01 - Playing with Poison (17 page)

“Okay, let’s try this again.” He directed his gaze back at me. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question.”

“You do remember our conversation the other night?” He managed to raise his voice, even though he was whispering. “Didn’t we agree you’d stay away from this place until the case was closed?”

“Noooo,” I said. “I don’t recall that at all. And besides, I thought the case was closed. The ever malicious Candy Poppe and company are behind bars tonight, correct?”

He ignored me and looked around the room until his eyes landed on Karen. Bless her heart, she had Evan McCloy deep in conversation. Apparently, Evan was a cheekbone man after all.

“I see you brought backup this time,” Rye said.

“Karen and I came over to have a drink together.” I tried sounding innocent. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Oh, probably.”

Rye left me to join Karen and Evan, likely interrupting an informative and helpful conversation about Stanley.

I refused to follow, and instead walked past the Dibbles’ booth to thank Audrey again for the crystals. The more I thought about it, the more touching her gesture of friendship seemed. Then I made my way over to the pool table. I plopped the bag of crystals at my feet before I threw my back out, and leaned against the wall to watch the game between John the New Guy and Gus.

Kirby saw me forthwith and asked for the next available game. I was about to accept when Rye spun around from Karen and Evan and declined for me.

“Ms. Hewitt was just leaving,” he said firmly.

“Excuse me?” I was about to argue more vehemently, but Karen’s wild gesticulating behind his back stopped me.

I promised Kirby some other time and bent down to pick up my rocks. Rye reached over, took the canvas sack, and led us away.

“I absolutely hate obeying this guy,” I told Karen as we approached the door.

“But I think I got something,” she whispered. “We need to talk.”

That conversation would have to wait, however, since Rye insisted on seeing us home. Indeed, he and Karen made all matter of small talk as we crossed Sullivan Street, and by the time we were standing at her doorway, she was even promising to install a lock on our front door within the week.

I myself was a bit less cordial. I huffed and puffed my indignation, but Rye didn’t seem to notice the melodrama. He wished Karen a pleasant night and turned toward the stairwell.

Karen held me back. “Call me,” she whispered and shut her door.

Chapter 17

What a shocker, Rye was frowning when I turned around.

I folded my arms and glared. “I really can make it all the way up to the third floor by myself, you know?”

“We’ve been through this before.” He opened the stairwell door and waved me forward.

I resigned myself to the inevitable and followed him up the stairs, but he stopped and turned on the second floor landing.

“What the hell do you have in this thing?” He pointed to the bag he was carrying.

“Rocks,” I said honestly.

Rye blinked twice. “You’re a little scary, you know that?”

I didn’t argue, he hoisted the bag onto his other shoulder, and kept climbing.

We made it to my doorway, but the man still wasn’t in the mood to leave and insisted we needed to talk. “We’ve got a problem,” he informed me.

“Why am I not surprised?” I unlocked my door. “I am tired, Captain. I’ve had an extremely busy day.”

“I’m sure you have. May I come in?”

I thought about it. “Upstairs,” I said. I called to Snowflake, told Rye to leave the crystals in my doorway, and led the two of them toward the roof.

“At least if we sit up here, you won’t expect me to serve you tea,” I said over my shoulder.

He told me there was no need to be testy.

“Yeah, right,” I responded testily.

***

We sat down, and Rye was once again enamored with the garden. I, however, refused to let the pleasant breezes and almost-full moon dissuade me from my bad mood. I interrupted a question about watering the daisies and demanded some answers.

“Why hasn’t Jimmy Beak been informed of Candy’s arrest?” I began. “Aren’t you required to keep the media posted on these things?”

“Beak knows. We briefed the media this afternoon.”

“What? Then why hasn’t he reported it?”

Rye raised an eyebrow. “You’re really not that naïve, are you? The public doesn’t always have the right to know, Ms. Hewitt. Not if the facts aren’t likely to boost Beak’s ratings.”

I folded my arms and glared. “Are you telling me Jimmy’s sitting on Candy’s arrest because it makes for better ratings if I’m the killer?”

“Yep, that’s what I’m telling you. And remember his fixation with Dee Dee Larkin? If you’re not the killer, there goes that supposed partnership. Beak’s been trying to go national for years.”

