Double Shot (19 page)

“As long as you didn’t kill anyone.”

“Kill anyone!” He caught himself and looked around. “Kill anyone?” he repeated in a whisper. “Who do you think I am? Maybe we should start there?”

“Until this morning I thought you were a cop.” I pointed to his tape recorder. “I thought you were recording things for Wilson.”

“Wilson?”

“He’s my beau,” I said. “But I still don’t know who you are, Kevin. You’re not a librarian.” I waved a hand at the stacks. “And you’re not a cop. So what are you?”

“A graduate student.”

“Excuse me?”

He tapped his computer. “I’m just starting my dissertation.”

I scowled at the laptop. “You expect me to believe you’re writing your dissertation about the Wade On Inn?”

“No one’s ever done anything like it!” The frown on his face had suddenly transformed into a smile—a downright beaming, glowing smile. “My working title is
Social Interactivity and Gambling Protocol Among Early Twenty-First Century Billiards Players: An Urban Study
.” He actually said it all in one breath. “What do you think, Tessie?”

Needless to say, I was speechless. I blinked twice, or maybe it was three times, while Kevin repeated his working title.

“Umm,” I finally managed. “You’re a sociologist?”

“Anthropologist,” he corrected. He filled me in on the basics of his PhD research plan and sat back, waiting for my response.

“Well, the title certainly is catchy.” I tried sounding enthused. “But you should call it what it is—nine ball.”

“I like the sound of billiards better.”

“No,” I insisted, “I’m a writer. It’s best to be as accurate as possible. Don’t leave people guessing as to your meaning.”

“You’re a writer?”

I nodded. “I take it no one at the Wade On Inn knows about this research?”

“You won’t tell them?” He seemed anxious. “It would really compromise my research if you did.”

I promised I wouldn’t. “The murders must have compromised your work, though?”

“I hope not.” He was back to frowning. “I wasn’t expecting to have to answer to the police. I had to tell the guy in charge what I’m doing. But after he checked me out, he promised not to blow my cover.”

“The librarian thing?”

“Pretty decent of Capt—”

Then it dawned on him. “Of Captain Rye.” He squinted at me. “Your boyfriend is Wilson Rye? The cop?”

I shrugged, but Kevin reminded me fair is fair. After he vowed to keep my secrets, too, I explained my own true identity, both as Jessica Hewitt and as Adelé Nightingale.

“Wilson has me working undercover to try to catch the killer,” I said. “But I’m a complete amateur. I haven’t figured anything out.”

“You’re not an amateur pool player.”

Perhaps he expected further explanation about that, but I moved on and asked him about the murders. Surely he had noticed something with all his spying? An anthropologist would possess great powers of observation, no?

Kevin claimed otherwise. “I got started just a couple of weeks before Angie was killed. My research is only in the preliminary stages,” he explained and began cleaning his glasses. “I don’t know anything.”

I refused to accept that and insisted he share his opinion of each of the regulars.

As we discussed all the suspects, we agreed to dismiss Mackenzie and Avis. Upon further reflection, we also decided Ethel and Doreen weren’t killers.

“I have no idea who the other old lady was last night,” Kevin said. “But let’s dismiss her, too.”

I agreed that would be a good idea.

But my conversation with Mother was still fresh in my memory. “I’m thinking it was Spencer, or maybe Melissa,” I said.

“No way. Melissa can’t even aim a cue stick, much less a gun.”

“Okay, so what about Spencer?” I recalled my mother’s assessment. “I don’t trust him.”

“Spencer Erring is slime in a suit.” Kevin stared straight at me, as if challenging me to argue.

I didn’t. “I understand he had an affair with Angela.”

“The guy sleeps with anything on two feet, and that might be narrowing it down a little too much.”

“Who else has he been with?” I asked.

“Who hasn’t he been with would be an easier question.” Kevin returned to cleaning his glasses.

“Melissa?”

“Okay, I stand corrected. Melissa’s probably the only woman out there he hasn’t shown interest in.”

“What about Fritz?” I asked.

“No.” Kevin sounded sure of himself. “Fritz was teaching Angie to play pool, but that’s all.”

“No,” I clarified. “Did Spencer have something going on with Fritz?”

“Huh?”

