Shoots to Kill (24 page)

“But if Tom is his friend,” I asked, “why would Oliver be afraid of him?”

Libby shrugged. “Maybe Oliver forgot he was still playing the game. It’s understandable, isn’t it, given his mental condition and how our lives have been destroyed this past week? Honestly, Abby, you have no idea how bad my brother gets. When he’s off his meds, he puts aluminum foil over his windows, his computer monitor, and even his TV screen, and he refuses to go outside if the sun is up. He sees enemies everywhere, and these stupid games of his only feed his paranoia. I’m afraid one of these days he’ll think I’m an enemy and try to hurt me.”

Libby sighed. “The truth is that Oliver’s illness is getting worse, and I don’t know what to do about it. Mummy always made sure he took his meds. Now I’m stuck with him, but I can’t watch him every minute. What am I supposed to do, commit my brother to an institution because he forgets to take his pills?”

What could I say to that? “I’m sorry, Libby.”

“Me, too,” she said in disgust, walking away.

I headed back to Bloomers, mulling over Libby’s revelation. Could Oliver’s paranoia have caused him to kill his mother? Or would Libby exaggerate his problems for her own reasons?

As soon as I got back to the shop, I filled Lottie and Grace in on the new information, then called the operator and asked for a listing for Tom McDoyle in Starke County. She gave me two numbers, and I hit pay dirt on my first try.

“Hi, Tom, this is Abby Knight. I’m a friend of Oliver Blume’s.”

“No, you’re not,” a high, reedy, very skeptical male voice said. “Oliver doesn’t have any girlfriends.”

Girlfriend?
Ew.
“I’m not his girlfriend. Oliver hired me to investigate a matter for him, and I’d appreciate it if you could answer a few questions. Do you own a black Buick LeSabre?”

“Why?” he answered cautiously.

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s privileged information, ma’am,” he said crisply, using the same monotone inflection Oliver used.

“I’m going to take that as a yes. Have you been tailing Oliver as part of a spy game?”

“That’s privileged information, ma’am.”

“Well, I have a privileged message for you, Tom. The mission has been scrubbed.”

“Mission?”

“Your spy game.”

Silence. Then, “Are you sure you’re not with the enemy forces?”

“Let me put it bluntly, Tom. Stop following Oliver or I’ll sic the cops on you.”

He hung up on me. I was really getting tired of that.

“Abby, dear,” Grace said, coming through the curtain. “Sally Mitchum is here and she has a surprise for you.”

I followed Grace through the curtain, where I found Sally standing beside a young Latina girl with long dark hair and a pretty face. I recognized the girl at once, even though this time she was smiling. “Maria,” I said, giving her a hug. “It’s great to see you again.”

“You, too.” Maria dipped her head shyly.

Sally said, “Maria has something for you, Abby.”

The girl picked up a small gift bag from the floor and handed it to me. “This is to thank you for helping me, and for sending Mrs. Mitchum to me.”

I was stunned. Lottie and Grace came over to watch as I opened the gift bag, unfolded the bright pink tissue paper, and removed the gift inside, a silver locket on a long silver chain. I held it up so everyone could admire the oval turquoise stone set in silver.

“I love it,” I said, slipping the chain over my head, while Lottie sniffled tearfully and Grace dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “I’m so glad we were able to help you.”

Now,
that
was a locket I’d wear with pride.

I didn’t have to plan a dramatic entrance for our five o’clock meeting that day because Marco strode out of Down the Hatch just as I was leaving Bloomers. We walked around the square together, careful not to make bodily contact, only small talk, such as, “How’s the family? ” “How’s business?” “Great weather for November, isn’t it?” “Can I smack you upside the head for taking Libby’s case?” Okay, that last one was wishful thinking.

Dave was on the phone when we arrived, but he motioned for us to have seats. “That was Sergeant Reilly,” he said, replacing the receiver in the cradle. “He was good enough to let me know what’s been happening with Cora. Apparently Detective Wells has been questioning her all afternoon. Cora’s real name, by the way, is Corabelle Finklestein.”

“I can see why she used an alias,” I drawled.

“Has Cora admitted to anything?” Marco asked.

