Dead Between the Lines (18 page)

When Jake and I entered the foyer, a gorgeous woman wearing a stunning ice blue sheath looked up from the reception desk and asked, “May I help you?”

“We’d like to speak to Kiara Howard.” I smoothed my silk top over my hips, glad I had fixed my hair, put on makeup, and changed from my Devereaux’s Dime Store sweatshirt into something nicer. Perfect women like this one always made me a little self-conscious.

“She’s busy right now.” The receptionist glanced back at her computer, her straight black hair swinging in a satin curtain as she clicked her mouse and asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, we don’t.” Jake held out his badge. “My name is Jake Del Vecchio. I promise I only need a few minutes of her time.” He winked, then drawled, “And I’m sure she’ll be happy to see me.”

“I sure would be.” The woman dimpled up at him. “Let me check with her.” She murmured into the phone, then pointed down a hallway. “Ms. Howard is in her office. Last door on your left.”

“Thanks, darlin’.” Jake touched the brim of his Stetson and took my elbow. He guided me along the corridor and into an open doorway.

The African-American woman was sitting behind a massive desk. She was dressed in a scrumptious butter yellow dress, holding her cell to one ear and the landline receiver to the other. She nodded in our direction as she concluded both calls; then, gesturing to two wingback chairs, she said, “Please have a seat.”

“Hi, Kiara.” I settled into the soft tufted leather and said, “I don’t know if you remember me. Devereaux Sinclair. I own the dime store where your book club met last Friday night.” When she nodded, I added, “And this is my friend, Jake Del Vecchio.”

“Nice to meet you. Our receptionist was extremely impressed with your”—her gaze swept Jake from head to foot, and then she raised a brow and finished with—“credentials.” It was clear that Kiara wasn’t as captivated by Jake as her employee had been. “Is this an official visit regarding the recent murder in town?”

“No.” Jake stretched out his long legs. “Just helping a friend.”

“I see.” Kiara glanced between Jake and me. “What can I do for you?”

“I understand that you objected to Mr. Quistgaard speaking at your club.” I was counting on Kiara being too well mannered to refuse to answer my questions. After all, someone in the hospitality business couldn’t afford to be impolite. “May I ask why you didn’t want him there?”

“I’d picked up his book when the used bookstore over in Sparkville hosted a signing for him.” Kiara tapped a gold-tipped nail on her desktop. “I found his poetry offensive.”

“I see.” So she was the member who already owned Quistgaard’s book and didn’t need to buy one from me. I hadn’t remembered that.

“Many of his poems came close to suggesting that a woman should act as a man’s slave. I was shocked that Mrs. Zeigler had invited a man like Lance Quistgaard to speak to us.”

“From what she said, the sample of his work on his Web site was far different from what was in his book,” I reminded her. Then I added, “She was surprised that despite your objection, you showed up for the meeting. Why did you?”

“I enjoy socializing with the other members.” Kiara crossed her arms. “And I learned early in life not to back away from a challenge.”

“Then I imagine it seriously ticked you off when he made a pass at you later that night,” I commented, wanting to see her reaction. “Especially when Quistgaard wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Actually, that was the best part of the evening.” Kiara’s lips twitched. “It was gratifying to see him cowed and limping after I stomped on his foot with my stiletto and used a little jujitsu on him.”

“I’ll bet that was a sight worth seeing.” I smiled at her, thinking of my own hankering to smack him. “Were you aware that Lance Quistgaard was the columnist who wrote ‘The Bend’s Buzz’?” I observed her reaction closely.

“No shit!” Kiara squealed, then quickly regained her cool, and
tsk
ed. “Why am I not surprised that a man who wrote such vile poetry also wrote that trash? Now that I know, everything makes perfect sense.”

“So you saw the piece he wrote about you?” I asked, realizing that I was getting to the sensitive part of my questioning and that Kiara might end the interview. “The one that claimed you left your former position as an event coordinator because you were having an affair with your married boss. And that as a result of that behavior, the board of that country club forced you to resign.”

