Shoots to Kill (17 page)

Dave picked up the report to scan it. “Depositions were taken, settlement conferences were held, mediations were attempted, and hearings were continued— looks like Delphi’s lawyers dragged it out as long as they could. Let’s see. . . . Okay, here we go. The jury’s verdict against the defendant was entered in the amount of one and a half million dollars.”

“Wow!” I said. “That was a
huge
award.”

“Delphi filed a praecipe for appeal thirty days later,” Dave noted. “Six months after that, the original judgment was affirmed and entered of record, which means that Delphi’s appeal failed.” He put the docket sheet aside and picked up another. “This is Delphi’s bankruptcy filing in which the judgment was wiped out. It’s date-stamped October fourteenth of this year.”

“Three weeks before the murder,” Marco pointed out. “Timely.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” Dave said, “but it wasn’t like Kayla hadn’t known what was coming. Her attorney would have warned her what the bankruptcy would do to her judgment.”

“It’s one thing to be told what could happen,” Marco argued, “and quite another to have it become reality. Kayla could have held out hope that the judge would exempt her claim, and when that hope was taken away, she decided to get even with the woman who destroyed her life.”

“Kayla’s not even twenty years old,” I argued. “That’s a pretty drastic step for a young woman to take. Besides, she must have sued the surgeon and got some money.”

“You’re right,” Dave said. “The doctor’s insurance company settled with her, but it’s under seal, so there’s no way to know what that amount was. However, those policies usually have a hundred-thousand-dollar limit.”

“A hundred grand isn’t bad, but it’s a far cry from one and a half million,” Marco said. “And I can’t help but wonder why her mother is being so protective of her that she won’t even let her daughter speak to me.”

Dave checked his watch. “Let’s meet again tomorrow at five. Do you have your game plans now?”

“I’ll keep trying to get in touch with Kayla,” Marco said, “and I’ll see if I can track down Cora.”

“I’ll follow up on the wig and try to make contact with Oliver,” I said.

“Remember,” Dave said, “if you do set up a meeting, take Marco along.”

“You didn’t tell Marco he had to take me along when he went to Kayla’s house.”

“That’s because I haven’t almost been killed going after murderers,” Marco said. The corner of his mouth twitched as he stood up, as though he was teasing me. “So, maybe I’ll see you at the funeral home later?”

I gave him a coy smile. “Maybe.”

Considering how often I’d been to the huge old Victorian house that housed the Happy Dreams Funeral Home, I shouldn’t have felt ill at ease. Then again, it wasn’t every day that I saw my clone standing in front of a coffin greeting well-wishers. Libby was wearing a smartly tailored black knit dress with a black patent belt and heels and gold jewelry, her red hair fashioned into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, and a lace handkerchief in her hand, looking every bit the bereaved daughter. I had opted for a gray sweater dress with a black belt, and a black patent headband in my hair. Even so, I was still offered condolences.

A line of people stretched around the perimeter of Parlor A and through the hallway to the front door. I was betting most had come out of curiosity. They’d been reading about Delphi for years and wanted to catch a last glimpse of the once-famed model.

To my surprise, Oliver was nowhere to be seen. I glanced around to see whom else I knew and caught sight of Marco standing a few yards from Libby. He appeared to be scanning the room, too, and when our gazes met, he gave me a nod of acknowledgment. I brightened at once, then dimmed. It was so hard to get used to him not being my boyfriend.

When my turn in line finally came, Libby wrapped her arms around me as though we were long-lost sisters, and there we stood, locked in an embrace, rocking back and forth, as she wept and keened, her red head pressed to mine. “You’d think they were twins,” someone whispered behind me, only to be hushed.

“Mummy’s really gone, Abby,” Libby wailed. “She’s really gone.”

Taking my hand, she led me to the coffin, where she fussed over her mother’s hair. “They did it all wrong. Mummy would be so upset. I’d better call Mrs. Dove in here and have her fix it.” She swung around, seeming not to notice the curious faces staring at her.

“Mrs. Dove?” she called loudly. “Mrs. Dove, Mummy needs you.”

“Your mom’s hair is fine, Libby,” I whispered in her ear, turning her toward the coffin. “Get a grip. Where’s Oliver? Why isn’t he here with you?”