“She’s maintaining her innocence,” Dave replied. “On the subject of stealing money from Blume’s cash drawer, she said Oliver told her to take it as a gift.”

I would have laughed at Cora’s lame excuse, except that after what Libby had told me about Oliver’s obsessionwith his war games and his paranoia, maybe he
had
told her to take the money. Maybe that was part of his spy game. Or maybe he was setting Cora up as a suspect for murder.

“Does Cora have an alibi for the morning of the murder? ” Marco asked.

“According to Reilly, she said she stayed at a motel on the east side of Detroit, Michigan, on Sunday night,” Dave replied. “The police are sending someone up there to investigate.”

“Then they’re treating Cora as a serious murder suspect? ” I asked.

“You bet they are,” Dave said, “because they also found a car key in her purse that appears to be for an older-model Chevrolet. Naturally, Cora is claiming not to know how it got there. She also claims she never got a driver’s license here because we drive on the wrong side of the street, and she can’t manage that.”

“Here’s another piece of evidence.” I handed Dave the paper with the costume-shop owner’s information on it. “That man will testify that Cora bought a red wig a week before Delphi was murdered.”

“A red wig, a Chevy key, a theft, and a flight to Canada,” Marco said. “That should be enough to get an indictment.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Dave said. “Then Libby will be off the hook. I’d better call Lisa Wells and let her know about the red wig.”

While he made his call, Marco said quietly, “I hear you talked to Libby about her brother this afternoon.”

“She sure got that news bulletin to you fast. Did she tell you that Oliver is paranoid?”

“Libby mentioned it, but she didn’t seem to want to discuss it. My understanding is that Delphi worked hard to keep it quiet. She worried that her reputation would suffer.”

“That’s cold.”

“No one ever accused Delphi of having a heart,” Marco said.

Dave hung up and turned back to us. “Detective Wells will get a statement from the costume-shop owner. Good work, Abby.”

“Actually, it was Grace who got that information. I’ll pass along your thanks.”

“Anything else to report?” Dave asked, looking from me to Marco.

“I have news,” I said, “but first, were you able to find out if Oliver had a good alibi?”

“Phooey,” Dave said. “I forgot to ask. I’ll make a note of it right now.”

He took notes as I told him about the black Buick, my follow-up phone call to Oliver’s friend, and my subsequent discussion with Libby about Oliver’s paranoia.

“Libby says the stalking is part of a spy game,” I said, “and that Oliver simply forgot about it. But how could Oliver forget what his friend’s car looked like?”

Marco stretched out his legs. “I still wonder if Oliver didn’t scheme with his buddy to fool Abby so she’d back him up when he claimed he was being stalked by his mother’s killer. He probably wasn’t counting on Abby finding out who the stalker was.”

“Hey!” I said, giving him a glare.

“I’m not saying you’re not capable,” Marco said, “just that Oliver might have been counting on your inexperience.”

“Is there a way to find out if Oliver truly has been diagnosed with paranoia and is on medication?” I asked Dave.

“You know the rules about doctor-patient confidentiality, ” Dave said.

“I was hoping you’d have a way around it,” I answered. “I guess I’ll just have to break into Oliver’s apartment and take a peek inside his medicine cabinet.”

At the look of incredulity on Dave’s face, and the scowl on Marco’s, I quickly added, “Just kidding.” I’d only take a peek if I was already
inside
his apartment.

“What are you thinking?” Dave asked me. “That Oliver might have committed the murder in a paranoid state?”

“I don’t have a strong gut feeling about him, but he has to be considered. If he’s supposed to be on medication to control his paranoia, then his mental state at the time of the murder would probably be influenced by whether he actually took his meds that day. It would help to know if he had been prescribed medication. I’ll try to sound him out about that this evening when I drop off the police report. Obviously, I won’t be filing the report now that we know who the Buick belongs to, but it’ll give me an excuse to meet with him.”

“You’re going there tonight?” Marco asked.

“That’s my plan.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

“Thanks, but Oliver won’t cooperate if you’re there.”

“I’ll stay out of sight.”

“Let him go with you,” Dave said.

Great. Another torturous car ride with Marco.

