Whiskey on the Rocks (10 page)

Crouch began, “The word autopsy literally means ‘see for oneself.’ What I saw when I examined your husband was an apparently healthy thirty-four-year-old man who died of asystole.”

“My husband was the man the Lord sent me,” she said. “I don’t know what he was doing in this town or why he had that fake ID. But whatever your science says, I won’t love him any less.”

“He shall,” Crouch said with authority. As if in explanation, he added, “I pray for all lost souls.” He glanced sideways at Jenx. “Also, I saved enough tissue samples to satisfy any insurance company that the man is dead.”

Marilee thanked him. “But I can’t help wondering, since Dan wasn’t who you thought he was, maybe the other victim wasn’t, either?”

Crouch explained stiffly that he’d followed standard procedure in both cases, relying on the presumed next of kin to identify remains.

“But what do you think now?” Marilee persisted.

Crouch patted his mouth with a paper napkin. “I think it’s in God’s hands.”

Before anyone could pray, I said, “If Edward Naylor is Gordon Santy, then he faked his own death. Isn’t it likely that Ellianna Santy faked hers, too?”

Everyone stared at me. Jenx excused herself to make some calls.

What she found out: Edward Naylor had a legitimate New Brunswick address, driver’s license, and license to practice law. Though not as handsome as his impostor, the real Edward Naylor was the former mayor of Fredericton. Passing for an upstanding citizen must have been Gordon Santy’s idea of a game. We knew the score: the Santys were winning.

Jenx connected with the Fredericton police, who in turn linked her to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the national law enforcement agency to our north. They’re not all on horseback. Who knew? The RCMP reported that Gordon and Ellianna Santy got themselves “into a bit of a jam” while running a gallery in Toronto. Both were indicted for art fraud but managed to vanish before their trial. That was two years ago. The RCMP believed that the Santys had been selling art on the Internet and probably still were.

Jenx was reporting this to Marilee and me when our cowboy realtor mayor arrived. He doffed his Stetson.

“Time to put on your crime-fighting hat, Chief. You need to crack this case and make Magnet Springs the safe haven we say it is.”

So that his visit wasn’t a total waste, Gil introduced himself to Marilee and gave her his business card. His social gaffe made me groan.

“Is that your stomach growling, Whiskey?” said Gil. “You ought to try eating more regular. I hear you been drinking your dinner at the bar at Mother Tucker’s. Now that’s just sad.”

Marilee nodded graciously and excused herself to powder her nose. I half-expected Gil to ask for his card back. Instead, he focused on Jenx.

“If the state police are stepping all over you, I reckon you’d better nip at their heels. Find out what’s up before the papers do. This kind of publicity’s pure poison.”

I said sweetly, “I thought scandals made money, Mr. Mayor. By the way, have you sold Murder House yet?”

Gil guffawed. “I like you, Whiskey, no matter how you conduct your life. Say, I hear the West MichiganRealtors Board has got some questions for you.”

He winked and walked out.

Jenx said she had some questions for Noonan, and she’d like me to come along. We agreed to meet at the Goh Cup after Jenx settled Marilee Gallagher at the Broken Arrow Motel.

“I don’t know what I can add.” Noonan gazed at us over her herbal frappé, a foamy iced beverage created by Peg Goh. I might have ordered one myself if it had come in a palatable color.

“I didn’t work the lunch shift Tuesday because I had a dentist’s appointment just down the street. When I passed Town & Gown, a young couple was coming out. They were laughing real hard—too hard for people who’d been shopping at a store as nice as Martha’s. I mean, they sounded drunk or something. That’s why I stared at them. I didn’t get as good a view of the man as I did of the woman. But he had to be the guy who died on Noonan’s table. The woman called him Dan. I remember that because it’s my brother’s name, too.”

Jenx jumped in her seat. “Cell phone’s vibrating.”

After taking the call, she said, “What goes around comes around. That was my old pal Balboa from the police academy. She works with the Boys from East Lansing and keeps me posted. As we speak, she’s emailing me Holly Lomax’s mug shots. Will you look at them, Peg? See if Holly’s our Town & Gown gal.”

At the station, Peg studied the image on Jenx’s computer screen.

“That’s her, all right. But she had bigger hair when I saw her.”

“Like Pretty Woman?” I explained about the Julia Roberts movie, the magazine picture, and the desk clerk’s comments. Peg saw the connection, but she predicted that eighty-year-old Town & Gown proprietor Martha Glenn wouldn’t.

“Martha won’t remember seeing her or Dan Gallagher. She can’t remember what day it is. I don’t know how she stays in business.”

A piercing scream interrupted me. We rose as one and dashed to the lobby. Brady was bending over a prostrate Marilee Gallagher, Officer Roscoe was licking her ghost-white face, and Chester was running in circles. Abra was absent.

Brady inserted two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. Everyone froze. The station’s front door flew open and in sailed Abra, a black leather shoulder bag swinging from her jaws.

Chester checked his sports watch. “One minute, fifty-five-and-forty-three-one-hundredths seconds. A new record!” He and Abra began leaping and rolling in a celebratory pack dance.

“Technically, that’s true,” said Brady. “The citizen placed it on the counter, opened it, closed it, and passed out. Abra grabbed the bag after the owner had hit the tiles.”

Chester said, “It’s what we practiced all day. Abra thought it was another drill!”

Marilee Gallagher moaned as Jenx helped her sit up. She blinked at her surroundings, spotted her purse in Brady’s hand, and promptly passed out again.

“It’s a finger!” Marilee wailed, sitting up again. “I found the purse behind the dresser in my motel room when I moved the TV to get better reception. I thought it might be a clue, so I brought it right over. I didn’t open it till I got here.”

A severed finger? That made me scream—for about two minutes. So I didn’t hear what anybody else said in immediate response to Marilee’s announcement. I was able to stop screaming when Jenx gripped my shoulders and shook me like a can of whipped topping. She pointed out that nobody, not even an eight-year-old child, was reacting as badly as I was. How humbling—or should I say humiliating. When Jenx swore us all to secrecy, I mutely nodded my ascent.

“We don’t know what this means,” Jenx insisted, “so don’t go around speculating.”

I had no desire to do that. Brady and Roscoe escorted Marilee back to the Broken Arrow. Peg scurried off to the Goh Cup, and Noonan headed home. That left Chester, Abra, Jenx, and me. Plus the finger. I tried to act normal.

“You need dinner about now, don’t you?” I asked Chester.

He reminded me that Cassina was back. “You’re off the hook—till she leaves on her World Tour.”

“Cassina’s got another World Tour?” asked Jenx. “Tell her Brady and I will check the house while she’s gone. Are you going with her, buddy?”

Chester said, “Cassina wants Whiskey to watch me, only Whiskey’s not sure.”

“Why not?” Jenx demanded.

“Because I’m a realtor, not a child-care provider!” I pointed to the purse on Jenx’s desk. “What will you do with that? Since the case isn’t yours anymore.”

Jenx pushed the purse in my direction. Reflexively, I leapt to my feet, knocking the chair into Abra, who had been cleaning herself. She snapped at me.

Definitely time to clear the room. I gave Chester ten bucks to go buy himself and Abra a treat, and I told him to take his time.

“You can’t withhold evidence,” I warned Jenx.

“No, but I can keep it on ice for a while. I want to see what I can find out. The Boys from East Lansing will get the finger soon enough.”