a restaurant.”

“Sue … yeah, she was nice. She moved to Florida to go to school.”

“You'll find another girl, Wes.”

“Whatever,” he said, waving my comments aside. He chomped a piece of bacon. “So, Alice wrote that as soon as she told Lenny not to worry about certain bookkeeping entries, he stopped asking about them. Clearly Lenny turned a blind eye to accounting irregularities, but the Feds aren't blaming him much. They say that turning a blind eye is what employees do.”

I didn't,
I thought. When I'd blown the whistle on how my boss at Frisco's was colluding with the competition to fix commissions, I'd been naive enough to expect to be treated like a hero; instead, I'd become a pariah and learned an important lesson: Doing the right thing is lonely work.

“Randall's a different case altogether,” Wes added. “They're probably going to up the charges because his involvement was more active—he created those printing plates.”

“What about Darleen?”

“There's no mention of her at all, so it looks like she's off the hook.”

“It's all so sordid, Wes.”

Wes pushed his empty plate to the side. “You think so? It's just people being people, right? So what else you got?”

I shook my head at Wes's jaded view of human nature. “The police ran tests on my phone lines. There was no tap.”

“You really got your paranoia going with that one, huh?”

“There were moments.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

Wes double-tapped the table and said, “Thanks for breakfast. Catch ya later.”

After Wes left, I sat awhile longer sipping tea and thinking about Alice. She'd misappropriated funds, had a long-term affair with another woman's husband, submitted to blackmail, and stolen her best friend's treasure. My dad had been right, as usual, when he'd warned me to be careful about the people you trust. No one else, he'd said, could get close enough to do much damage.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The rain had stopped, but the temperature hadn't risen. It was raw. When Zoë called around eight and offered hot homemade blueberry pie and a fire, neither Ty nor I hesitated. Ty and I sat on huge pillows in front of Zoë's fireplace. Ty leaned against her ottoman, and I leaned against Ty. His arms encircled me.

“Ty and I are going to Norway,” I said.

“That's great,” Zoë said. “Why Norway?”

“Fjords,” Ty said. “Josie wants to see fjords.”

“Very romantic,” Zoë said. Ellis reached over and took her hand in his.

“Do you want to go to Norway?” he asked.

“I wouldn't mind,” she replied, “but my dream vacation is Italy.”

Ellis nodded thoughtfully.

“How about you, Ty?” I asked. “Where's your dream vacation?”

He smiled at me. “Wherever you are.”

I skewed around and reached up to touch his cheek. “I feel the same.”

*   *   *

The morning of Gretchen's shower, I woke up early, filled with pleasurable anticipation. I showered and dressed and tiptoed out of the house, not wanting to wake Ty, then ran across to Zoë's.

Jake, age ten, and Emma, age seven, were seated at the farmer's table by the window with plates of French toast in front of them. Jake, as blond as Zoë's ex-husband, was tall for his age and lean, like a runner. Emma, who shared her mom's coloring and delicate features, had grown three inches in the last few months, without gaining any weight; her baby fat was disappearing almost in front of our eyes. A large box of cornflakes lay on its side in the middle of the table. The French toast was smothered in the maple syrup Zoë put up from the ancient maples that ringed the property, and it smelled wonderful.

“I'm here!” I said.

“I'm so excited!” Zoë said. “Gretchen is going to be so surprised!”

I grinned. “I sure hope so.”

“Ellis will be here at eleven to take over babysitting duty. Are you still okay to hang for ten minutes while I grab a shower?”

“You bet! Take fifteen.”

She shot me a grin and ran for the stairs.

“How's school?” I asked the kids.

“Good,” Jake said.

“Good,” Emma said.

“How's Mary-Rose?” I asked Emma. The monkey sat on the chair next to her.

“Good.”

“Watch this,” Jake said.

He tiddlywinked a cornflake, using a spoon as a catapult device, into a bowl perched on the window ledge about seven feet from where he sat. He landed one, a money shot, and air-pumped his accomplishment.

“Good job!” I said. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to watch.

His next attempt banked off the window, sprinkling crumbs onto the floor.

“Too bad,” I said.

“My turn!” Emma called.

Wielding the spoon with unsure hands, she sent her cornflake straight up three feet, then twirling onto the table near her plate. Her second try flew to the right and landed on the floor. She pursed her lips. From the set of her jaw I could tell she was mad. She took her time, aimed, and shot the cornflake. This time she hit the bowl's rim.

“That was good,” Jake said kindly.

“No, it wasn't,” Emma replied.

She tried again, and again she missed, her cornflake spiraling toward the corner of the room, ten feet from the bowl. She slapped her spoon down in frustration and resumed eating her French toast.

“Shooting cornflakes is too hard,” Emma complained to me. “Can you do it?”

“I don't know. I'll try.” I balanced a cornflake in the spoon and let 'er rip. I missed by a mile, my flake slamming into the kitchen door a good two feet to the right of the bowl. “Oops.”

Emma giggled.

I tried a second time and hit the door again.

I turned to Emma. “You don't feel so bad now, do you?”

She giggled again. “No.”

I gave it one more try. This time, I even missed the door.

