01 - Playing with Poison (15 page)

I checked Rye’s suggestions, and sure enough, Tony De Sousa was his first choice, too. I called the number Sylvia gave me and explained Candy’s situation, impossible or not, to Mr. De Sousa’s paralegal. De Sousa himself was in court, but his assistant assured me I would get a call from him before the day was through.

Next, I got things rolling with the bail bondsman.

Then I drove back home and waited for the phone to ring. I pretended to work, but ended up staring out the window and watching the lunchtime clientele come and go at The Stone Fountain. Days ago Rye had said Stanley was poisoned either in that bar or in my building.

I called Karen.

“Our little Kiddo in jail, Jess? What is the world coming to?”

Clearly Karen knew nothing about Candy’s sordid past, and she had not known of Candy’s arrest until I told her. But after hearing the news, she agreed that an evening at The Stone Fountain was definitely in order. We would meet in the lobby at eight.

I hung up and continued gazing out my window. “It had to have happened over there,” I told Snowflake.

She shifted position on the windowsill, and together we stared at the bar.

***

“Your friend will be spending the night in jail,” Anthony De Sousa informed me a while later. “Candy knows we’re working to get her out, but these things take time. Especially in a capital case.”

I suppose I should have been happy Candy’s new lawyer had called me back as promised. And I suppose I should have been happy he had already scheduled her bond hearing for the following day. But I whined a bit anyway.

“I don’t want you to worry over this, Ms. Hewitt. Candy says she’ll be fine.”

I forced some optimism into my voice and made sure to thank Mr. De Sousa for his efforts. “So, you’ve talked to Candy about all the supposed evidence against her?” I asked.

“I have. There’s quite a lot of it, as I assume you already know.”

I sighed dramatically. “I suppose I should be happy Captain Rye never arrested me when the evidence seemed to dictate.”

“Must be the evidence didn’t dictate.” De Sousa chuckled. “Whatever Jimmy Beak is claiming.”

“Excuse me?”

The lawyer again told me not to worry. “Everyone with a working brain knows if Jimmy Beak says it happened, it most likely did not. And Rye and Densmore both have working brains. You can quote me on that.”

“But if I didn’t do it, and Candy and Carter didn’t do it, who did?”

“Who did?” He sounded as if I might know.

“Someone at The Stone Fountain,” I said with conviction. “It’s our neighborhood bar, and Stanley was there that night.”

“Candy mentioned it.”

“I intend to do some more sleuthing over there, starting tonight. Someone’s got to figure this thing out.”

“That would be the cops,” De Sousa said. “You should leave this to the experts.”

“You mean the experts like Wilson Rye? The genius who arrested poor Candy? No, sir, I don’t think so.”

“I’ve got to tell you, Rye had plenty of cause to arrest them.”

I wondered if all defense lawyers were so all-fired willing to agree with the police as De Sousa continued, “It would have been nice if Rye hadn’t found Carter O’Connell at Candy’s apartment this morning—less than twenty-four hours after Sweetzer’s funeral.”

“She’s young,” I said. A lame excuse, but it was all I had.

“It would have been even nicer if O’Connell hadn’t been there Saturday night. He ended up face to face with Sweetzer just moments before he died. Did Candy tell you that?”

I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. “Somehow, she forgot to mention it,” I said.

Chapter 15

I had both a headache and a stomachache after hanging up with Anthony De Sousa. What better time to confront Ian?

In preparation, I dressed in my best don’t mess with me black suit and donned a pair of heels which brought me close to six feet tall. Then I drove on over to the old homestead. It was only five o’clock, but tax season was months away, so I assumed my ex the CPA would be home from the office.

I parked at the curb and stared at what had once been my dream house. They had re-painted and changed the color from pastel yellow to beige. And for some reason all of my flower beds had been removed. So much for dreamy.

I climbed out of my Porsche, and was marveling at the vast expanse of solid lawn, when Frankie Smythe whizzed by on his skateboard. He did a double take, maneuvered a quick u-turn, and was suddenly standing beside me, skateboard in hand.

“Miss Jessie!” He smiled, and I noticed his braces were gone. “How’s it going? How are you?”

