Foul Play at the Fair (15 page)

“I take it, it didn’t work out?”

“No. He was nice enough. But way too weird for me. I never knew whether he was making a joke or being a jerk. We never…you know…if you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering. And I admire your good taste in not pursuing him.”

“Better taste than Janine, at least. Did you see the way she was chasing after him at the wake? Of all times.”

“Hmm,” said Liv, drawing her fork across the top of her mashed potatoes. “An investigative reporter, huh. I wonder if he was any good.”

“I don’t know, but he was with the
Times
.”

“The
Fishing Times
?”

“The
Los Angeles Times
.”

After dinner, BeBe insisted on driving Liv home. “With Peeping Toms and murderers running loose, we girls can’t be too careful. Actually, no one can be too careful. I mean, right there in the store. How did Pete Waterbury get in? Did he have a key left over from thirty years ago?”

Liv frowned. “Good question. Was there even a store thirty years ago?”

BeBe glanced over at Liv. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.” Liv was still pondering the question when they came to a stop in front of the Zimmerman house.

“I’ll wait until you get in; give me a sign. Flick the porch lights.”

“Thanks, but you go ahead. I have to pick up Whiskey from Miss Edna and Miss Ida.”

BeBe laughed. “You know, someone might get the wrong idea if they heard you say that.”

“Yeah, I should have named him Snowball or something.”

“That wouldn’t work. He’s definitely more of a Whiskey than a Snowball.”

“Well, thanks for coming to the diner with me. I’ll see you tomorrow. Night.”

Liv climbed the steps to the Zimmermans’ porch and rang the bell. Slow footsteps and quick clicks of doggie feet, and the front door opened.

Liv squatted down. “Hi, baby. Were you a good boy?”

Whiskey planted his paws on her knees and licked her face.

“He’s just a sweetheart. He helped Edna dig up the onions this afternoon. Didn’t you, you rascal?” Ida beamed down at an unrepentant pooch.

“Oh dear,” said Liv, and stood up. “Did he do too much damage?”

“Not at all,” came echoing from inside the house. Edna appeared at the door, a book in her hand and her reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

Whiskey ran back through the door and ran several circles around Miss Edna’s feet. “A flirt, this one,” she said and leaned over to ruffle his fur.

“Well, thanks for keeping him. If he gets to be too much, just stick him in the carriage house. He has more toys than I have room for. I kind of spoil him.”

She walked down the driveway to her rental, Whiskey bounding ahead, darting in and out of the bushes and finally flashing past her as she opened the door. She poured fresh water for him, treated herself to another glass of pinot grigio, and went into the living room to open her laptop and do something she’d been itching to do since her dinner with BeBe.

She sat down and Googled Chaz Bristow.

For the next two hours she sipped wine and followed links while Whiskey lay sleeping on her feet. Neither Charles nor Chaz had a website; he wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter. There were a couple of mentions in relation to the
Celebration Clarion
. Several links to sports fishing articles he’d written. And finally a mention of a Charles Bristow, investigative reporter for the
Los Angeles Times
. Which didn’t mean it was the Chaz Bristow she was researching.

She pulled up Google Images. Searched through the Charles Bristows until she found an old, grainy black-and-white. She clicked on it. A newspaper clipping with a byline
and a picture. Chaz Bristow had definitely been a reporter for the
Times.

She clicked back to her search. Not only a reporter, but a very prolific one. She scrolled through the links searching for the first mention of his writing, fighting the urge to speed ahead to the recent past, hoping to get a sense of the history that had made him give it all up. His first byline was ten years before, a report of a warehouse fire in Compton, then several follow-up articles that led to a conviction of arson.

Chaz had risen steadily in the pecking order if Liv could rely on the number of times his name appeared on the byline of articles. The topics he covered and investigated grew in importance. Drug busts in south LA. Prizefight fixing. A study of Watts, forty years after the riots, the broken demographics, the anger, the gangs. It was impressive writing. Crisp, clear reporting that had to have put him in harm’s way more than once. Was that why he gave it up for fishing reports in upstate New York?

Had he burned out, got fired, lost his nerve?

