Shoots to Kill (23 page)

“Wait, Oliver. You can’t leave now. The police haven’t arrived yet. We need to make a report on that Buick. And we still need to have that talk.”

“No time, ma’am,” he called over his shoulder. “ Duty calls.”

Frustrated, I watched him march up the alley. What duty? What in the world had Libby said to snap him out of his paralyzing fear?

I heard a car pull into the alley from the opposite direction and turned to see a squad car coming toward me, lights flashing but no siren on. I gave a friendly wave to let the cops know I wasn’t in danger. The car stopped and one officer jumped out—Reilly. Great.

“Are you okay?” he called, his gaze combing the alley as he moved cautiously toward me.

“I’m fine, the danger is over, and before you ask how I happen to be everywhere you show up, tell me, why is it that you show up everywhere I happen to be?” The best defense was a good offense, as my dad often said.

“I heard your call come in and volunteered to take it.” He glanced around. “What was the danger?”

Wow. My strategy had worked. “Someone has been following Oliver Blume, and about five minutes ago I thought the driver was going to come down the alley after him. That’s why I called for help. I tried to get a license plate number, but the car sped away. It’s a black Buick LeSabre, probably four years old. Wait, I have a photo of it.”

I pushed buttons on my cell phone and one of the photos I’d taken the evening before appeared on the screen. “This is the car, but there’s a glare on the license plate. He’s got some kind of reflective cover on it.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?”

“The car has tinted windows.”

“Does Oliver have any idea who it is?”

“No. That’s why he hired me. The Buick has been driving by his apartment every night at midnight.”

Reilly glanced at me curiously. “Oliver hired
you
?”

“Is there something wrong with that?” I asked testily.

“No offense, Abby, but since Marco is already in Libby’s employ, I’m surprised Oliver isn’t using him.”

I made a quick decision not to tell him about Marco’s opinion on the matter. There was no way Oliver had faked his terror. “Look, all I know is that Oliver offered me a thousand big ones to take the case. I don’t think he trusts male authority figures.”

“So why do you figure someone’s following him? Is it possible that whoever killed his mother is after him, too?” Reilly glanced around. “Where
is
Oliver?”

“On his way back to Blume’s. I couldn’t get him to stay. I think his sister told him to get back to work, and when he gets an order, he follows it.”

“Oliver gets a scare like that and Libby orders him back to work? She’s real sympathetic, isn’t she? You know, the way she’s aping you, it still seems to me that she was setting you up to take the blame. But, hey, what do I know? I’m just a cop.”

“Well, you might know if Oliver was questioned after the murder.”

“Family members are usually questioned first. Why? You think he might have done it?”

“I don’t have an opinion about Oliver yet. Did he have a good alibi?”

“You’d have to talk to Detective Wells about that. I wasn’t a party to the interview.”

“Could you take a peek at the file for me?”

“Abby, how many times do I have to remind you—”

“—that you really need this job because you have a kid to support and don’t want to put your pension in jeopardy. Never mind. I’ll just ask Detective Wells.”

“Good luck.”

“Why?”

“She’s tough, that’s all I’m saying.” Reilly finished writing and put away his notebook. “I’ll prepare a report on the Buick, but Oliver is going to have to come in and sign it.”

“Thanks, Reilly. I’ll let him know.”

“Any luck?” Lottie asked as soon as I stepped inside Bloomers.

I was about to answer when Grace came hurrying out of the parlor. “I saw a black Buick through the window a bit ago. It stopped right out front. Was that the car that’s been following Oliver?”

“That’s the one.”

Grace handed me a slip of paper. “I’m afraid this was the best I could do. I caught only the first two numbers on the license plate, and, as you will notice, it’s an Indiana plate, but not local.”

“Thanks, Grace. I’ll give it to Marco. He has a source at the DMV who’ll trace it.”

“Tell us what happened,” Lottie said as they gathered around. So I gave them a two-minute briefing on what had transpired, including Oliver’s odd behavior afterward. “One minute he was stammering in fear and the next he was standing at attention.”