“Yes, I saw that.” Kiara raised a brow. “And I have my attorney looking into a lawsuit, since I can prove that allegation is an absolute lie.” She narrowed her dark brown eyes. “And may I ask why you’re so interested?”

“Well.” I weighed my options and decided there was no harm in telling her the truth. “His body
was
found behind my store, which makes me feel violated.”

“I can understand that.” Kiara nodded. “But that doesn’t seem enough of a reason to get tangled up in the investigation.”

“On Monday I was pushed down a flight of stairs and received a threatening note.” I smiled without amusement. “Apparently, Quistgaard’s killer thinks I know something and is now after me.”

For the first time since we’d arrived, Kiara smiled at Jake. “So, you’re her bodyguard?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “Let’s just say I’d be very unhappy if anything happened to Devereaux.” His voice dropped to a menacing growl. “And I’d make sure that person was punished.”

“Good for you. I wish more law enforcement officers felt that way.” Kiara stood. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a fund-raiser starting in forty-five minutes, and I need to make sure everything’s all set.”

We rose to our feet, but before we left, I said, “One more question. Where were you Friday night between nine fifteen and ten?”

“Here.” Kiara strode into the hallway. “I got a call as I was leaving the book-club meeting that a set of heirloom glasses for a bridal shower scheduled for Saturday afternoon was missing, so I drove directly here to sort things out.” She gestured down the corridor. “Feel free to check with the receptionist on your way out.”

As Jake and I walked toward the reception desk, I murmured to him, “That went well. I’m surprised she answered all my questions.”

“People with nothing to hide are usually cooperative.” Jake curled his lip. “It’s the ones with secrets who make things difficult.”

“Can you check out Kiara’s alibi while I use the bathroom?” All the coffee I’d consumed throughout the day was catching up with me.

“Sure,” Jake agreed.

In the foyer, Jake went right and I turned left. After taking care of business, washing my hands, and reapplying a coat of pale pink lip gloss, I found Jake waiting for me outside the restroom door. He put his arm around my waist and we headed back to the parking lot.

As we passed the clubhouse grill, I happened to glance inside. Sitting at the bar talking to Riyad Oberkircher was Noah. At that moment, he looked up and our eyes met. His gaze went to Jake and he scowled; then he lifted his martini glass in my direction and downed the contents.

C
HAPTER 21

N
oah felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. Intellectually, he’d accepted that Dev intended to go out with Del Vecchio, but witnessing her on said date was another matter. This open relationship, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it, was turning out to be a lot tougher than he’d imagined.

He was as exasperated with himself as he was with Dev. How did he manage to lose every damn bit of his famous self-discipline whenever he was around her? It was a miracle that he’d been able to regain his cool so quickly and raise his glass to Dev rather than leap off his stool, charge toward the couple, and smash his fist into Del Vecchio’s smug face.

Then again—Noah gritted his teeth—maybe he should have followed his instincts and fought for his woman. Would that have helped win Dev’s heart? Did she want a man who was willing to let out his inner beast? If that was what it took to win her, he was more than willing to beat the crap out of Deputy Dawg.

Nadine’s constant demands since she’d begun to have these mysterious attacks were wearing Noah down, and now this ache at the thought of Dev in another guy’s arms was almost too much to take.

He had to get Dev alone, someplace where he could hold her and kiss her and entice her into his bed. He was too old to be making out in a public place like her store or, worse, in his car. If he’d known he had a chance with Dev, he’d have bought an SUV or a minivan instead of the Jag. A vehicle with tinted windows and a roomy backseat.

Noah forced himself to put aside his plans for romancing Dev and concentrate on the matter at hand. Someone had threatened her, and he needed to find out who. Nothing was more important than keeping her safe.

Which was why he’d volunteered to attempt to trick Riyad into revealing the name of his client. As a rule, Noah wouldn’t even consider trying to get anyone to break confidentiality; being a doctor, he knew that was a sacrosanct obligation. But at the thought of Dev in danger, all of his high moral standards vanished. In the end, there really was no contest. Saving Dev’s life versus maintaining someone’s ethics was a no-brainer.