She was bleary eyed and yawning before she came to the last two years of his work with the
Times
. It was after midnight, the print wavered before her eyes, and she had to reread most of what she read. Pete Waterbury’s funeral, the letdown of a job well-done, and knowing that she had to start on the next one in less than eight hours—not to mention knowing a murderer was still at large—had taken its toll. Her eyes shut and she gave in to her exhaustion.

She was vaguely aware of Whiskey pushing off her feet. He barked once and ran to the front window.

Liv pulled herself from a fog, vaguely thinking of Chaz Bristow. She lifted her head from the keyboard and realized she’d fallen asleep.

Whiskey barked again and tried to jump onto the chair that sat beneath the window. Liv came wide-awake. She hadn’t closed the blinds when she’d gotten home that night. She shot out of the chair and, calling to Whiskey in an
urgent whisper, threw herself against the wall between the window and the front door. Heart pounding, she cautiously peered around the side. She nearly jumped out of her skin at the knock behind her.

Whiskey bolted to the door and barked again. It was the middle of the night. One of the sisters? An emergency? They would have called. But a Peeping Tom or a murderer wouldn’t knock. Of course, a murderer might, but…

Another knock, quiet, secretive.

Liv swallowed. “Who’s there?”

A mumbled reply.

“Who?”

A little louder.

“Oh my God.” Liv unlocked the door and peered out. Opened it wider.

Pale faced, eyes round and dark—not the Peeping Tom. Roseanne Waterbury stood in the downcast porch light, her face contorted. A shudder, a ragged sob, and she fell through the door into Liv’s arms.

Liv stood rooted to the floor while Roseanne clung to her, sobbing uncontrollably, and Whiskey jumped at their knees. As soon as her head cleared, Liv inched over to the window and extricated one arm long enough to pull the shades. She didn’t know what this was about, or why Roseanne had come to her in the middle of the night, but she certainly didn’t want anyone seeing and speculating.

“What’s wrong, Roseanne? Are you hurt? Did someone frighten you?”

The girl shook her head, burying it farther into Liv’s shoulder. Liv eased her away so that she could see the tear-streaked face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“D-Daddy. They arrested him. For murder.”

Liv was too stunned to speak. Joss Waterbury, a murderer? Of his own brother? She had trouble believing it. But if Bill had arrested him…Liv gently steered Roseanne toward the couch and lowered her to the cushions.

Whiskey put both paws on the seat cushion, whining until
Liv gave him a boost up. He settled himself between the two of them, his muzzle on Roseanne’s thigh.

“Rose, you need to calm down and tell me what happened.”

Roseanne took a shuddering breath and the words tumbled out. “It was this afternoon after everyone went home. Almost everyone. Ted was still there…and Bill Gunnison.” She sucked in air, hiccupped, absently stroked Whiskey’s back. Whiskey snuggled closer to Roseanne, sensitive as always to someone in distress.

“Bill waited until everyone had left before he arrested your father?” At least he hadn’t hauled him off in the middle of the funeral.

Roseanne shook her head, pulled Whiskey closer to her. “Not Bill,” she wailed, and broke into a fresh round of tears.

This was getting them nowhere. “Roseanne, in order for me to help you, you’ll have to pull yourself together.”

“Then you
will
help me?”

“Uh, of course, I’ll do what I can,” Liv said hesitantly. How on earth could she help? Then she remembered her conversation with Roseanne that afternoon.
You must know all about murder.
Liv mentally crossed her fingers.
Please don’t let Roseanne expect me to find an alternative suspect to her father.

Well, this was a predicament. At least she could hear the girl out before she had to let her down. It would probably do her some good to talk it out, and any knowledge that Liv gained would help her strategize in the days to come.

If she were really callous—which she wasn’ t—she would be glad they had made an arrest. It would take the heat off her and her scheduled festivals. But not Joss Waterbury, not if it meant closing down a slew of festivals.

“Okay. Let’s start at the top. Bill and Ted were still there and…”

“These men came to the door. They were all in suits, so I thought they’d come to pay their respects. I let them in. Me. It’s my fault.”

“Absolutely not,” Liv said. “If they planned to make an arrest, not opening the door wouldn’t have stopped them.” Liv pushed a handful of red curls away from Roseanne’s face and stuck them behind her ear.

“Now, tell me what you remember. They came in and what happened?”

