Dead Between the Lines (20 page)

CH
APTER 24

A
t six a.m. Thursday morning, the strains of Iron Maiden’s “Doctor, Doctor” startled me from a deep sleep. When I answered my cell, Noah apologized for the early hour.

I mumbled, “No problem.” As I came more fully awake, I asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Mom fired her caregiver, then called me claiming to have chest pains again.” Noah sighed. “I’m currently following the ambulance that’s taking her to the hospital.”

“That’s awful,” I commiserated. “Do you think she’s okay?”

“I think she’s fine.” Noah sighed again. “But I wasn’t willing to take a chance that she wasn’t bluffing.”

“Hmm.” What could I say to that? My bet was that Nadine was crying wolf in order to keep her son’s attention focused on her, but I could see Noah’s point. How could he ignore the symptoms she claimed to have?

“Anyway, once I get to the hospital I’ll have to turn off my cell, and since I’ve got my Bluetooth, I thought I’d fill you in on my conversation with Riyad.”

“Last night when you saw me at the country club with Jake, we had just finished questioning Kiara.” Although Noah hadn’t brought up spotting me with his rival I felt I had to say something about it. “She was another dead end, so I really appreciate you talking to Riyad.”

Noah didn’t comment on my explanation. Instead he said, “I didn’t get a name, but Riyad did let slip that his client is female. That probably isn’t much help, but he did say that she needs both a criminal and a literary attorney—something about copyright and libel. That might be a clue.”

“Hmm.” I’d have to think about what that might mean.

Before I could come up with anything, Noah, said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I get back to town.”

After thanking him for both the call and the information, I wished him luck with his mother, said good-bye, and closed my eyes. A few minutes later, just as I was dozing off, Bobby Fuller’s “I Fought the Law” yanked me from Slumber Land again. This time it was Jake.

“I stopped at the PD after you left last night, and although none of the cops were around, I had a long talk with the dispatcher.”

“And what did Nympho Barbie have to say?”

“You sound jealous, darlin’.” Jake chuckled.

I rolled my eyes but bit my tongue and kept quiet.

“Barbie, as you call her, reported that the murder investigation is stalled. The cops have talked to everyone who was at the book-club meeting, and anyone else who knew the vic, and now they’re going through his personal papers.”

“Great.” I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes. “So no one is making any progress in finding the killer.”

“Barbie also said that it’ll take some time to look at all the stuff at Quistgaard’s place, since they found an entire room full of documents.”

“What kind of documents?” I yawned. Surely Quistgaard hadn’t written a note naming the person who was most likely to kill him.

“The dispatcher said it looked as if the vic had printed out and saved every version of every manuscript he ever wrote, dating back to when he was in high school. And the dude must have been damn prolific, since the police checked over a hundred boxes into evidence.” Jake’s tone was incredulous. “You’d think he’d just burn a computer disk or put it all on a thumb drive.”

“Terrific.” I groaned. “Any more good news?”

“It appears that someone beat the police to the search, because they found the house ransacked when they arrived, and from empty spots in the dust on the floor, it looked as if at least a couple boxes might be missing.” Disgust dripped from Jake’s voice. “The LEOs should have secured that location as soon as they identified the body.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “But since Quistgaard’s keys and wallet were missing, the killer most likely went to his house right after the murder.”

“Yeah.” Jake paused, then said, “Give me a call after you talk to Zizi.”

“Okay.” I pulled up the covers. “Bye.”

Minutes ticked past, and I finally admitted that I wasn’t able to go back to sleep. Deciding to make a virtue out of my wakefulness, I got dressed, grabbed a honey-nut cereal bar, and drove into town. With the killer still at large, it was a little scary being at the store by myself, but I made sure both doors were locked, and by seven a.m., I was working on Mrs. Zeigler’s anniversary basket. Even though the gift wasn’t due for another two weeks, and I was waiting for the delivery of the book that would go in the starring position, I wanted her order to be otherwise ready to go.

Once her basket was done, I turned my attention to the Mother’s Day orders. I needed to finish those right away, because they’d be picked up within the next couple of days. We didn’t currently deliver, but I’d been getting a lot of requests and was looking into the possibility of providing that service.