“Kevin.” I was a bit exasperated. “You just told me Spencer sleeps with everyone. And I know for a fact that Fritz Lupo was gay. So?”

He thought a moment. “No,” he said and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure, no.”

I asked Kevin if he knew Fritz was gay, and he said he had his suspicions, but he doubted it was public knowledge.

I thought of all the other sundry possibilities. “What about Bobby and Angela?”

“You’re awfully interested in everyone’s love life.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s what this was all about.”

“Is that what your boyfriend thinks?”

I slumped. “No,” I admitted. “But trust me, this isn’t the first time Captain Rye and I have disagreed.” I sat back up. “Now then, what about Bobby and Angela? I’m getting mixed reports on that.”

“Nothing there.”

I studied Kevin. “You seem pretty sure about that.”

“It’s my job, Tes—Jessie. I need to be observant.”

“So did you observe anyone else with Angela?” I asked. “We think she was involved with someone new.”

“Who else is there?”

Okay, good point.

I got up to leave, but thought of one other question. “Did you know about the gun, Kevin?”

“Fritz kept it under the pool table,” he said without hesitation.

“Who told you that?”

“Spencer.” Kevin squinted into the stacks. “Or maybe it was one of the old ladies?” Again, the cleaning his glasses thing.

***

Sarina Blyss had all but given up hope by the time I returned to my desk.

She and Trey had tried ever so hard to think of how they might prove her identity. But without the help of yours truly, the hapless couple was reduced to gazing longingly into each other’s eyes and fretting over how much time they had left before the loathsome Constable Klodfelder drove Trey away.

Finally, Sarina could bear it no more. She burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably, her trembling bosom once again distracting the Duke from any semblance of clear thought. He was reaching out to console her when Sarina jumped.

***

Or maybe it was me who jumped. The downstairs buzzer was making one heck of a racket. I stood up and hastened to the intercom.

“Who’s down there?” I demanded.

“Amanda Crawcheck. As if you didn’t know.”

“What the hell?”

My ex-husband’s altogether despicable new wife had the audacity to demand entry, but I am not an idiot. I told her to go away and started walking back to my desk. But again she laid on the buzzer.

Poor Snowflake looked to me to make it stop, and I assured her I would. I slipped on my loafers and went to deal with the situation, whatever it was. And yes, the buzzer kept buzzing my entire way down the stairs.

Amanda seemed to think she would walk right in when I opened the lobby door. But I pointed one profoundly perturbed index finger in her direction, backed her up, and stepped outside.

“You have one minute to tell me why you’re here,” I informed her. I closed the door behind us and glared.

Not such a good idea, since I was glaring at Amanda. She may be twenty years younger than I, but I honestly do not understand the woman’s appeal. Frizzy hair, chapped skin, and a perpetual smirk on her perpetually chapped lips are her most charming physical attributes.

Amanda stamped her foot. “I have every right to be here,” she said, smirk included. “And I have every right to know what you think you’ve been doing with my husband.” She drummed her own index finger at her chest and then pointed it at me. “Miss Borderline Pornography,” she hissed for good measure.

Mindful of Peter Harrison’s window right behind us, I walked her down to the sidewalk and put a few buildings between her and my home.

“I know what you’re up to,” she informed me when I stopped.

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” I asked. “Because right now I’m about to call my beau and have you removed for disturbing the peace.”

“Don’t you dare threaten me. I found out all about your little showering arrangement with Ian.” She lifted her hands and put arrangement in air quotes.

“And? What’s your point?”

She stamped her foot again. “He’s my husband, and I will not tolerate it.”

“Well then, invite him back home.”

She turned red and snorted a few times, and I had hopes she might self-destruct right there on Sullivan Street. Unfortunately, she recovered.

“You’ve been feeding him, too!” she exclaimed. “BLT’s!”

Okay, so I laughed. I mean, a really hearty laugh. Downright cathartic. Heck, I was almost tempted to give Amanda the lowdown on the specialty bacon I had used. But entertaining as that might have been, I had no desire to prolong the encounter.

“Oh, Lord,” I said as I came up for air. “Are we done yet?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I am so sick of you embarrassing me in front of my friends,” she snapped. “Don’t you want to know how I found out about your little arrangement with my husband?”