“Well, what do you know!” Zoë said, stepping into the room. “You're worse than I am, Josie, and I didn't think that was possible.”

“I'm a novice,” I replied. “Give me practice time and I'll leave you all in the dust.”

“Even me?” Jake asked.

“Well, maybe not you.” Zoë went for coffee, and I added, “FYI, some crumbs hit the floor. I'll clean them up.”

“Don't bother. Cleaning them up is part of my morning routine.”

I smiled. “You're such a good mom.”

A soft pink flush colored her cheeks. “Thanks … I try.”

*   *   *

Wes called as Zoë and I were driving to the restaurant. I slipped in my earpiece and took the call.

“Darleen's filed for divorce,” he said.

“I'm not surprised. It can't be any fun being married to a criminal. Randall's going to have a terrible time in jail.”

“That's the whole idea of jail, Josie,” Wes said. He didn't add “Duh,” but it was in his voice.

“True,” I said. “What about Lenny?”

“He insists he was acting under duress. My police source says they expect it to go to trial, and he may get off. A working man doing what the boss man tells him, you can hear the lawyer now, right?”

“I'm not so sure he's wrong,” I said. “He was in what must have felt to him like an impossible situation.”

“Maybe. Or he just lacked character.” He paused. “Got anything else?”

“No,” I said.

“Today's Gretchen's shower, huh?”

“Yeah. I'm en route now.”

“Say hey for me to her, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

As I hung up, I wondered how he knew Gretchen well enough to want to say hey to her, then realized with a jolt that Gretchen might well be one of Wes's sources. Wes's reach was growing by the day.

*   *   *

As soon as Gretchen stepped onto the Bow Street Bar & Grill's porch, we all yelled, “Surprise!” and she shrieked. Her hands flew to her cheeks; then she spun toward Jack, who stood in back of her, grinning.

“You knew about this!” she said.

“Yup. We all did. It's called collusion.”

She laughed and ran to me. She hugged me, then hugged me again, whispering, “Thank you, Josie.” She turned back to face the crowd. “I can't believe it! I just can't believe it! This is so wonderful of you all.”

“Aloha, everybody!” I called. “It's time for a luau!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Ty and I stood on the deck of the
Azura
as we sailed through a craggy glacier-carved inlet, a fjord near Oslo. To my right, water cascaded from a rocky cliff. To my left, emerald green grass and yellow, blue, violet, pink, and white wildflowers transformed the jutting rock formation into a heavenly garden.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think I'm the luckiest girl in the world.”

Ty reached his arm around my waist and drew me close, and we stood that way, my back against his chest, his arms around me, for a long, long time.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks go to Leslie Hindman, who, with her team at Leslie Hindman Auctioneers, continues to appraise antiques for me to write about. Please note that any errors are mine alone.

Thanks to Christopher Kerezsi for helping me sort through the legal implications of finders-keepers, to Sheila York for listening to my early plans for the book, and to Katie Longhurst for her careful reading of the manuscript.

As a former Mystery Writers of America/New York chapter president and the chair of the Wolfe Pack's literary awards, I've been fortunate to meet and work alongside dozens of talented writers and dedicated readers. Thank you all for your support. For my pals in the Wolfe Pack and fans of Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe stories everywhere, I've added my usual allotment of Wolfean trivia to this book.

Thank you to Jo-Ann Maude, Christine and Al de los Reyes, and Carol Novak. Thank you also to Dan and Linda Chessman, Marci and James Gleason, John and Mona Gleason, Linda and Ren Plastina, Rona and Ken Foster, Liz Weiner and Bob Farrar, Meredith Anthony and Larry Light, and Wendy Corsi Staub and Mark Staub. Thanks also to Harry Rinker for his invaluable assistance about antiques.

Independent booksellers have been invaluable in helping me introduce Josie to their customers—thank you all. I want to acknowledge my special friends at these independent bookshops: Partners and Crime, Front Street Books, The Poisoned Pen, Well Red Coyote, Clues Unlimited, Mostly Books, Mysteries to Die For, Book'em Mysteries, Legends, Book Carnival, Mysterious Galaxy, M is for Mystery, Murder by the Book in Houston, where David Thompson will be forever missed. Manhattan's Black Orchid Bookstore is also still sorely missed; I remain grateful to Bonnie Claeson and Joe Guglielmelli for helping launch Josie. Thanks also to Murder by the Book in Denver, Murder by the Book in Portland, Schuler Books, The Regulator, McIntyre's, Quail Ridge Books, Book Cove, Remember the Alibi Mystery Bookstore, Centuries & Sleuths, Mystery Lovers Bookshop, The Mystery Company, The Mysterious Bookshop, Booked for Murder, Aunt Agatha's, Foul Play, Windows a Bookshop, Murder by the Beach, Books & Books, Moore Books, The Bookstore in the Grove, Uncle Edgar's Mystery Bookstore, Seattle Mystery Bookstore, Park Road Books, and Once Upon a Crime. Thanks again to Linda and Bobby from the now-gone Mystery Bookstore in Los Angeles. Many chain bookstores have been incredibly supportive as well—thank you to those many booksellers who've gone out of their way to become familiar with Josie.