Libby glanced over her shoulder as though she hadn’t realized her brother was gone. “I don’t know. He
was
here.” She spotted Marco and motioned him over. The crowd watched with growing interest as we formed a huddle at one end of the coffin.

“Do you know where Oliver went?” Libby asked.

“I haven’t seen him since I told him I wanted to talk to him later,” Marco said. “He probably slipped out when the people started pouring in about fifteen minutes ago.”

“I’ll look for him,” I said, and turned, only to have Libby grab my wrist and pull me back.

“Why do you both want to talk to Oliver?” she asked.

“We just need to clear up a few things,” Marco assured her.

“What things? Is Oliver in trouble?”

“Calm down. There’re just some things I want to ask him,” Marco told her.

“What
things
?” Libby demanded like a petulant child.

“Libby, you hired me to do an investigation,” Marco said firmly. “Are you going to let me do what I need to do?”

As though her father had scolded her, Libby instantly became docile. “Yes.”

“Good. Now go back to the line of people waiting to talk to you.”

Libby gave him a teary-eyed glance. “Will you stay with me until Oliver comes back?”

Oh, ick.
How could Marco put up with her? “I’ll see if I can find Oliver,” I said, and walked away in disgust.

I stepped out of the parlor and glanced around. The hallway ran up the middle of the old mansion from the front door, through the grand foyer, between the two funeral parlors, then, farther back, between the lounge area (once a morning parlor) and a kitchen, to the back door. Hmm. Where would Oliver be? Maybe Max and Delilah had seen him.

As I started toward the kitchen, I heard,
“Psst.”

I turned and glanced down the hallway, but no one was in sight.

“
Psst.
Over here.”

The whisper came from Parlor B, so I stepped to the doorway for a look inside. Because the room wasn’t in use, wooden shutters had been drawn beneath the heavy burgundy brocade drapery, blocking out all light, making it hard to identify the shapes inside.

“Is the coast clear?” the whisperer asked.

“Oliver, is that you?”

“Sh-h-h! Is the
coast
clear?”

Yep, it was Oliver. “Why are you hiding? You should be standing beside Libby.”

A hand shot out, grabbed my arm, and yanked me into the room, pulling me behind the door. Another hand covered my mouth. “I’m being followed, ma’am,” Oliver whispered in my ear. “Don’t blow my cover.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Oliver had a
cover
? As a grieving son—or lunatic?

“Do you understand?” he asked. He didn’t sound threatening, just frightened.

I nodded. I could have elbowed him hard in the abdomen and gotten away, but my instincts were telling me I wasn’t in danger, and I needed to talk to him anyway, so I decided to play it out, see who was following him and why.

When he removed his hand from my mouth, I whispered, “You’re not being followed, Oliver. Marco Salvare just wanted to talk to you. You know who he is— the owner of Down the Hatch. He’s the private investigator your sister hired.”

“I know who Salvare is,” Oliver said. “This is someone else. You’ve got to find out who he is, ma’am. It’s vital to the mission.”

“You want
me
to find out?” I took a step back and bumped my head on the door. “How am I supposed to do that?” I asked in a low voice, rubbing my head.

“Libby showed me her scrapbook. You solve cases. This should be a piece of cake. A cakewalk. A walk in the park.”

“You don’t need me, Oliver. Just confront the guy. Ask him what he wants.”

“Can’t do that, ma’am. He might be with the feds. They hate us paramilitary men.”

“Have you actually seen this person?”

“Not face-to-face, ma’am, but he’s out there. He drives a black car that cruises by my place at midnight every night, on the dot, spot-on. One time I came home and my door was ajar. I know he bugged my apartment.”

“Did you check for bugs?”

Oliver glanced around. “Those government agents are sneaky, ma’am. They know where to place bugs so they can’t be found. Right now he’s in that crowd across the hall. I felt his eyes on me, watching, waiting, waiting and baiting.”

“Why would you have a tail? Have you done something wrong? Broken any laws?”
Committed murder?

Oliver leaned closer. “They find reasons to put people like me away, ma’am.”

“People like you?”

“You know what I mean.”

