She's Gotta Be Mine (38 page)

Most men would at least apologize, even if they didn’t mean it. “Are you working?”

“Yep.” A forkful of egg disappeared into his mouth.

Hmm, working. “Are you going to stake out Cookie’s house?”

He shot her a look, then glanced at the ceiling. “Now why would I stake out Mrs. Beaumont’s house?”

Bobbie shrugged. “In case she sneaks out to meet someone. Have you got her phone tapped?” After all, Cookie would have to call
Brax
soon if she wanted him to find the shovel in Nick’s shed.

“I’m not sure which cop shows you watch, but you might want to consider something a little more reality-based.”

She hated those reality shows. Bobbie glanced at Mavis, who appeared to be engrossed in the exchange and making no moves to her cash register. She backed off only when
Brax
stood.

“Tomorrow night, then, Bobbie?”

Mavis peered at Bobbie around the sheriff’s shoulder, bobbing her head vigorously.

“I guess Friday’s a good night.” Maybe then he’d tell her what secretive thing he’d been doing tonight.

He threw bills on the table, patted his stomach, and said, “Thank you, ladies, for another delicious meal.” He let his blue gaze stroke her. “And the good company.”

“What time are you picking her up?” Mavis asked, when Bobbie didn’t seem to have the sense to.

“Seven.” Answering Mavis, he looked at Bobbie. “Tell her to wear that little blue leather thing again.”

They watched until his patrol car pulled away from the curb.

“I think you better have your hair done tonight.”

Bobbie ran her fingers through the soft curls of her hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing. But Thursday night is a big ’do night at the Hair Ball. Getting ready for Friday parties and the like. Everyone will be there. And you know the old saying about a woman telling her hairdresser everything.”

Bobbie gave Mavis a double take. So even her boss thought something was going on besides the obvious. “Are you suggesting I eavesdrop on them?”

Mavis examined her fingernails. “Eavesdropping is such a harsh word.”

But a very good idea. Bobbie looked down at her own nails. She’d had them done just before she’d left San Francisco. The cuticles were starting to grow out. “Do they have a manicurist?”

“She even takes walk-ins. And sending you over there might put a stop to you scaring away all
my
customers.”

* * * * *

While Bobbie was at The Cooked Goose, Nick went on his own adventure.

He shoved the Charger into Park and gunned the engine, just to let the lady of the house know who was in her driveway. Sort of like a battle cry.

His mission had two goals. First, Nick wanted to needle Cookie about Warren, maybe question the man’s allegiance. Second, he needed to cast doubt on the effectiveness of planting the damn murder weapon in his shed.

Taking the front steps two at a time, he banged on the door. A minute later, footsteps fell on the inner tile. An elderly woman peered up at him myopically, eyes clouded by cataracts.
Jimbo’s
hire—Cookie wouldn’t have put up with a disability.

“I’m sorry, but the house is in mourning.”

Not Cookie, the wife, but the house itself. “I’m here to extend my condolences to Mrs. Beaumont.”

“She isn’t receiving.”

“Who is it, Miranda?” Cookie, voice grief-weakened, called from a room off the foyer.

“It’s a man.” She might as well have called him a dirty name with that tone.

“Who?” He thought he detected a sniffle or two accompanying the question. What an actress.

“Tell her it’s Nick Angel,” he said loud enough for Cookie to hear.

The woman’s eyes went wide, as if seeing him for the first time. She opened and closed her mouth spasmodically as Cookie ordered, “Let him in, Miranda,” and was forced to throw the door wide for his entrance.

He strolled into the Beaumont living room. Cookie, pink negligee billowing out around her fuzzy-
muled
feet, lounged on a cream chaise, one hand thrown dramatically over her eyes.

“I’m surprised your housekeeper isn’t used to strange men at the door. After all,
Jimbo’s
been dead two days already.”

Cookie fluttered a silk handkerchief. “You’re such a cad.”

He flopped down on her elegant couch. “A cad?” More on the level of an alley cat, where the hell had Cookie picked up the hoity-toity language? “You can do better than that. In fact, you’ve got a mouth like a truck driver when it suits you.” She’d called him every name in the book when he’d thrown her out of his house that night almost a year ago.

“I don’t know what on earth you mean.” Cookie was aware that Miranda’s footsteps had never sounded a retreat. “Miranda,” she called, “would you start a new pot of tea, please?”

Personally, Nick didn’t give a damn if the old lady listened in. But the slap of her shoes was followed by the shush of the kitchen’s swing doors. “So, when’s the funeral?”

Cookie raised her arm then, revealing smudges of mascara and red-rimmed eyes. “You are so unsympathetic.”

“I thought congratulations were in order. Now he can’t beat you anymore.”

She shot him a fiery look, then subsided back against the cushions. “Why are you here at such a terrible time, Nick? You never liked
Jimbo
.”

“Actually, I had no feelings about him whatsoever.”

“What about that fight you two had the day he died?” Her voice rose, enough to carry through the hall archway.

“Don’t worry,
Brax
already knows all about that. He was there. Why don’t you think of something else for your housekeeper to overhear.”

Cookie swung her legs over the side of her chaise and sat up to glare at him. “Why are you badgering me at a time like this? My nerves simply can’t take it.” Weepiness, a sniffle, all belied by that nasty scowl she settled on him.

