To Love and to Perish (11 page)

I smiled and got out. “Hello again.”

The tremble in the woman's right arm never ceased. Her lower lip moved up and down ever so slightly today as well. She pointed toward Elizabeth's door.

“If you're here for her, she got home at six last night.”

Ah, the neighborhood watch. The elderly people in our neighborhood probably clocked Ray and my comings and goings, too. “Good, then I'll wait.”

She pointed in the direction Cory had walked. “That man with you?”

“Yes.”

“Is he coming back?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Suit yourself.”

A Honda Accord approached and pulled into Elizabeth Potter's driveway. The car door opened. A woman in a tight black pencil skirt, thick black tights, low-heeled black patent leather pumps, and a sexy red silk blouse slid out. She had one of those short, funky asymmetrical hairstyles, brown with blond highlights.

She waved in our direction. “Hi, Evie.”

Evie didn't wave back. She scrunched her forehead instead.

I gestured toward our new arrival. “Would that be Elizabeth?”

Evie didn't respond. Her gaze never left the woman, who now approached us.

She limped ever so slightly. “How are you today, Evie?”

No response.

I started to wonder if Evie had Alzheimer's.

“What did you do to your hair?” Evie pointed at the woman, her finger shaking.

The woman fluffed her hair. “It's new. Do you like it?”

“No.” Evie started up the sidewalk. “This woman's been waiting for you.”

Elizabeth Potter flushed, then laughed. “She's an honest old bird,
isn't she?”

I smiled. “I like your haircut, if that makes you feel better.”

“Thank you, it does.”

“You must be Elizabeth Potter.” I held out her hand. “I'm Jolene Parker.”

She took a step back. Her countenance changed to suspicious. “What can I do for you?”

I wished Cory would reappear, but he wasn't anywhere in sight. For a woman who made her living talking to people, I wasn't very good at ad-libbing. My sales presentations were well practiced, full of facts and information. Cory was the spontaneous one, used to filling in the gaps when someone else forgot their lines on stage. He and I should have discussed how we planned to approach this woman, who was scarred from the crash and not likely to welcome us.

I opted for honesty. “I'm friends with Brennan Rowe. I was hoping
to ask you a few questions about him.”

“Why?”

“Brennan has been arrested on suspicion of pushing James Gleason in front of a car, killing him.”

“So I hear.” Her tone sounded like she didn't care—about either of them.

I pressed on. “The news reports have brought up the relationship between James and his sister and the car crash that killed her. I understand you were also involved in that crash.”

“I don't talk to reporters.” She turned and started to walk away.

I chased after her, rounding her and cutting off her path. “I'm not a reporter. I'm a personal friend of Brennan's. I understand the two of you were once very close, too. You, Brennan, Monica, and Wayne Engle. The Four Musketeers, I believe.”

Her face softened at that. “Monica was my best friend. She dated Brennan. Wayne was Brennan's best friend. We all hung out together.”

“And you went to your five-year class reunion together?”

“Yes.”

“Wayne Engle said he fought with Brennan that night. Do you know what the fight was about?”

She tried to get around me. I stepped back to give her some room while remaining directly in her path. I didn't want to be accused of menacing her.

She gave up and locked eyes with me. “Look, I don't know what you want. I can't tell you what they fought about. I don't want to talk about that night. I was in the car accident. I almost died. You have no right to come here, no right at all. Go away.” She lifted her arms as if to shove me. “Go away.”

I moved out of her path.

She walked quickly, her limp amplified.

I felt like crap. I called after her, “I'm sorry, Elizabeth. It's just hard to believe Brennan would kill anyone.”

She spun around. “He killed Monica. He almost killed me. Is that so hard to believe?”

“I know that's true. Was he driving drunk?”

“No.”

“Then how did the crash happen?”

“I don't know. I was asleep. Ask Brennan. Just leave, and don't come back.”

She walked to her front door, unlocked it and slammed it closed
behind her.

“You're really working the charm, Jo.”

I turned to find Cory behind me, holding a plastic sack. “Now you come back. Where were you when I needed you?”