Still, Noah had every intention of protecting Riyad as much as he could. The plan was to make the attorney let slip his client’s name, or at least give a hint to his or her identity, without ever realizing he’d done so. How Noah would accomplish that was another matter.

Pasting an interested look on his face, Noah focused on what Riyad was saying. “So, you have to understand how important Adopt, Don’t Shop is to the community. A no-kill animal shelter is vital to maintaining a vibrant animal population.”

“Of course.” Noah realized he’d have to make a donation to the charity to get Riyad’s attention away from his cause. “Let me buy you another drink while I write the check.” He caught the server’s eye and pointed toward their glasses. “You deserve one for all your hard work.”

“Terrific.” Riyad downed the last of his second martini and put the empty glass on the bar.

“How did that emergency meeting that you mentioned the last time I saw you go?” Noah asked as he reached into his jacket pocket for his checkbook.

“Interesting, to say the least.” Riyad slid closer the fresh drink that the bartender had put in front of him. “I can’t recall ever being presented with a case like it before.”

“Really?” Noah paused with his pen hovering over the amount line. “Was the guy justified in his big hurry? I mean, to make you come in so early?”

“Oh, yeah.” Riyad took a gulp of his third martini. “She was right in needing to see me ASAP.”

Score!
Noah congratulated himself. Now he knew that Riyad’s client was female. “Were you right in thinking that the meeting was about the recent murder?”

“Well . . .” Riyad lowered his right eyelid. “I can’t either confirm or deny, but let’s say that I’m usually a really good guesser.”

“Enough said.” Noah wrote down a one and two zeros, then asked, “Theoretically, let’s say that the meeting
was
about the murder. Why would that be so interesting? Haven’t you handled murders before?”

“A few.” Riyad tilted his head, then said with a sly grin, “Sometimes, theoretically speaking, of course, cases are about more than just a single issue.”

“And the murder isn’t the most important one?” Noah added another zero. “What could be more important than murder?”

“I didn’t say
more important
.” Riyad hiccupped. “Just more interesting and potentially more lucrative.”

“I see.” Noah signed the check and tore it free. “Did you take the case?”

“Couldn’t turn it down.” Riyad’s expression grew martyred. “But I’m going to have to split my fee, because I need a cocounsel with experience in the laws concerning copyright and libel.” The attorney’s eyes widened and he covered his mouth with his hand. “Oops! I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Said what?” Noah deadpanned, handing over the completed check.

“Thanks.” Riyad pocketed the light blue slip of paper, glanced at his watch, and rubbed a hand cross the back of his head. “It’s getting late. I’d better go splash my face with cold water, then make sure everything’s set for the party.” He stood and started toward the grill’s exit, but stopped and turned back to Noah. “Hey, man. I was just bullshitting you about all that stuff.”

“Of course. I didn’t believe it for a second.” Noah watched the slightly tipsy lawyer walk away.

Deciding to skip the fund-raiser and get some shut-eye, Noah headed home. As he drove, thoughts of Dev and Jake together battled with questions about why the murderer would need an attorney versed in copyright and libel law. Was she going to write a book about her crime?

CH
APTER 22

I
felt awful. Having Noah see me with Jake was something I’d been trying to avoid. There he was in the bar, doing his best to help me out, while another guy was by my side. Although I’d been honest with both men, I didn’t want to slap either of them in the face with the evidence of my affection for their rival.

At least Jake hadn’t spotted Noah, or if he had, he didn’t let on, which was some consolation. I had a feeling Jake wasn’t a gracious winner, and I didn’t want to have to smack him if he made a snide comment about Noah being dateless.

I was silent as Jake and I climbed back into his pickup, but once we were settled I asked, “Did Kiara’s alibi check out?”

“Yep.” Jake draped an arm over the back of the seat and turned so that he was facing me. “The Bambi at the desk told me some fancy antique wineglasses went missing Friday night and everyone was in a panic. They called Kiara a little before nine—she remembers the time because of some eBay auction she was bidding on—and Kiara got to the clubhouse about fifteen minutes later. Bambi said it took them until nearly midnight to locate the glasses.”