Time to bait the trap for real. “Warren wouldn’t do it for you, would he?”

“Warren who?” She managed to meet his gaze head-on, but her fingers nervously tapped the chaise.

“The man in jail for killing your husband.”

“Oh, him.” Even Cookie wasn’t dumb enough to ask him where he’d learned about the affair with Warren. Instead she glossed over the how and why. “I haven’t a clue why that awful man would want to kill
Jimbo
.”

“Have you been to see Warren?”

“Why would I do that?”

“To make sure he’s still wrapped around your little finger.”

This time she couldn’t hold his gaze, reached down to fuss with her fuzzy slipper. “I’ve never even met the man.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. What are you going to do if he retracts his confession? This is a death penalty state, after all. He might start to rethink his position.” He paused long enough to let the idea sink in, though Cookie, being smart in some ways, would have figured that out. Which was why she needed Nick as her alternate patsy. “When he doesn’t hear from you, he might start squawking.”

Her eyes flickered darkly, then she smiled, a knowing smile. “I’m sure there are other people the sheriff will want to investigate if that happens.”

He’d be willing to bet she’d ensured those “other people” by getting that shovel back into his shed. He’d actually thought about tossing it somewhere in the woods, but he could imagine
Brax
pulling him over for some minor infraction and finding it in the trunk before he’d gotten rid of it. So, he’d bought a lock this morning. It would keep everyone out, including
Brax
, until his old buddy got a search warrant. By that time, Nick hoped to have goaded Cookie into a major misstep.

“I know
Brax
will investigate,” he said, “but he’s not going to find what he’s expecting.”

Her eyes went wide with that. Message received; he’d found the shovel in a timely manner and disposed of it before Cookie and her cohort could call in the cavalry.

“Whose footprint do you think that was out at the murder scene?” he went on laying his trap.

She swallowed, her pretty little neck bouncing as if someone was trying to put a noose around it. “The sheriff told me it belonged to that man in jail.”

“Warren? Nope, definitely not.
Brax
is misinforming you.” He cocked his head to look at her. “Now why would he do that, you being the grieving widow and all?”

Cookie started to play with the limp hankie.

“Well, don’t worry, it couldn’t have been yours. If it was a woman’s, he would have come to you first, wouldn’t he?” He rose, straightening the legs of his jeans as she brought the little square of silk to her nose. “By the way,
Brax
says you don’t have an alibi for that night.”

She jumped to her feet then, her mules clacking on the tile just beyond the carpet. “He didn’t tell you that. I was here all night. I even called him to report
Jimbo
missing. And he said that was just about the time of the murder.”

He looked at her, let his lips curve in a smile. “Now, why would he be telling it around town that you don’t have one then?” He shrugged. “Well, who knows with
Brax
?
Gotta
go. Nice chatting with you.”

He slammed the front door on his way out.

Mission accomplished. Now all he had to do was sit back and wait for Cookie to start incriminating herself all over town. Fear of exposure would do that to a person. She might even try dropping by his house in the dead of night—or sending someone in her stead—to plant a little more evidence.

He’d be waiting for her. Or them.

Chapter Seventeen

“Oh thank God, you came just in time. These things would have gone to hell in the next couple of days.”

Bobbie doubted that, but she let Katie the manicurist fondle her nails anyway. Mavis was right, The Hair Ball was packed, obviously
the
gathering place for Cottonmouth’s ladies. At least on a Thursday night. Eugenia Meade sat enthroned before a huge mirror, her hair rolled in tiny, tight curlers. Bits of foil wreathed Patsy Sapp’s head. Seated behind them both, presumably waiting her turn in the chair, Marjorie Holmes fidgeted with a hairbrush. Wasn’t she the drama coach at the high school who’d cut off all her hair after Nick’s mother’s movie party?

Katie tugged on her fingers. “You’re tensing up, sweetie. Just relax.”

“Sorry.” Katie was talkative, but new in town, three months old, so to speak, and therefore not high on the information quotient.

Bobbie went back to her eavesdropping, tuning out Katie’s prattle about ex-boyfriends, money issues, and the usual twenty-something problems. Though Bobbie did remember to give a nod every few minutes. The three dryers along the back wall roared. To their left, the faucets ran in the sinks, washing out a variety of rinses, dyes, and perm solutions. Overhead fans whirred, whisking away the worst of the caustic fumes.

The cacophony, instead of masking conversation, only made the ladies talk louder. Eugenia Meade boomed as if she had her husband’s bullhorn to her mouth. The intensity might very well have been for Bobbie’s benefit.

“I’d stake my life on it, I would.”

“Eugenia, the sheriff has the man responsible.” Her face outlined by bright foil, Patsy flung an unreadable glance at Bobbie’s reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t said hello when Bobbie entered, nor even nodded in her direction.

News of her date with the serial killer had obviously spread. Did that mean Patsy hadn’t looked for a suitable Sunday dress at the church thrift store? Silly that Bobbie should let that bother her.

Eugenia’s lips thinned mutinously. “That Nick Angel put him up to it. Why, he probably even paid him.”

Bobbie stiffened, her automatic response being a desire to jump to Nick’s defense. And Warren’s. Still she stayed in her seat and tried not to let her hands tense.