4 Four Play (13 page)

“Peter!” I finally stood up. “Are we really going there right now?” I watched my neighbor wander around the room searching for his keys. “I’m not sure I have the stamina to face Dr. Dempsey twice in one day.”

“Richard’s more bark than bite. Here they are!” He lifted his keys from an untidy stack of sheet music. “Hiding under Chopin!”

I gazed at the keys and tried not to frown. The only elderly person I had driven with recently was my mother. Don’t ask.

Peter must have read my mind. “Everyone knows the police have your car, Jessie. Come on now. Time’s a-wastin!’”

“But Jimmy Beak’s out there. And his cameraman. And Alistair.”

“Well then, we’ll leave through the basement.” He headed for his door. “We can pretend it’s a secret passageway. Like Nancy Drew!”

“Secret passageway?” I mouthed to the baby grand.

***

“I’ve never been in the basement,” I said as Peter led me down the proverbial dimly-lit stairway. “Are there spiders down here?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He hit the bottom tread and gave me a hand.

“Umm,” I said as I looked around. “I’m rather prone to the heebie-jeebies.”

“Come now, Jessie. Sleuths don’t let a few little spiders deter them.” He wandered off, and for fear of facing heebie-jeebies all alone, I followed.

My imagination kicked into overdrive as I tiptoed along avoiding the cobwebs. This place, far below my bright sunny condo, would make an excellent dungeon in one of Adelé Nightingale’s books. Here we had the requisite dirt floor, damp walls, and sound of water dripping in a distant corner. And when we walked below what must have been Karen’s living room, the sounds of power tools buzzing above could have just as easily been coming from a torture chamber.

Leave it to Mr. Harrison to know our building inside and out. Once upon a time the Merrikans, Peter’s maternal ancestors, had run a textile mill in our building. Peter inherited the building long after the textile industry collapsed and had divided it into condos.

“There are definitely spiders down here,” I said, quietly so as not to wake them.

But my companion had no such qualms. The man was gaily reminiscing about his childhood memories of the place. Apparently he and his brothers had spent hours in this hell-hole. “Playing pirates, telling ghost stories. At Halloween Uncle Curtis would come down here with us. He had the best ghost stories. Scared the dickens out of us!”

Proof that there is a God in heaven, we finally made it to the other side of the expansive space. But then Peter pointed to some steps even more dubious than those we had descended and started to climb. He kept pointing, this time upward, to what for all practical purposes was a trapdoor over our heads. “It may be stuck,” he said. “It hasn’t been used in years.”

I sighed dramatically and followed.

We made it to the top, and it’s a good thing we’re fond of each other, because we had to squeeze together and push as one to loosen the door.

“Whew!” I exclaimed when I finally glimpsed daylight above. But Peter told me we weren’t out of the woods yet.

“Oh?” I gave one last mighty heave, pushed the door all the way open, climbed to the last step, and took a look.

Lord help me, we were in the alley at the far end of our building—a place so unpleasant we don’t even keep the garbage dumpster out there. It’s no wonder I had never noticed the trapdoor I was now popping out of, puppet-style. No one in their right mind ventured willingly into that alley.

Until then.

“The city sends someone out once a year to clear it of poison ivy,” Peter informed me as we crawled out and got to our feet.

***

I stared at the ancient Cadillac and scolded myself for having such an unjust prejudice against elderly drivers. I mean, Peter had to be better at it than my mother? Didn’t he?

“I’m a very good driver.” He must have noticed my frown. “I drive to the grocery store every week, and I drive to all my doctor appointments.” He opened the passenger door for me. “I am not your mother.”

“You know about my mother’s driving?”

“Jessie, honey, everyone knows about your mother’s driving.”

And every normal person would have taken the passenger seat. But let’s face it—I am not normal. And the situation at Sullivan and Vine was anything but.

I scrunched down in the area where my feet should have been. From that vantage point I could admire how roomy Peter’s car was. I could not, however, witness whatever mayhem he was driving past on Sullivan Street.

It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to get past that mayhem. But at the risk of slowing him down even further, I poked my head around the glove compartment and asked about the Sistina divorce.

“Very unpleasant business, that.” Peter glanced in the rear view mirror and told me the coast was clear. And while I situated myself into the passenger seat, he explained the custody battle for Lizzie.