At nine, I unlocked the entrance and flipped on the neon
OPEN
sign. A few minutes later, as I boxed up a dozen strawberry-and-cream truffles for Cyndi Borrows, a member of the Blood, Sweat, and Shears sewing circle, I asked her how the field trip to the fabric show had gone.

“It was a lot of fun.” Cyndi took the gold foil carton from me. “I loved getting a peek at the gorgeous new prints and colors.”

“I missed seeing you all last night.” I moved to the register to ring up her purchase. “Did everyone enjoy themselves?”

“I think so.” Cyndi handed me a fifty-dollar bill. “Well, everyone except Zizi. Something was bothering her. Maybe she didn’t do well on her finals. She said she took her last one yesterday morning.”

“So she’s done for the semester?” I counted out Cyndi’s change.

“Uh-huh.” Cyndi stuffed the money into her purse and headed for the door. “Last night, she said she wasn’t getting out of bed for at least a week.”

It was a good thing there weren’t many customers the rest of the morning. If I’d been busy, heaven only knows what mistakes I’d have made, since I couldn’t concentrate. Instead of making baskets or putting out new inventory or even paying bills, all I could do was continually check my watch and think about the murder.

Not wanting to disturb Zizi’s rest, I forced myself to wait until eleven-thirty to call her. It was a relief when she answered on the first ring. Although Zizi’s tone was curious, and we weren’t exactly let’s-have-lunch-together kind of friends, she agreed to meet me at Little’s Tea Room in forty-five minutes.

At noon, I closed up the shop, texted Xylia to see if she’d be able to come in at ten instead of three the next day, then freshened up. After I combed my hair and put on some lip gloss, I strolled over to the café. It was a beautiful spring day and the short walk helped me focus on what I needed to accomplish during the meal.

The tearoom was in the first floor of a Queen Anne–style house, and I waited for Zizi’s arrival in the foyer. Most of the furnishings were original Eastlake-style tables, chairs, and sideboards, and I gingerly sat on a walnut-and-brocade settee. While I loved vintage anything, in the Victorian era people’s shapes were generally not as curvy as mine, so I was always a little afraid that I’d break the antique furniture.

Once I was convinced the divan could hold my weight without imminent collapse, I twisted around to admire the floral carvings on the back, then bent to examine the detailed border carved across the bottom. I was running my finger over the tufted upholstery when Zizi came through the brightly painted front door.

I glanced past her and saw that her dented old muscle car with its duct-taped front grille and its spiderweb crack on the windshield was parked in front of the café. Between the primer and the rust, it was hard to determine the vehicle’s original paint job, but my guess was cherry red.

Zizi was in her early twenties and had carrot-colored hair, milk-white skin, and an abundance of freckles. Today she sported twin braids and was a dead ringer for the girl on the Wendy’s fast-food sign.

Just as Cyndi had mentioned, I immediately noticed that Zizi’s usual happy glow was missing. After exchanging hugs and hellos, we moved into the tearoom, where I requested a table in the back. If I wanted Zizi to confide in me, I needed privacy.

Once we were settled and had ordered the special—a pot of tea, a selection of finger sandwiches, cheeses, fruit salad, and tiny cookies—I said, “Thanks for meeting me for lunch, especially on your first day off school. I hope I didn’t wake you when I called.”

“I wish.” Zizi rub her eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well since the murder.”

“Are you afraid?” I asked, then frowned, realizing it was strange that no one had mentioned any fear about having a murderer in their midst.

“No, not exactly.” Zizi picked up the teapot, poured us each a cup, then added sugar to hers. “Actually, I was happy you reached out to me. I’ve heard you’ve been asking around about that night.”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Although I was getting tired of explaining my interest in the case, I repeated what I’d been telling everyone else about my motive for questioning people. As usual, I ended with, “So you see why I want the murderer caught sooner rather than later.”

“Oh. My. God!” Zizi yelped when I finished. “Now I really feel guilty.”

“Why’s that?” I was fairly sure Zizi hadn’t just confessed, but I was still glad we were in a public place. Jake would never let me forget it if she tried to kill me after I’d insisted on meeting her without him.

“I know something about Lance Quistgaard that I didn’t tell the police.” Zizi’s sky blue eyes reflected her indecision. “I didn’t think it was important, and it put me in a bit of a compromising position, so I didn’t bring it up when they questioned me.”