He lifted the sack in the air. “Hey, you wanted food.”

Well, now all I wanted was to go home.

Fifteen

Saturday morning was a
slow day at work, especially since we hadn't been in the shop for the last two days to answer calls and set up any appointments. Cory and I sat in the Austin Healey around ten thirty, pretending to drive the hills of Monaco with the sun—the overhead showroom pin light—on our faces. We did that sometimes. It felt peaceful, a little mini mind vacation. Of course I had the cordless in my lap and spent part my vacation time willing a customer to call in need of a pre-owned but pristine Austin Healey.

And part of the time I processed our trip to Albany.

Elizabeth Potter hadn't said she didn't
know
what Brennan and Wayne Engle fought about. She said she couldn't
tell
. Why not? We thought they'd argued about Brennan's homosexuality, which wasn't a secret now, by any means. She could have told me that. So Cory's theory had to be incorrect. We'd agreed on that during our drive back to Wachobe last night. We just hadn't agreed on a new theory regarding the argument.

She had also said to ask Brennan about the crash. But Brennan supposedly had no memory of that night. Was he lying to protect himself? If so, what would get him to tell the truth now?

Cory and I also hadn't agreed on approaching Brennan to ask him. Cory feared it would lead to him having to admit he'd gone through Brennan's stuff, a sure-fire way to not only make Brennan clam up more but also to terminate their relationship forever. I thought it might be time to confess we'd at least asked a few questions in Albany, based on the disturbing news reports, in the hopes Brennan would be more forthcoming with information once he realized how much Cory cared.

Cory didn't want to bank on that. This whole situation had shaken his confidence.

Hence, our little mini mind vacation.

I focused on relaxing. Breathe in, breathe out. Visualize. Was that the royal family waving to us?

Sirens interrupted our peaceful drive through the hills.

We watched as Ray's patrol car flew past the showroom window. The volunteer ambulance roared past a few minutes later, followed closely by county rescue.

It was the standard response team for a boating incident. A little unusual for this late in the year though. I wondered who was out on the lake.

Cory glanced at me. “Didn't you say your sister was going canoeing this morning?”

“They would hug the shoreline. I'm sure she's fine.” Almost sure. I considered calling her cell phone. If she was fine and my call intruded on Maury's serenade, would she be happy or mad? Worse, would the canoe tip over as she fumbled for her cell? I convinced myself the brouhaha had nothing to do with her.

I settled back in my seat and tried to recapture Monaco.

Ten minutes later, Cory hit my shoulder and pointed as the medical examiner's vehicle f lew past our window.

“You don't think—” I picked the cordless up off my lap.

It rang as if on cue. Cory and I exchanged fearful glances.

“Darlin', I need you to get over here and throw a net over your sister.”

Relief washed through my veins. Erica must be safe, safe enough
to be causing trouble. I covered the mouthpiece and asked at Cory. “Do I look like a butterfly keeper to you?”

Cory's eyebrows flew up. He wisely chose to shake his head.

“Thank you.” I uncovered the mouthpiece. “Why, Ray, what's going
on? Are Erica and Maury okay?”

“They're fine.” Ray's emphasis on the word “they're” made me nervous. Who else could be involved?

“I'll let your sister explain. Hold on.”

Before the cell phone exchanged hands, I heard Erica in the background, talking about hippopotamuses.

“You and your great ideas. Go canoeing. You'll be fine. I'm not fine, Jolene.”

I didn't bother to point out canoeing wasn't my idea. I did get a mental picture of her bedraggled and soaked to the skin, wrapped in a Red Cross blanket. “You fell in, didn't you?”

“Only after I spotted the body and dropped my paddle. I couldn't reach it. It's not my fault I have short arms. Mom said she had short arms, too. It's not my fault the canoe tipped over when I lunged for my paddle. I told you canoes are tippy, but you wouldn't listen. I told you I didn't want to go canoeing. I told Maury I didn't want to go. No one ever listens to me, except Mom.”