“Is there any possibility that Marco was right about Oliver setting this up?” Lottie asked.

“When that car stopped in front of him, Lottie, Oliver looked terrified. I’d have a hard time believing he hired someone to scare him like that.”

“There must be a way to find out,” Grace said. “Could you have a chat with Libby? She might have some insight.”

“Why don’t you go talk to her right now?” Lottie suggested. “I’m curious myself, and then maybe you won’t have to waste any more time doing those stakeouts. Besides, it’s quiet here. We’ve got a few orders to finish this afternoon, but that’s no problem.”

I glanced at my watch. One fifteen. I’d have time to run across the square to Blume’s and still have several hours to help with the orders. “I’ll take you up on it. I need to talk to Oliver about the police report anyway.”

“On a related topic,” Grace said, “four calls came in for you while you were gone. One was from Dave, informing you that Cora is presently being questioned at the jail. The second was from Sally Mitchum, who said she wanted to drop off something for you later today. The third was from the gent who owns the costume shop. I wrote down his name and phone number, and it’s on the spindle. I think you’ll be quite interested in his report.” She rocked back on her heels, looking quite pleased with herself.

I knew she was dying to tell me, so I said, “What was his report, Grace?”

“He remembered selling a red wig to a stout woman with gray hair and a hard-to-understand British accent.”

“Cora!”

Grace beamed. “Yes, indeed. She bought it just a few days before Delphi’s murder.”

“Great work, Grace. I’ll tell Dave and he can pass the information on. What was the last call?”

“Your mother, dear, reminding you that dinner will be at her house tonight.”

With Grace around, who needed voice mail?

Before I left, I put in a call to Dave. “Guess who bought a red wig? Cora!”

“I’ll be damned. Did you get my message that she’s at the jail?”

“You bet I did. And I’ve got a new development to report regarding Oliver. By the way, do you know if Oliver’s alibi for the time of the murder checked out?”

“I haven’t heard, but I’ll try to find out.”

“Great. I’ll see you at five o’clock.”

Blume’s Art Shop had a black swag across the top of the door and the sign was turned to CLOSED. No lights were on in the showroom, but when I cupped my hands around my eyes to peer through the glass pane, I could see a glow coming from behind the blue curtain. I knocked on the door, but no one responded, so I headed for the back, where I saw the Blume’s van parked in a nook formed by two buildings of different depths. I rapped on the heavy fire door. “It’s Abby, Oliver. Are you in there?”

In a moment I heard a bolt slide. Then the door opened a few inches and a deep-set eye appeared. “State your business, ma’am,” Oliver commanded.

“My business is that I need to talk to you, and I’m not in the mood to play games.”

“I’ll need a password, ma’am.”

What didn’t he understand about not in the mood for games? “I don’t know, Oliver. How about O.O.T.T.O.?”

“Not acceptable.”

“You never gave me the password. How am I supposed to know?”

“You should know. But I can’t talk anyway, ma’am. I’m on assignment.”

He could have told me that at the start. “Well, I’m on assignment, too. I’m carrying an important message for you from command central.”

His one eye blinked a few times. “You’ll have to be quick about it, ma’am.”

“I’ll be so quick you’ll hardly know I was here.”

He opened the door barely wide enough for me to squeeze inside. I stood in the storage room amid huge shipping crates, some empty and others waiting to be unpacked of their art. A decorative folding screen partitioned one corner to form an office, where I could see part of a lovely antique red Chinese cabinet and desk.

“Where’s Libby?” I asked, glancing around.

Oliver shifted from foot to foot, rubbing the top of his head, as though my being there made him nervous. “She went to the bank down the street. What’s the message?”

“You have to go over to the police station to sign off on the report about the Buick.”

“Not acceptable, ma’am.”

“Why not?”

He kept rubbing his hair. “I have to get back to work.”

“Would you sign it if I brought it to you?”

He thought about it, then gave a single nod. “Are you going to do a stakeout this evening, ma’am?”