“So another suspect bites the dust.” I tapped my fingers on my knee. “Is her name really Bambi?”

“Nah. It’s just a tag that the marshals use for a naive young woman whose IQ doesn’t match her other . . . uh . . . assets.” The tips of Jake’s ears turned red, and he busied himself with fastening his seat belt.

“I see.” It was obvious he wasn’t telling me the whole story about that nickname, but I let the matter drop and said, “It’s still early, so we can talk to at least one more person on our list, maybe two. Who should we tackle next: Bryce or Ronni?”

“Do you know where we can find them?” Jake started the motor.

“Bryce is most likely home, since he’s a single father and it’s a school night,” I offered.

“Not necessarily. There’s always the local teenage babysitter,” Jake pointed out.

“True,” I agreed. “Ronni doesn’t have a lot of help at her B and B, so she’s probably there. But no guarantees for either of them.”

“Odds are the B-and-B woman will stay up later, so let’s try the guy first,” Jake decided. “We don’t want to go to his place too late and wake up the kid.” He backed out of the parking spot. “Where’s he live?”

“Turn left on the main road,” I directed, then guided him the rest of the way.

The subdivision where Bryce lived was new by Shadow Bend standards—only fourteen years old. It was built on what had been a forty-five-acre apple orchard a couple of miles outside of town.

When the grove’s original owner died, a Kansas City developer persuaded the city council to rezone the tract from agricultural to residential, and then proceeded to outbid any local farmers who were interested in the acreage. Now instead of rows of trees laden with Red Delicious and Jonathan apples, there were 250 houses. I wondered if anyone but me missed the fresh local fruit.

I led Jake to Maplewood Court and had him pull up to the curb. Lights glowed from the windows of the modest two-story house.

We walked up the driveway and I rang the bell, then said, “Let me do the talking.”

Before Jake could answer, the door swung open and Bryce said, “Hi, Dev. What’s up? Hope you didn’t lose Tsar again. Boone would be devastated. He treats that cat better than a lot of people treat their kids.”

“Not this time, thank goodness.” I studied the thirtysomething-year-old man wearing sharply creased designer jeans, a crisply pressed blue-and-white button-down shirt, and moccasins, then said, “But if you have a minute, we’d like to talk to you about the book club.”

“Sure.” Bryce glanced curiously at Jake, but stepped back and gestured us both inside. “My daughter’s watching a
My Little Pony
DVD, so we have about twenty minutes before I need to put her to bed.”

“Great.” I introduced the men to each other, and after they exchanged handshakes, Bryce led us into the kitchen. “We won’t keep you long. I appreciate your taking the time for us.”

“I’m baking cupcakes for my daughter’s preschool class.” Bryce indicated a couple of stools at the counter. “Sit down and we can talk while I decorate them. Multicolor sprinkles are big this year.”

“Thanks.” I took a seat. “I understand you were discussing Mr. Quistgaard’s book with Zizi Todd while the two of you helped clean up after the meeting.” He nodded, and I added, “You two disagreed about the poetry?”

“I just said that Quistgaard’s take on small towns wasn’t that far off.” Bryce took a bowl of icing from the mixing stand and set it in front of him on the counter. “I agreed with Zizi that his portrayal of women was highly offensive.” He grabbed a bottle of red food coloring from the cabinet to his right, unscrewed the lid, and squeezed a few drops into the buttercream frosting, then said, “But I was shocked the next morning when I heard he’d been killed.” Bryce beat the icing until it turned pink. “The murder was
the
topic of conversation at my daughter’s gymnastics class.” He paused and looked at me. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been pulled into the investigation,” I said, then explained my fall down the stairs and the nasty note, concluding with, “And although I have no idea what the murderer thinks I should keep quiet about, now I have a good motive to want him or her caught.”