Only my sister would gloss over a body. “I'm definitely listening now, Erica. What body are you talking about?”

“The dead guy floating facedown in the lake. Actually, he was rolling with the waves on the shoreline, with a big gash in his forehead. Now he's on shore, like a beached whale. Poor guy, I think it's going to be a closed casket funeral.”

I cringed. “Who is he?”

“I don't know. I've never seen him before. He looks like a politician. Blue suit, white shirt, maroon striped tie. He's wearing black shoes, wingtips.”

That oh-so-familiar sick feeling washed through me. “Where did you find him?”

“He was lodged under a low-lying branch a few yards north of Brennan's place. We were paddling down to say hello to Brennan. You know, to cheer him up.” Her voice lowered. “Actually, I was hoping he'd invite us out on his speedboat. This paddling stuff is for the birds.

“Hey, here comes Brennan now.”

“Ah, Erica, could you keep Brennan away from the body?” I didn't want him to remember his old friend after being pulled from the water.

“The sheriff's deputies won't let anyone over there. Brennan's right here. You want to talk to him?”

“Not right now. Where's Ray?”

“He's coming this way, too. He doesn't look happy …

“Hey, what's he doing? Oh my god, he's pulling out his handcuffs …

“He's putting them on Brennan. He's reading him his rights …

“Suspected murder? Brennan?

“Jolene, who the hell is Wayne Engle?”

Sixteen

Cory broke all the
speed limits as we raced over to Brennan's house. It didn't matter because we found almost every Wachobe police officer and county sheriff's deputy there at the scene, along with an ample crowd of interested spectators, those yahoos with the scanners Ray loved so much.

Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the entire acre of Brennan's lakeside retreat, stopping at the shoreline. At the edge of the lake, a group of uniformed and suited men huddled around a black bag on a gurney. The medical examiner's wagon was parked within the perimeter, doors open, as though ready to receive its precious cargo. My sister, her husband, and a uniformed officer waited in the shade of a willow tree whose branches swept the surface of the lake, creating ripples.

The Wachobe police chief, whose everyday primary duties involved traffic control and metered parking, allowed us under the tape with strict instructions to see Ray and only Ray.

Cory, of course, wanted to see Brennan and only Brennan. We couldn't spot him anywhere.

Ray saw us and broke from the huddle.

Cory gestured frantically. “Where's Brennan?”

“He's under arrest. Max took him over to the sheriff's department for questioning.”

“Why?” Cory's anguished cry caught the attention of the huddle. They swung around to study us for a moment, then went back to their own conversation.

Ray folded his arms across his chest, frowning. “Engle had an urgent message slip from his office in his wallet, with Brennan's address on it. When I called his office to find out his next of kin, the woman who answered said he didn't have anyone except his godson. I asked who his godson was. Imagine my surprise when I learned it's James Gleason's son. Then I asked her if she knew Engle's plans for last night. She said they got a call around six thirty, right before they locked up for the night, from a Brennan Rowe, asking to meet with him last night. She said Engle seemed surprised, but indicated he would drive up here. Now he's dead.”

I had to admit Brennan would make my suspect list, too, but an arrest? “Ray, I don't see how you can arrest Brennan for his murder. Someone else could have called, using Brennan's name.”

“That's true, but there's blood on Brennan's dock. There's blood
on Brennan's oar. It all points to Brennan.”

“What oar?”

Cory sighed. “He keeps one on his boat, in case the engine quits
in the middle of the lake or he needs to push off something.”

Ray nodded. “That's the one. He admitted it was his.”

I swung around to look at Brennan's ski boat, sitting in its hoist at the end of the dock with the sun glinting off it. Beyond, in the middle of the lake, I saw another glint of metal, too, unrecognizable at this distance. I didn't let it distract me. “So you think Brennan lured Wayne here, hit him with the oar, and shoved him in the water, hoping he would sink and disappear?”

“That's the theory we're working.”

“Someone else could have lured Wayne here just as easily.”

“True, but all the evidence points directly to Brennan at the moment.”