Dave pulled a piece of paper from his file. “This is a copy of the report from the state crime lab. Their fingerprint analyst identified Libby’s, Oliver’s, and Delphi’s prints inside Delphi’s house—no surprises there, since they all had access. The wine bottle that they believe is the murder weapon was too smudged to print.”

“What makes them believe the wine bottle is the murder weapon?” I asked.

“The blow to Delphi’s head was made by a curved object, and the bottle was on the floor near the body. DNA testing is ongoing, and as you know, the results can take weeks, sometimes months, to get back. There’s no report from the trace analysts yet, either. I’m assuming they’re still combing through all the evidence they collected.” He closed the file. “That’s all I have. Is there anything else to report?”

“Did you ever ask Libby about Roshni Shah and that restraining order?” I asked.

“Yes, and Libby said Roshni was aware that the order had been falsely filed, but apparently there’s animosity between them, so Libby wasn’t surprised by Roshni’s claims. As for the restraining order, Libby said Nolan Grant had made suggestive comments while she was babysitting, and when she threatened to tell his wife, he turned it around to say that she had been the aggressor, then filed a restraining order the next day to validate his claim.”

I knew I shouldn’t question Libby’s assertion in front of the two men who were hired to defend her, but I just couldn’t help myself. “If Nolan Grant was the aggressor, why would Libby make herself over to look like his wife? Or buy a car like his wife’s? Why would she e-mail her roommate asking for photos and news on Nolan Grant after the restraining order had been issued? Come on, guys, does that sound like a woman who wanted to keep a man away?”

“I could easily come up with a defense for each one of your points, Abby,” Dave said, “but the only thing I needed to know to defend my client was about the existence of the restraining order. The rest isn’t important to the case.”

Not to the case maybe, but it was to me. “So you believe Libby’s version?”

“It’s not my job to judge her, Abby. You know that.”

Yeah, yeah. That was a defense lawyer’s cop-out. And I knew better than to ask Marco. Neither one would tell me his true feelings. Was it possible that they were confused, too?

Marco glanced at me. “Do you want to fill Dave in on Kayla Olin?”

Kayla! So much had happened since I’d talked to her that I’d almost forgotten. “Thanks for the reminder.”

The corner of his mouth curled up in that quirky, adorable way of his, making my heart go
twang.
It had to stop doing that!

I told Dave about my visits to Kayla’s hospital room, and how I’d managed to get her to talk to me by enlisting the help of a generous plastic surgeon friend of my brother’s. I couldn’t help bragging a bit; it wasn’t often that my way succeeded where Marco’s failed, so I took the opportunity to shine. Then I explained why Kayla had walked out of the hospital and how she had ended up at the funeral home for Delphi’s viewing.

“The first time I spoke with Kayla’s doctor at the hospital, ” I said, “she told me she didn’t believe Kayla had ever been a danger to anyone but herself. And now Kayla seems to have passed that danger point. She’s very excited about the upcoming surgery and is anticipating a bright future. I think we can safely cross her off our list of suspects, especially in light of the evidence the cops have against Cora.”

“Abby, you did a good thing for that young woman,” Dave said.

“Thanks,” I said, beaming.

Dave turned toward Marco. “Do you have anything you want to report?”

“Not yet,” he said cryptically.

“Okay, then,” Dave said, closing the file, “let’s hope Cora’s alibi doesn’t hold up and the prosecutor files an indictment next week. Tomorrow is Saturday. Should we leave it that we’ll meet Monday unless something comes up in the meantime?”

Marco gave a nod.

“Works for me,” I said. “I have a
biz-zee
weekend.” Right. Real busy. Dining with my parents, doing laundry, and trying to get Oliver to talk. I needed a social life— desperately.

Outside Dave’s office, Marco fell into step beside me. “What time are you planning to go to Oliver’s place?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Then I’ll pick you up at seven forty-five—if that’s okay.” He was so stiff and formal with me. Was that how people acted when they’d broken up? Like they barely knew each other?

The anger I’d felt at first had faded enough that I wanted to say,
I understand this is an awkward situation,
but can’t we still be friends?
Instead, I said, “On a busy Friday night, don’t you have to be at the bar?”