I mumbled a four-letter word, but Rye told me not to worry.

“Larkin didn’t even mention you in tonight’s broadcast, whatever Beak was hoping,” he said. “And you’ll be off the hook around here by tomorrow. The
Courier
will run an article on Poppe and O’Connell in the morning paper—front page, most likely. After that, Beak will be forced to tell his adoring public what’s really going on. Which is exactly what I want.”

I myself was a bit confused about what exactly I wanted. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Jimmy latching on to Candy’s arrest, but his continued harassment of yours truly wasn’t all that appealing either.

“Beak could end up helping your friend’s cause.” Rye interrupted my thoughts. “That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.”

“How in the world can Jimmy Beak help Candy?”

Rye studied me, the baby blues more intense than ever.

“What?” I asked impatiently.

“I’m trying to decide how much I should trust you.”

“I’m a trustworthy person,” I said.

“Maybe. But you’re angry with me as it is, and you’re really not going to like what I’m about to tell you.”

I rolled my eyes. “I do know how to control my temper, you know?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What is it, before I decide to kill you, Captain?”

“We have every reason to assume your friend is guilty—”

I jumped up and reminded Rye of my terrible temper.

He glanced up. “You want to hear this, or not?”

I sat back down.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “we have a good amount of evidence against Poppe and O’Connell, and I’ve officially closed the case.”

I sat on my hands so as not to slug him.

“But I’m still looking into things. Unofficially.” Again the intense stare. “You get it?”

I did not.

“Well then, I’ll explain,” he said. “I’m still not completely satisfied that something didn’t happen in that bar on Saturday.” He pointed down toward The Stone Fountain. “Which is why I still insist you stay clear of the place. Stop stirring things up, until we’re sure.”

There, you see? I knew I had a right to be testy.

“Are you actually telling me,” I hissed, “you have Candy in jail, and you’re not absolutely, positively, one hundred percent sure she’s guilty?”

“I’m ninety percent certain she is guilty.” Rye remained his incredibly aggravating, calm self. “But I’m also keeping an open mind, and I’m still investigating some other possibilities. Unofficially.”

“And I’m supposed to sit here and let you take your sweet time about it? While Candy rots in jail?”

He shook his head. “Ms. Poppe is not about to rot in jail, okay? She’ll be out tomorrow morning. I had to call in a few dozen favors, but I convinced the DA not to fight too hard at the bond hearing.”

“And her friend Carter? What about him?”

“He stays in jail. Don’t even try to argue with me about that.”

“And you think I’m the scary one? You’re impossible, do you know that?”

“Listen to me carefully,” he said and waited until I did so. “Once Ms. Poppe is released tomorrow, you have got to let her think—let everyone think—I’m finished with the investigation. If Poppe and O’Connell aren’t the culprits, then the real murderer is still on the loose. If they think I’m done looking, they may get complacent. You get it now?”

I did. “That’s where Jimmy Beak comes in, correct? He’ll report the news on Candy and Carter, and the killer will think he’s gotten away with it?”

“He or she.”

“And then maybe he’ll do something stupid to tip us off,” I concluded.

“Us?”

I watched Snowflake chase a moth and considered Rye’s plan.

“If you really think Carter’s innocent, it’s wrong of you to hold him in jail. There are laws about that.” I tried to remember which of Carter O’Connell’s civil rights Rye was violating.

“Can you trust me on this?” he asked. “Just this once?”

I was mumbling a reluctant agreement when he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. I cringed as he unfolded the picture of Amanda and held it up for me.

“Now then, you want to explain this?”

I studied the photograph as if I had never seen it before. “Where did you get that?” I asked ever so innocently.

“As if you didn’t know. Bryce Dixon was flashing it to everyone and his brother until I confiscated it.” Rye frowned at me. “Do you actually hate the new Mrs. Crawcheck so much you’re willing to accuse her of murder?”

“I haven’t accused her. Yet.” I crossed my arms and glared. “But she did have a motive, you know? And since you’re still looking into the possibilities, you might just take a peek at dear Amanda.”

“Already have.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not an idiot, Ms. Hewitt. I know all about your ex-husband’s poker games with the Sweetzers.”