“But now you’re reconsidering.” I wanted to shake her until she told me what she knew, but lucky for her, the server brought our lunch and I regained control of myself.

“Uh-huh.” Zizi picked up a miniature cucumber sandwich and popped it into her mouth. When she finally finished chewing and swallowing, she said, “I know you don’t participate in Shadow Bend’s community sport.” When I looked puzzled, she explained, “I mean, I know you don’t gossip, so if I tell you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“Unless it leads to the murderer.” I was flattered at my reputation as a nonrumormonger. “Which is, I assume, what you want me to do.”

“I guess.” Zizi ate a cube of cheddar, then nodded to herself. “Yes. I’ll tell you what I know about him, and you decide.”

“Okay.” I concentrated on appearing relaxed so I didn’t scare her. “Shoot.”

“You’ve heard of the book
Ten Colors of Blonde
?”

“Yes,” I said, barely stopping myself from shouting,
Not that book again!

“The author is supposedly a woman named L. L. Charles,” Zizi said.

“Right.” It took me a second, but I finally put everything together. “Are you saying that Lance Quistgaard is L. L. Charles?”

“Yep.” Zizi reached for a tiny round of shortbread. “I was so incensed over the demeaning message that heinous novel is sending about women, and the huge sales it’s sucking from more deserving books, I made it my business to find out about the author. It took a little detective work and some questionable computer activity—that’s the part I don’t want the police to know about—but I discovered that L. L. Charles is the pseudonym for our own Lance Quistgaard.”

“Wow!” I was speechless. It floored me that someone who had been so arrogant and condescending about anything he didn’t consider true art had written a book that was the total opposite of great literature. Then again, a lot of folks sold out for money, if the amount was high enough.

“Yeah, wow.” Zizi shrugged. “It was quite a shocker to learn that the author lived in my hometown, let alone that he was a guy, since the book’s written in first-person present tense, from a woman’s point of view.”

“Did you confront Quistgaard about being L. L. Charles?”

“Yes.” Zizi nodded. “I followed him when he stormed out of the book-club meeting.”

“What did he say when you told him you knew he was the author?”

“He denied it, of course.” Zizi smiled meanly. “But I didn’t care. I knew, and he knew that I knew, and that was what I wanted.”

“Did you intend to make that knowledge public?” I asked, then held back a grin and added, “Maybe take it to the
Banner
?” Wouldn’t Quistgaard have been shocked to find gossip about himself in the paper where he wrote his own malicious column?

“I hadn’t decided what to do.” Zizi smirked. “Since Quistgaard wouldn’t admit he was L. L. Charles, he couldn’t exactly ask me, could he?”

“Quistgaard didn’t attack you, did he?” I suddenly had a horrible vision of him going after Zizi, and of her defending herself with the fence post. “Because if he did, you know that would be self-defense.”

“No!” Zizi looked at me, horrified. “You can’t think I killed him.”

“Well . . .” I hesitated, then realized I had to ask, “Do you have an alibi for between nine fifteen and ten?”

“Yes.” Zizi nodded. “Yale Gordon is dating one of my friends. He and I went to Gossip Central after the book-club meeting to wait for her to get off work. She’s one of the weekend waitresses there, and her shift ends at eleven.”

“Great.” I hadn’t had a chance to ask Yale about his whereabouts, but now I could clear him, too. I excused myself, ducked into the washroom, and called Poppy. She put me on hold, consulted with her bartender, and verified that both Zizi and Yale came into her bar about a quarter after nine and didn’t leave until eleven.

When I returned from the bathroom, Zizi asked, “Do you think Quistgaard’s second career is important?” She wiped her fingers on her napkin. “I can’t see how it would be a motive for murder.”

“I can’t, either,” I agreed, then paused. There was something else I’d intended to ask Zizi, but her shocking news about Quistgaard had sent it out of my head. I’d have to call her when I remembered. “But if I do figure out how the two are connected, I’ll tell Chief Kincaid that I got an anonymous tip and leave your name out of it.”

“Thank you!” Zizi leapt from her chair and hugged me. “I knew you’d know what to do.”

“Actually”—a thought popped into my head—“the cops will probably figure it out on their own. They’re going through Quistgaard’s personal papers, so I imagine they’ll find the manuscript or a contract or something that links him to that book, which means you won’t have to worry about it.”