I gave him a great big hug. “Exactly how tall are you nowadays, Frankie?”

He shrugged his incredibly lanky teenaged shoulders and I realized how much I had missed this boy. I had missed my house not at all. But Frankie?

We had a lot to catch up on, but we covered the lost time fast, especially since Frankie was too polite to mention the Stanley Sweetzer fiasco. He was also too polite to ask what I was doing in the neighborhood.

Frankie’s big news was his impending driver’s license.

“Two months!” He held up two fingers, and my mind flashed back to the day he had peddled up my driveway to show me his new tricycle. A few years later, it was his first bike. And a bit more recently he had strolled up the driveway hand in hand with his first girlfriend.

I was waxing way too nostalgic when Frankie dropped his skateboard and hopped on. He promised to visit me in my new digs sometime soon and started rolling away.

“I’ll drive down to Sullivan Street,” he called over his shoulder and pointed to my car. “Maybe you’ll let me take that for a spin.”

I winced at the idea and turned to face the beige door beckoning me from across the turf. I winced again.

***

“What do you want?” Amanda answered the door, her usual charming self. “I hope you know my life is ruined, Miss Borderline Pornography. All my friends keep asking about you. I may never be able to show my face at the club again.”

Somehow, I didn’t find Amanda’s angst all that compelling. But I endured her tut-tutting for an entire minute before demanding to speak with Ian.

“What about?”

“I want to beg him to come back to me. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a bitch.”

I didn’t argue, and Amanda informed me it was rude to show up unannounced. I didn’t argue there either, but giving Ian fair warning before this visit had definitely not been an option.

Ignoring Amanda’s less than gracious welcome, I walked inside. But I stopped short after only a step or two, overwhelmed by the new décor. Unlike the exterior, which had gone from cheery to dreary, the interior of my former home had changed from tasteful to tacky. Indeed, the foyer was veritably ablaze in exuberant colors.

I was staring aghast at the bold-print gold, green and purple—and I do mean purple—wallpaper, when my ex barged down the stairs.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked cordially.

“I need to talk to you.” I tilted my head in Amanda’s direction. “Privately.”

What a shocker, Amanda stamped her foot and insisted she had a right to hear any conversation that took place under her own roof.

I uncurled my lip and turned back to Ian. “Trust me,” I said. “You will want this to be private.”

If I expected further argument, the hideous wallpaper saved me. Ian was staring at it as if he had never noticed it before, and he seemed not to have heard his new wife at all.

“The study,” he said. He tore his eyes from the walls and led me down the hall.

I will spare you a description of what had once been my beloved writing room. Just think purple, and you’ll get the basic idea.

“I need to ask you something about your Thursday night poker games,” I said as Ian closed the door and pointed me to a chair.

“What about them?” He sat down in an exaggerated huff. “Get to the point, Jessie. I’m busy here.”

“Who’s the fourth guy? You played with Roger and Stanley Sweetzer and one other person, correct?”

“Who wants to know?”

I stated the obvious—that I would like to know.

“Why?”

“Come on, Ian. Just tell me.” I hesitated, and decided I was just desperate enough to say it. “Please?”

He made me wait for a full minute before answering, “Neil Callahan. You remember him?”

Neil is the junior partner in my ex-husband’s accounting firm. The man is not too bright, and I could easily envision him losing loads of money at a card game.

I thanked Ian for the info and moved on, “You’re not going to like this next question, either.”

“What, what, what?” He again reminded me how busy he was.

“Did you guys play for high stakes?” I asked.

Ian’s head snapped in the direction of the closed door. I watched him watch the door and chose not to remind him of his pressing schedule. I also failed to point out that he had just answered my question.

Eventually, he remembered me. “My finances are none of your business,” he said.

Perfect! I leaned forward and went in for the kill. “And my finances were none of Stanley Sweetzer’s business.”

Ian’s mouth dropped open.

“But that didn’t stop you from telling him all the details, did it?”

While my ex struggled to breathe, I reminisced about our divorce proceedings, which had dragged on for months while he fought me for the rights to my book royalties. We had finally settled, but only after he stopped listening to Amanda and conceded that I might actually deserve the income from my own writing. What a guy.