I bounced a bit. “I think that’s where Stanley got all the money you found. I’m thinking he won it from Ian, and then Amanda got mad. Don’t you see?”

“It’s already been covered. First of all, those guys never played for anywhere near that kind of cash—”

“That’s not what Ian told me,” I interrupted. “They played for high stakes.”

Rye raised an eyebrow. “You two have been talking?”

I raised an eyebrow back. “Trust me, it was not that fun.”

We had ourselves a little stare down before Rye broke the silence. “There’s high stakes, and there’s high stakes,” he said. “Those guys never played for anywhere near that kind of money. You’ll also be happy to know, I think, that the Crawchecks were out of town last weekend. They were in Savannah visiting her sister. Densmore’s verified it.”

I watched as he crumbled up the picture and put it back in his pocket.

“You have to admit it had possibilities,” I mumbled.

“Mm-hmm.”

I thought about the other information I had garnered from my ex that afternoon. Did Rye really need to know all the details of those stupid poker games? And if so, did he really need to hear it from me?

Snowflake hopped into his lap and meowed encouragement. Rye stroked under her chin and she purred accordingly.

I took a deep breath and blurted it out, “I’ve figured out how Stanley knew so much about my finances.”

“From Ian Crawcheck.”

I jumped. “You knew about that? For how long?”

“Since Densmore questioned him—right after we searched your place the other day.”

“What? Why didn’t tell me?”

Rye grinned. “By that point I was ninety percent certain you weren’t a murderer. Call me foolish, but I kind of wanted to keep it that way.”

“Believe it or not, I haven’t fantasized about killing my ex for months.” I sat back and frowned. I might be the forgiving type, but if any of Ian’s other clients found out what he’d been doing, one of them might not be so understanding.

“You don’t have to report him.” Apparently, Rye was reading my mind. “Densmore and I will take care of it.”

“So,” I said slowly. “You know all about those poker games?” I emphasized the all.

“I know enough. It isn’t my area of expertise, but your ex-husband’s arrangement with Sweetzer will be investigated. Divulging confidential financial figures like he did constitutes fraud.”

“Ian insists Stanley practically forced him into it.”

Rye nodded. “Sweetzer was good at getting what he wanted out of people. He knew lots of secrets, but that doesn’t let your ex-husband off the hook.”

Oh, Ian. I held my face in my hands and shuddered.

“He used to be a good guy,” I said eventually. “Once upon a time he had standards.”

Rye waited until I glanced up. “I can see that,” he said.

***

Snowflake yowled for no good reason and jumped from Rye’s lap onto Karen’s safety railing. She sat staring at us, her white coat shimmering in the moonlight.

“I hate it when she does that,” I said. “She knows it makes me nervous.”

“Cats like heights.” Rye tapped my knee with his fist. “So, we have a deal, right? You’ll keep your mouth shut and trust me, and I’ll keep looking into the murder. Deal?”

“I hate this,” I agreed. “But I’m still going to The Stone Fountain. It would actually look more suspicious if I stopped hanging out in there.”

“Well, at least stop it with the sleuthing. And don’t be over there alone, or late at night.”

Speaking of late at night—I leaned back and closed my eyes to better enjoy the breeze.

“Tell me about your mother,” he said the moment I got comfortable. “What did she do?”

My mother? I kept my eyes closed and told him I was sick of discussing my private life. “Let’s talk about you for a change, shall we?” I sat up and pointed to Snowflake. “You must have a cat, for instance?”

“Two of them. Wally’s jet black, the exact opposite of yours. And Bernice is the fattest calico on Planet Earth.”

I smiled. “And parents?” I asked. “Do you have any of those?”

“Two of them.”

“What do they do?”

“They’re retired. My mother was a dispatcher with the force in Raleigh.”

“The police force? Like the woman who answered my 911 call the other night?”

“Yep. And my father was a cop.”

“Children?” I asked. “Do you have any of those, Captain Rye?”

“You’re very nosey, you know that?”

“I’ve been taking lessons.”

He held up an index finger. “I have one of those. My son Chris is a sophomore at UNC, Chapel Hill. What about you?” he asked. “No kids, right?”