Not really. But somehow I assumed I was about to be enlightened anyway.

“He was at the club yesterday afternoon, bragging about it, that’s how! During his Sunday afternoon golf game!”

Dare I say, this actually was interesting news? First of all, I didn’t deem my BLT’s worthy of much bragging. But more importantly, I had thought Ian was altogether out of friends. And altogether out of money. A round of golf at the Clarence Country Club couldn’t be cheap. And surely this stupid club had a men’s locker room? Replete with a working shower?

Not that I knew the details, mind you. The country club thing was one of the many changes Amanda had made in my ex-husband’s lifestyle. I doubt Ian had ever played a round of golf until she entered his life, hell-bent on raising her social status.

Oh, but the wannabe socialite was still hissing. “Thank God Lydia Horchild had the decency to call me. She heard Ian talking with Dickie Rumsfield at the bar. He told Dickie he’s thinking of going back to you!” she shrieked.

“What!?” I shrieked back.

I was concluding that my ex had taken his last shower in my condo when Amanda informed me I would not succeed in stealing him away from her.

“I’m taking him back,” she said. She tossed her head and waited for me to protest.

I took a deep and highly-relieved breath—and there’s a first time for everything—offered her my sincerest thanks. Then I pointed her short yet sturdy person in the direction of 209 Vine Street.

***

Now where was I? Oh yes, Sarina Blyss had jumped, and her bosom had trembled magnificently. “Father Conforti!” the lady exclaimed, her eyes aglow with renewed vim. “He knows me!”

Trey was ever so excited to hear about the good Father. For not only did the priest know Sarina, he had been at her dear mother’s bedside the night she died, and had witnessed the final request of Gabriella Blyss—that her daughter be given her golden necklace. Why, Father Conforti had even watched as Sarina’s father removed the necklace from his beloved wife’s neck and placed it into his young daughter’s hands.

Trey admired Sarina’s delicate hands and asked if Father Conforti might recognize her nowadays.

Oh, yes! Sarina was sure he would. Father Conforti had also attended her father’s final hours, and had even ventured out from his parish in Priesters to the Blyss household several times since then. The priest had been concerned about her well-being, but he had no way to help Sarina escape her sister-in-law, other than to suggest she become a nun.

Sarina blushed and whispered that she did not believe she wanted to become a nun.

Trey agreed wholeheartedly. And vowing to journey to Priesters and locate Father Conforti that very day, he sprang to his feet. He bid farewell to his lady, but before departing the jailhouse, he stopped to issue a stern warning to Constable Klodfelder. He threatened to bring the full power behind his title down upon the Constable’s head if any harm befell the good lady before his return.

Klodfelder reminded the Duke he was about to lose that title. Everyone knew, the Constable bellowed loudly enough for Sarina to hear, that the Duke of Luxley had to get himself married before the week was over, or cease being a Duke at all.

Trey assured the Constable he already had a lady in mind and would be married forthwith. And Sarina clasped the bars of her cell in an effort to keep from swooning.

Chapter 23

Miss Blyss was indulging in a shockingly vivid fantasy of her wedding night when I shut off my computer. I stood and stretched, and asked Snowflake to help me choose an outfit worthy of my final excursion to the Wade On Inn.

The cat seemed skeptical, and as I perused my wardrobe, I understood why. I had run out of bizarre ensembles. But fortunately, I was supposed to be on vacation. I clad myself in the exact same outfit I had worn for my first night of sleuthing and hoped the folks at the Wade On Inn would understand my limited options.

Karen and Candy didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Karen claimed the dog collar necklace was starting to grow on her. I argued that, no, it was starting to grow on me, and we headed to the bar.

On the drive over I broke the news that this would be our last night at the Wade On Inn. “It’s so unfair,” I lamented. “We were doing so well.”

“But gosh, Jessie,” Candy argued. “What about last night with your mother and all?”

“I’m surprised Wilson didn’t kill you,” Karen added.

“Maybe,” I said. “But my mother did a fantastic job yesterday.” I reported what she had learned about the gun. “She also told me Fritz was gay. Surely that’s worth knowing?”

Candy asked why, and I admitted I had no idea. We were pondering the implications, whatever they might be, when Karen asked what specifically we should work on that evening.