“You do remember our agreement, Ian?” I asked. “You got this beautiful house.” I waved a hand in the air of what had been a beautiful house. “And I got the car, the cat, and a lump sum payment. A figure that was to remain confidential.” I emphasized that last word. “Do you recall all those legally binding documents you signed just a few short months ago?”

He stuttered something about Stanley pressuring him for information. “Every Thursday night, Jessie. The guy was relentless.”

“Stanley’s file on me almost got me arrested for murder, Ian. The cops were quite interested in how he knew so much.” I folded my arms and glared. “I was a bit curious about that, myself. Until now.”

Ian squirmed but said nothing, and the full extent of his transgressions suddenly occurred to me.

“Oh, my Lord, Ian! It wasn’t just me, was it?”

More squirming.

“You were feeding Stanley information on a lot of your clients, weren’t you? Anyone with some extra cash lying around?”

He still refused to answer, so I relied on intuition and kept going. “Neil was in on it, too, I bet. What did you guys get in return? Some sort of kick back from Stanley?”

“Oh, and like you’ve always been such a fine, upstanding citizen.” Ian sneered. “Remember who your Daddy was, Little Miss Cue-It.”

I blinked twice. “I remember who you were, Ian. You used to have integrity. You used to care about professional standards.”

“Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it? Report me? Remember Jimmy Beak, Jessie. Your credibility is shot.”

I thought about Jimmy Beak. And there’s a first time for everything—I actually smiled.

“You are so right,” I agreed. “I am bound to run into Jimmy Beak again. Why, the man practically lives outside my door. And when I see him? I’ll be sure to explain all the details about Stanley’s poker games.” I tapped my chin and pretended to think about it. “I’ll mention your name, of course. And Neil’s. And the name of your company.” I batted my eyelashes. “I imagine the word ‘fraud’ is bound to pop up at some point, don’t you think?”

I stood up and waited while my ex sputtered a string of obscenities. When he had finished, I bent over and grabbed the arms of his chair with each hand.

“After all,” I said as he tried disappearing into the cushions. “The public has a right to know.”

“Is that a threat?” he squeaked.

I winked and stood up.

“No need to see me out,” I called over my shoulder. “I know the way.”

***

“Mother was wrong for a change,” I told Snowflake the moment I arrived home. I took off my heels and dropped them inside the door. “Ian did gamble a lot. So now what?”

Snowflake trotted over to her empty food dish and meowed.

“That’s not what I was talking about,” I told her. I walked over to the cupboard to find her crunchies while I pondered my latest discoveries.

I now knew my ex was complete slime and had broken who knows how many laws divulging privileged client information to the equally slimy Stanley Sweetzer. I also knew where that pesky twenty-seven thousand dollars had originated.

However, I still couldn’t say who killed Stanley, and I could almost guarantee it wasn’t one of the poker players. Ian might have lost all sense of decency, but he wasn’t a murderer. And Roger Sweetzer was the guy’s father, for Lord’s sake. I gave Neil Callahan some thought.

“Nope,” I said out loud. Neil might have been an extremely remote possibility, but I still couldn’t quite picture it.

But then Amanda popped into my head. I stood there mesmerized, holding the box of cat food aloft.

What if Ian had lost that kind of money to her friend Margaret’s son? What if Amanda had found out about it? And what if she had followed Stanley into The Stone Fountain last Saturday? Armed with Phenobarbital? Which she had obtained from—where?

Snowflake scolded me and wrapped herself around my ankles.

“Okay, so that’s a lot of what ifs,” I admitted as I recalled my main purpose in life. I bent down and poured some food into her bowl, and then I sat down at my computer and Googled Amanda Crawcheck.

For someone who was embarrassed to know me, Amanda sure was spreading the news about the borderline pornographer with a murderous streak. The woman had been tweeting about me several times a day. Indeed, she was practically campaigning for my imminent arrest.

I concluded, not for the first time, that Ian’s new wife is at least as bitchy as his old. Then I moved on to Facebook, where I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the new Mrs. Crawcheck’s social life. But I failed miserably in my main purpose, which was to find a photograph of her—something bigger than a postage stamp.