“She was fourteen,” he said. “I understand the courts usually let a child that age have a say in matters. But the dear girl didn’t want to hurt either parent. In the end, both father and daughter gave in to Rita.”

“They got sick of the arguing with her?”

Peter stopped for a yellow light. “What do you think?”

I wondered if the divorce might have a bearing on the murder, but he couldn’t see how. I also asked about Ray Sistina, and Peter told me what I already knew—Mr. Sistina was a hot-shot lawyer in Atlanta.

“Something you might not know.” The light finally changed, and he slowly eased forward. “Ray’s engaged. Lizzie’s very excited about it. She’s been asked to be maid of honor.”

“What was Rita’s reaction?”

“What do you think?”

Chapter 17

“What’s the plan?” Peter asked as we strolled up the driveway.

“You tell me. You’re the one who worked with him.”

“Yes, but you’re the expert sleuth.”

I reminded him expert was a relative term, and soon we were exchanging pleasantries with Richard Dempsey.

Of course pleasantries is also a relative term. I rattled off some nonsense about my great fascination with roses, and how jealous I was when Peter mentioned the tour of the rose garden. “We’re neighbors, and I’m a gardener, and so we decided I should tag along, and—”

“Save it,” the principal told me. “What’s the meaning of this intrusion? I invite an old friend to visit and get you? I took the afternoon off to recover from you. I deserve better than this. I’ve sacrificed thirty-eight years to the schoo—”

“Are you done?” Peter asked, and the principal actually shut up. “You and I both know twenty-eight years is a little more accurate, Richard.”

“Umm,” Richard said quietly.

Peter turned to me. “And that’s the best you could do?”

“Umm,” I said quietly.

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s start with the roses, shall we?” He gestured to Dr. Dempsey. “Lead the way.”

Dare I say, the garden really was charming? Richard and I may have even bonded as we discussed his roses and my rooftop garden. As we admired a particularly lovely yellow specimen, I was even inspired to invite him up to the roof to see my yellow flowers.

“Perhaps sometime after the murder is solved,” I suggested, and he literally collapsed.

“It’s my fault,” he told the rose in front of him. “Miriam’s dead because of me!”

***

“Why, why, why?” the principal cried as Peter and I helped him to his feet.

“Why what?” we asked.

“Why did I ever let her volunteer for cotillion duty?”

Peter dropped the arm he was steadying. “Excuse me?”

“That’s right,” Richard said. “She volunteered. Miriam Jilton had cotillion duty two years in a row.”

Now Peter looked like he might collapse also. “I need to sit down,” he said in no uncertain terms and staggered over to the patio.

I stumbled along behind, more or less carrying the principal. “Ms. Jilton had her reasons for volunteering,” I told him. “You are not to blame.”

“Oh yeah?” he said as I got him into a chair. “What about Focus on Fiction?”

I whimpered slightly and decided I should sit down also. Then I reminded Peter what he likely already knew from watching Jimmy Beak. “Richard had to choose my replacement.” I tilted my head toward the principal, and Peter’s eye got wide.

“Miriam Jilton?” he asked.

“They gave her such a hard time.” Dr. Dempsey spoke so softly I had to struggle to hear.

“Who did?” I asked.

He shrugged. “The sore losers, the parents of the losers, the distant uncles of the losers. You name it.”

“You think one of the losers killed her?”

“Or a parent, or a family member.” The principal closed his eyes. “I gave the killer motive.”

“A thousand-dollar scholarship isn’t motive for murder,” I said firmly.

“How would you know? You write romance. But I read crime fiction.” He thumbed his chest. “I know what your fiancé’s looking for—motive, means, and opportunity.”

“And?” Peter asked.

“And don’t you see? I’m responsible for two of the three.” Richard counted off on his fingers. “Motive—a sore loser from Focus on Fiction—a task I assigned to Miriam.” He counted another finger. “Opportunity—she was only at that dance because I let her volunteer.”

He shook his head in disgust. “The only thing I didn’t give the killer was the means. He had to find his own damn gun.”

I cleared my throat. “Miriam Jilton was shot?” I asked.

“Didn’t you just talk to my faculty? Why are you still playing dumb?”

Luckily, he didn’t wait for an answer but addressed Peter. “Speaking of dumb. Why didn’t I assign the writing contest to Doris Carver? You remember her?”