Lunatics? “So, basically, you want me to follow the person who’s following you.”

“I don’t care how you do it, ma’am. I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to learn his identity.”

Wow. That would pay for the repair of one of my coolers and leave some cash to spare. Still, I had to proceed with caution. If Oliver wasn’t the killer, neither was he the sanest person I’d ever met. “If I find out who your tail is, what are you going to do about it?”

He thought for a moment, then said cryptically, “First I have to know who I’m dealing with, ma’am. Know thine enemy. Enemy mine.”

I’d have to set up a surveillance to see if Oliver had a tail, then trace the guy’s license plate. Then I could decide if I wanted to turn over the information to him. Oliver was right. It would be a piece of cake—and hopefully my bargaining tool, as well.

“Tell you what, Oliver. I’ll take your case if you’ll answer some questions first.”

He hesitated. “What kind of questions, ma’am?”

“About your mother’s death.”

I could see the hollows where his eyes were, and knew he was staring at me, debating whether to cooperate. “Are you working with Salvare, ma’am?”

“No, I’m an independent operator.”

“Would you explain that, ma’am?”

“Come on, Oliver. You saw Libby’s scrapbook. I like to solve cases. How about if we discuss this somewhere else, say the coffee parlor at Bloomers tomorrow morning, at nine?” Where I’d have lots of witnesses if he tried anything.

“Will there be people around?”

“Just me, my two assistants, and maybe a few customers. ”

“I’ll take a pass, ma’am.”

“Would you feel better if I made it at eight o’clock? We don’t open until nine, so it would be just me and my two assistants, who’d be busy getting ready for the day.”

“Here’s the deal. You call me when you get the information. Then I’ll meet you. Meet and greet. Remember, this is strictly between you and me. Not a word to
anyone
about your undercover assignment. Agreed?”

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hallway just outside the parlor. At once Oliver flattened himself against the wall and began to inch away from the door. “He’s looking for me, ma’am. You have to help me.”

“Don’t panic,” I told him. “I’ll go see what’s happening.”

I hurried to the doorway just as two men hustled a tall, slender woman out of the parlor across the hall. I recognized the men as Max Dove’s employees, but the woman was unfamiliar. She was wearing a black cape and a black hat with an attached scarf that wrapped around the lower half of her face and tied at the throat. Was that who Oliver believed was following him?

“Let go of me!” the woman cried, and began to pull back and kick as they forced her to the front door. “I only came to pay my respects.”

In her struggles, her scarf came untied and her hat fell back, revealing her face. Judging by the misshapen nose and mangled lips, I was betting she was Kayla Olin.

I stepped out of the parlor just as Libby came dashing out from the opposite side, with Marco right behind. “Tell the police to handcuff her!” she called to the men. “She’s crazy.”

“Was that Kayla Olin?” I asked Marco.

“Kayla the killer Olin!” Libby said spitefully.

“Take it easy,” Marco said as a crowd gathered in the doorway behind them. “You don’t have any proof of that.”

“I saw that crazed look in her eyes,” Libby cried. “Do you think she came here to pay her respects to the woman she sued? More like coming back to inspect her handiwork—and killing me while she was at it. I’ll bet she’s the one who left the snake in my mailbox, too.”

Oh, brother. Libby the victim again. I headed toward the front door to try to catch Kayla.

“Make sure she’s arrested, Abby,” Libby called. “It’s about time Mummy’s killer is brought to justice!”

“Wait up, Abby,” Marco said, starting after me.

“Marco!” Libby whined. “You can’t leave me now. I need you.”

I marched back to her, pointed toward the darkened parlor, and said through gritted teeth, “Your brother is in there.
He
should be standing beside you, not Marco.”

“Marco,” Libby whimpered, hanging on to his sleeve, totally ignoring me, “don’t leave.”

I left them to work it out and hurried outside, where Max’s assistants were holding on to a subdued Kayla as two cops got out of a squad car and came toward them. One of the cops was a female that I didn’t know. The other was Sergeant Reilly.

“We’ll take it from here,” Reilly said to the men, pretending not to see me. He removed his handcuffs from the leather holder on his belt while his partner instructed Kayla to stand against the squad car with her hands on the roof so she could pat her down.