Roseanne sniffed. Tugged at Whiskey’s ear. “They stopped just inside the door and looked around the room. That’s when I knew something awful was going to happen, but it was too late.”

“Rosie, don’t fall apart.” Liv spoke more sharply than she intended, but really, this could take all night, and Roseanne’s family must be worried about her. Though since it was after two o’clock, they probably didn’t even know she was gone.

“Then they said, ‘Which one of you is Joss Waterbury?’ Daddy and Mr. Gunnison both moved toward them, and then the first guy said…He said, ‘This is out of your hands, Gunnison.’ And he sounded really gruff, a real as—jerk. Mr. Gunnison just glared at him, then looked back at Dad.”

Roseanne wiped the back of her hand across her nose. Liv jumped up long enough to grab a pack of tissues from her desk. She ran a fingernail along the perforation and pulled a tissue partially out before handing the pack to Roseanne.

“Then what happened?”

Roseanne blew her nose. “Dad said he was Joss Waterbury and the guy said they wanted to ask him some questions at the police station. I’d never seen them before. Maybe they were the FBI or something like that.”

“Whoa,” Liv said. “Did they read him his rights?”

“You mean, like, ‘You have the right to remain silent’?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t think so. No. They said they wanted to question him. He was a person of interest or something like that. But he didn’t come back. He’s in jail and it’s all my fault.”

“Stop it. It’s not your fault. And he might not be in jail. He might be home right now wondering where you are.”

Whiskey shimmied his front half onto Roseanne’s lap and shot Liv a disapproving look. Roseanne shook her head slowly. “I stayed up after everyone went to bed. Uncle Ted had to give Momma a pill, she was such a mess. It was awful. She never loses it, ever.”

“Does anyone know where you are?”

“Donnie. He said you couldn’t do anything, so I told him to stay home in case Momma woke up.”

“You drove?”

“I brought the truck. I have my learner’s permit.”

Oh great. Knowing this, Liv couldn’t let her drive home by herself again, which meant Liv would have to take her or she’d have to stay overnight.

“And Donnie said he’d call my cell if Daddy got home.”

Liv blew out a long breath. “You know, I think we need some hot chocolate and a snack while we think of what to do.”

Roseanne’s face brightened and Liv knew in that instant she had said the wrong thing. She’d meant to comfort, but Roseanne heard,
I’ll help you prove your father’s innocence
. And well, hell, she kind of heard that herself. She’d have to backpedal at least a little bit. “You know, I bet Bill Gunnison is down there with them and helping get your father back home again.”

“I don’t think so. He tried to go with them. And the guy—he must be the boss or something—said thanks but his presence wouldn’t be needed. It pissed Mr. Gunnison off, I could tell, ’cause his face got all tight and he kinda lunged at the man. Uncle Ted had to grab hold of him. And that other guy just kinda smirked just like those smug outsiders on TV.”

“Right,” Liv said, grasping at straws. “And what always happens in those shows?”

Roseanne shrugged. “The local guy beats them out.”

“Right. So let’s put our trust in the sheriff—what do you say?”

Roseanne’s cell phone trilled and they both jumped. “It’s
Donnie,” Roseanne said excitedly, and flipped open her phone.

It wasn’t good news. Donnie’s voice carried right through the phone. Ted had called to make sure they were all right. He had seen the truck go by and wondered what was going on. “He’s on his way to pick you up. And, Sis. He’s pretty pissed.”

Roseanne snapped the phone shut. “I don’t care what he says. You have to help me clear Daddy. They all treat me like a kid, but I can help you. I know things.”

Liv had been about to stand up to go to the kitchen, but she stopped. “What kind of things?”

“I’ll tell you if you promise to help me.”

“Roseanne, I—”

“And you have to promise not to tell anybody, not even Uncle Ted.”

Liv couldn’t promise something like that. Especially if Roseanne really did know something that would help the investigation. But if she did know something, why hadn’t she told the police?
Because, dummy, it might implicate her father. God, what a mess.

“Off topic for a sec. I didn’t know Ted was your uncle.”

“Oh, he’s not my real uncle. I wish he was instead of…He’s really my godfather, but I call him ‘uncle’ ’cause he’s so much like a part of the family.”