I sighed inwardly at the thought of dinner with my zany family followed by hours of sitting in my car keeping watch over a garage apartment. Talk about a wild Friday night. “Sure.”

He crouched on the cement floor and motioned for me to do likewise. “Here’s the plan, ma’am. Park one block away from my apartment, then call my cell phone and I’ll tell you where the point of contact will be.”

“Point of contact?” I felt like I was in a bad episode of
Without a Trace.

“Drop-off locale.” He scowled, clearly exasperated. “The place to leave the report.”

“I get it, Oliver.”

“What’s our rendezvous time?”

“How about eight o’clock?”

He pushed back his sleeve, revealing a large-faced watch with multiple dials on it. “Let’s synchronize.”

“Let’s not and say we did. I have to get back to work.”

He jumped to his feet, marched to the door, and opened it just a little.

“I’m not going to fit, Oliver. You have to open it wider.”

He put his eye to the door to check the alley, then opened it half a foot more. “The coast is clear.”

“One more thing, Oliver. Did Detective Wells ask you for an alibi for Monday morning?”

“Confirmed.”

“What did you tell her?”

His gaze moved off to the side. “I told her I was sleeping, ma’am. Deep in sleep.”

“Did she ask you to prove it?”

“Confirmed.”

“
Could
you prove it?”

His gaze shifted again, a sign that he was thinking about his answer. “Confirmed.”

“Okay, I’ll see you this evening.”

I got to the end of the alley just as Libby came around the corner, which was almost like walking into a mirror. Instead of her usual perky self, however, Libby seemed to be plodding along as though burdened and blue. I wanted to credit it to her having just buried her mother, yet I hadn’t shaken that niggling doubt that Libby might have killed her.

“Abby,” she cried, wrapping her arms around me and laying her head on my shoulder, “thanks for coming down to check up on me. When you didn’t come to her funeral service yesterday, I thought . . . well, anyway, you must have been busy, so I forgive you.”

She forgave me?
Bite your tongue, Abby. She just lost her mother.

Libby released me with a quivering sigh. “I miss Mummy so much, Abby. I can’t stand it. I keep expecting her to walk into the shop. . . . Losing a mother is so much worse than you could ever imagine. I feel so alone now, and Oliver doesn’t even seem to notice she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry, Libby. I’m sure it’s incredibly painful, but maybe Oliver is preoccupied because of his stalker. You know how it feels to be stalked, don’t you?” I watched her expression, waiting for a flicker of guilt. Instead, she just grew annoyed.

“Don’t believe everything Oliver tells you, Abby.”

“In this case, Libby, there really is a car. I took photos of it.”

“Why were you taking photos?”

“Because your brother hired me to find out who’s been following him.”

Libby threw up her hands in disbelief. “I swear, Oliver wants everyone in town to know he’s crazy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you figured it out? My brother is ill, Abby. He’s got a paranoid personality disorder and is on prescription medication—or at least he’s supposed to be. Stupid Oliver takes it for a while, feels better, then thinks he doesn’t need it and goes off of it. Then his paranoia comes back. That’s why I said not to believe everything he tells you.”

That would explain Oliver’s ranting about having to hide and the fear that he would be put away. But it didn’t explain the car. “I photographed a black sedan driving past his apartment last night and down Franklin Street around noon today. How do you explain that?”

She sighed as though exasperated. “Was it a Buick LeSabre?”

“You know the car?”

“Of course I know the car. It belongs to one of Oliver’s weirdo war game buddies. They’re playing spy, Abby, and they’ve suckered you into it.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Wait a minute. You’re saying Oliver’s
friend
is tailing him,” I asked Libby, “as part of a spy game?”

“His name is Tom McDoyle. He and Oliver went to high school together. He lives in Starke County now, but they’re still close friends. Look him up if you don’t believe me.”

Tom McDoyle. I pulled out my notepad and wrote it down.

“Do you understand how crazy my brother is?” Libby asked. “These games are his entire life. He has a hard time separating them from reality. He’s almost thirty years old, and I have to employ him as my delivery guy because he can’t keep a job anywhere else. How pathetic is that?”