“I guess you do at that.” Bryce raised a brow. “How can I help?” Before I could answer, he picked up a long serrated knife and asked, “Or do you think I’m the killer?”

“Are you?” Jake’s tone was light, but his eyes had changed from sapphire to steel blue and his hand inched toward the gun I knew he had strapped to his ankle.

“Whoa there, cowboy.” Bryce raised his hands in mock surrender, then lowered them and used the knife to slice a cupcake into two layers. “I had no reason to want that guy dead.”

“Where were you between nine fifteen and ten last Friday night, and can you prove it?” Jake asked, his posture relaxing slightly once Bryce laid the knife on the counter.

“My babysitter can testify that I got home at quarter after nine.” Bryce swirled frosting on the bottom and top halves of the cupcake before putting the two pieces together. “I walked her out to her car a few minutes later, and after she drove off, the guy next door came over to talk to me about the next neighborhood association meeting. He and I are running for the board, and he wanted to plan our strategy. He stayed for at least an hour or so.”

“Thanks for telling us, Bryce.” I shot Jake a look that asked “What part of
let me do the talking
don’t you understand?” and said, “Of course I didn’t think you were the murderer, but I was wondering if you’d heard any rumblings about Quistgaard from the other book-club members. Maybe someone who didn’t speak up during the discussion but seemed upset, or who talked about it later?”

“You may not suspect me, but your friend does.” Bryce jerked a thumb toward Jake. “So feel free to check with the babysitter and my neighbor.” He wiped off his hands and jotted something on a notebook lying by the phone. “Here are their names and numbers.” He handed the slip of paper to Jake and turned back to me. “I left right after Zizi and I put away the chairs, and I haven’t talked to anyone since, so, sorry, nothing on that front.”

“Shoot!” I slumped on the stool. “I was hoping you’d overheard something.”

“Nope.” Bryce resumed constructing cupcakes. “The only one I really chatted with after the meeting was Zizi.” He stopped in midsprinkle. “But now that I think of it, she did say something odd.”

“Oh?” I leaned forward, both because I was interested and because the cupcakes smelled amazing. I really hoped I wasn’t drooling or that neither man could hear my stomach growling.

“Yeah.” Bryce wrinkled his brow. “What was it? Something like Quistgaard’s misogyny was evident in all of his writings, not just his poems.”

“Well . . .” I started, then paused, deciding not to confront Bryce with the news that Quistgaard was the gossip columnist who had written the vicious piece about him. If he had an alibi and wasn’t the killer, why bring up something that would make him feel bad? Instead, I asked, “Did she say what other writing she meant?”

“I think she mentioned that it was a book, but not one of poetry.” Bryce twitched his shoulders. “But I could be wrong. I wasn’t listening all that closely.” His expression was sheepish. “Zizi lectures more than she talks, so I’d sort of tuned out by then.”

We’d spent eighteen of our allotted twenty minutes, and I couldn’t think of any other questions to ask Bryce, so I glanced at Jake to see if he had anything to add. He shook his head, and I thanked Bryce, then said good-bye. I regretfully declined his offer of a cupcake, having already had enough sugar during the day to fuel a roomful of hyperactive six-year-olds for a twenty-four-hour dance marathon.

Once we had returned to the pickup, Jake phoned the neighbor and the babysitter. Both of them confirmed that Bryce was where he’d claimed to be during the time of the murder. Surprisingly, neither seemed curious as to why we were asking. Maybe it was Jake’s official-sounding voice or maybe they just didn’t care. Either way, Bryce’s alibi was confirmed.

As Jake clicked off his cell, he said, “Why don’t we stop by the Dairy Queen for a hamburger before we go over to the B and B?”

“Well, if you’re hungry.” I pretended indifference, since it seemed that every time I was around Jake, I was starving or stuffing my face. “It isn’t even eight yet, so we could spare a half hour.”

“I wouldn’t mind a bite.” Jake cocked his head at me. “And I wouldn’t want your friend Ronni to have to shout over your rumbling belly.”