Peter groaned in answer.

“I think she was jealous of Miriam,” I said.

“The old bat,” Richard muttered. “Does Doris have an alibi?”

I nodded, and he curled his lip.

“Too bad,” he said. “Doris would make a great murderer.”

***

“Is he our man?” Peter asked the minute we pulled out of the driveway

“No,” I said. “He has some of the basics wrong.”

“Motive, means and opportunity.” Peter stopped at a stop sign and glanced over. “Richard’s confused about something?”

I nodded vaguely and looked at the scenery as we wended our way through the suburb. Eventually I remembered to thank my driver. “I couldn’t have done that without you,” I said. “It was very helpful.”

“But we’re not done, are we? There must be some other sleuthing that needs doing?”

I thought about it. “I have an idea. But I warn you, my beau the cop would not approve.”

“Fiancé,” Peter corrected as he slowed for yet another yellow light. “And don’t let Wilson fool you, Jessie. He loves your sleuthing.”

An arguable point if ever there was one. But I chose not to argue.

I sat up and rearranged my seat belt. “Let’s try the Sistinas,” I said. “I have some questions for Lizzie. And maybe you can keep Rita occupied.” I looked at my driver. “Are you up to that?”

“A sleuth’s gotta do what a sleuth’s gotta do.”

“Maybe, but a sleuth’s gotta plan ahead better than I do.” I explained that I had left my purse, and thus my cell phone, at home. “I thought I was just going downstairs for a chat with you.”

Peter smiled and pointed to his glove compartment, and I found his phone. I was impressed with his foresight, but he took no credit. Apparently his niece had given him “the contraption” for his last birthday.

“Natalie said I shouldn’t be driving without it.”

I told him to thank Natalie for me and clicked the number that Natalie had also had the foresight to pre-program in.

Meanwhile Peter made a careful and precise U-turn. “Sleuthing here we come!”

***

“Ms. Hewitt?” Lizzie said as I identified myself. “Like, I can’t believe it!”

“Well, I’m with Peter Harrison, and he had your phone number.”

“Like, not that! That you talked to my mother! Frankie told me you’re, like, good at talking to people, but I had no idea you’re that good. Like, thank you!”

“You’re welco—”

“Here’s Frankie.”

“You’re with Frank—”

“Miss Jessie! Thanks for talking to Ms. Sistina. I think she really likes me now. That’s why I’m here. We’re studying for our algebra test, and Ms. Sistina invited me to stay for dinner. At Lizzie’s house!”

I congratulated Frankie and explained the purpose of my call.

“You’re on your way over?” Frankie held his hand to the phone, but I could still hear every word he said. “She wants our opinion. She wants our help.”

“Like, wow!” Lizzie was, like, on the line again. “This is, like, so cool. And my mother will be so happy. She says I should try to help!”

I blinked twice. “Your mother actually wants you to help me?”

“She says we have to find the killer, like, really fast to get my name out of the news.”

“Your name isn’t in the news, Lizzie.”

“Like, try telling my mother that.”

Chapter 18

I wasn’t surprised when the teenagers came outside to greet us. But I was taken aback when Rita rushed out and gave me a great big hug. She held me at arm’s length and positively beamed. “The kids just told me!”

“I’m glad you don’t mind me talking with them.”

“Jessie Hewitt, you can do whatever you want! So who was it?”

“Who was what?”

“The murderer!” She shook me in a manner meant to be friendly. “Lizzie tells me you’ve solved the case!”

“Excuse me?”

“Mom!” Lizzie made it a four-syllable word. “You, like, weren’t listening. Ms. Hewitt wants our help because she, like, has not—not—solved the case.”

“Not!?” Rita shoved me away.

“Not yet,” I said. I brushed off my shoulders and rearranged my blouse. “But Peter and I have learned a lot of useful information.”

“What!?” Rita screeched. “We had a deal, Jessie! It’s been over twenty-four hours, and I’ve held up my end of the bargain.” She jerked a thumb at the teenagers, who promptly stopped holding hands. “What is wrong with you?” she asked me. “Elizabeth’s future hangs in the balance!”

“Why don’t you invite us inside?” Peter asked in a calm, but loud voice.

Rita did better than that. She invited us for dinner. “Maybe some nourishment will light a fire under your butt,” she told me, and I thanked her for her hospitality.