I let it go for now, having faith in my husband. Ray wouldn't railroad Brennan into prison. He would ask all the right questions, or at least ensure that they were asked. “It would have taken Wayne at least three hours to drive here last night. He probably got here around ten.” I scanned the areas beyond either side of Brennan's home. “Did any of the neighbors see anything?”

“Engle's Mercedes is parked on the road at the corner of Brennan's lot. We're still canvassing, but the only neighbors with a clear view of Brennan's dock are seasonal. Their docks are out of the water and their places are locked up tight.”

“What did Brennan say?”

“He said he worked in his office until eleven o'clock, then went to bed. He didn't see or hear anything last night or this morning when he got up. He didn't see the Mercedes parked on the county road when he pulled out of the driveway to go to work. A member of his construction crew heard the call to this address on the scanner and notified him. That's why he came back here.”

Ray unfolded his arms, dropping his bad cop stance. “You need to take Erica and Maury home. They fell out of their canoe. It's in the middle of the lake. Someone from the department will take the patrol boat out and tow it in later today.”

That explained the glinting metal I spotted earlier. Trust Erica to lose the canoe. Hopefully it wouldn't capsize in the meantime, forcing me to reimburse our landlord for its loss.

Ray continued, “You'll be getting a call from the department later today to come in for an interview. We're going to need to know about everyone you two met when you went to Albany and Binghamton, and what was said. And anything else you might be holding back. Understand?”

I glanced at Cory, immediately giving it away to Ray that we were in fact holding something back.

He shook his head in disgust and walked away.

Cory's panicky gaze met mine. “What are we going to do?”

I knew he was asking me if he had to tell about going through Brennan's stuff and the record of payment he found. I gave him the only answer I felt confident about.

“We're going to drive Erica and Maury home.”

_____

“Brennan's mouth just dropped open when Ray said he was under arrest for killing Wayne Engle. He even teetered a little bit. I thought he was going to faint, didn't you, Maury?” Erica whacked her husband on the shoulder.

“He definitely didn't know what hit him.” Maury emphasized the word “him.”

Erica missed the hint. “That's right.”

Cory's gaze never left the road as he steered his BMW toward Erica's house, but I knew he was taking in our conversation. “Did he say anything when Ray put the cuffs on him?”

“No. He couldn't take his eyes off the area where Wayne Engle was lying on the beach. I thought Brennan looked sad, didn't you, Maury?” She whacked him again.

“Yes, Erica, I did.” Maury raised his gaze to mine, silently asking for mercy. I twisted back around in the passenger seat to face the windshield, trying to end the conversation for the time being.

Erica chattered on, oblivious. “I can't believe you just met Wayne, and now he's dead. You must have stumbled onto something. Why else would someone kill him? I don't believe for one second Brennan killed him. He's too nice a guy. No way. Right, Maury?”

I heard her palm connect with Maury's shoulder again. This time he didn't respond.

Cory made the right turn onto Wells Street, and the 1870 white Victorian where Erica and Maury resided came into sight. Cory pulled up in front and put the car in park. He left the engine idling.

Erica leaned forward, thrusting her torso into the front seat between us. “Call me later and let me know what happens at your interrogation.”

“I will call you later, Erica.” Much later, if and when I could take her manic chatter.

Maury waited until Erica had slammed the car door to say, “Let me know if there's anything we can do to help Brennan. I don't think he killed anyone either.”

“Thank you, Maury.”

He nodded, a sober expression on his face.

As soon as Maury climbed out of the back seat, Cory pulled away from the curb. “None of Brennan's friends think he killed anyone. I guess that's good to know. He'll have lots of character witnesses. But you know what's bothering me?”

Cory didn't wait for my answer before continuing, “Like Erica said, we must have stumbled onto something. Someone killed Wayne Engle; someone we met. If I'd listened to Brennan in the first place and stayed out of all of this, maybe Engle would still be alive. So, no, Brennan didn't kill anyone, but apparently, I did.”

Once again, I didn't respond.

I was too busy feeling guilty myself.