“You are so not funny.” I smacked his shoulder. “I don’t think a second career as a stand-up comedian is in your future.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wondered if Jake had a second career as a rancher in his future, but I didn’t ask.

Shadow Bend boasted not just any Dairy Queen, but a Grill and Chill, which meant it served food as well as ice cream. DQ always did a brisk business, but this late on a Wednesday night, I didn’t expect it to be crowded.

The nearly empty parking lot proved me right, and in less than ten minutes, we were able to order, get our supper, and settle into a back booth. We spent the next few minutes passing out cardboard containers, squeezing ketchup into the lids, and unwrapping straws.

Once we had taken care of the important stuff, I said, “So, I guess that’s another suspect off our list. I’m beginning to think we’ll never know who killed Quistgaard or why.”

“Unsolved cases do happen,” Jake said, picking up his chili cheese hot dog, “but I’m not ready to give up yet. We still have two book-club members to talk to, and I’ll stop by the PD tomorrow to see what they’ve discovered.” He winked at me. “Even if the chief isn’t willing to bring me up to speed, that dispatcher will be.”

“Yes.” I swirled a fry through a pool of ketchup. “I’m sure she will.” I paused to savor the salty goodness, then commented, “We haven’t really taken into consideration the unique way Quistgaard was murdered. Too bad your profiler friend isn’t available right away.”

“You think the killer might be a vampire hunter?” Jake chuckled. Then, still smiling, he took a swallow of his chocolate shake.

“Right.” I snickered. “Maybe we should be looking for Buffy.”

“Huh?” Jake’s expression was one of pure bewilderment. “Who’s Buffy?”

After I explained about the iconic television show, I said, “It still has quite a cult following. Maybe someone got carried away playing the video game and thinks he or she really is the chosen one tasked with slaying all the demonic creatures roaming Shadow Bend.”

“Okay.” Jake added several syllables to the word, making clear what he thought of my theory.

“Or maybe we should stick to investigating the people we know Quistgaard ticked off.” I picked up my Iron Grilled Supreme BLT, tucking stray tomatoes, lettuce, and crisp hickory-smoked bacon into the panini-style bread. “Let’s finish eating and go talk to Ronni.”

“No need to rush and get indigestion.” Jake threw an arm across the back of the booth. “I doubt she goes to bed this early.”

I had to agree, especially since I recalled that Ronni had mentioned having insomnia. While Jake and I finished our dinner, the conversation turned to my grandmother, his uncle, and my father’s imminent return. When Jake asked if my dad would help me run the store, my throat tightened. I hadn’t thought about that. I knew Dad might have problems finding a job at his age and with a criminal record, but the notion of him as my business partner hadn’t occurred to me. And I wasn’t at all sure how I felt about the idea.

Not wanting to think about my father’s work prospects, I asked Jake about his parents. He’d said earlier in our relationship that he didn’t like talking about them, but if we were going to have any chance as a couple, I wanted to know why he wasn’t close to his folks and what emotional baggage he was carrying around regarding them.

As usual when I brought up the subject, Jake hemmed and hawed without really saying anything about them. Bored, I stared at the gaggle of teenagers who had crowded into the booth across the aisle from us. I couldn’t see the cover of the book the girls were passing among themselves, but their giggles and whispers made me curious.

I concentrated as one of the girls read from the novel, “‘He snaps one handcuff over my wrist and the other to the bedpost, and a shiver of fear and something else shoots from my chest down my stomach, and then lower.’”

I frowned. What in the world were they reading? I missed the next girl’s recitation, but when a petite blonde grabbed the trade paperback from her friend, I heard her say, “‘He forces me to do things I’d never done with or in front of a man. It feels wonderful to give up all control and know my rightful place as his submissive.’”

I frowned. Something about those words, besides the obvious, made me pause. A glimmer of recognition teased my subconscious, and I tried to lure it to the surface.

Just as I was about to capture the niggling thought, Jake said, “Are you ready to leave?”

“Sure.” I dumped my trash on the red plastic tray and slid out of the booth. “Let’s go find out what Ronni knows about our victim.”