A Dead End (A Saints & Strangers Cozy Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

Kit felt the heat prick her neck. If people spent more time with Heloise Winthrop Wilder, they’d understand.

“It’s Peregrine I feel sorry for,” Myra said with a deep sigh. “Poor woman can’t catch a break. Mind you, if I were her, I would’ve just gone ahead with the listing two years ago and prayed to the real estate gods for an intervention. Oh, I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but what a nightmare neighbor he was. His white trash version of home ownership brought down the property value of every house on the street. Anyhoo, that’s all ancient history now that you’re there. Who wouldn’t want to live next door to Ellie Gold?”

Kit stared at the realtor, stuck on the first part of her rant. “Peregrine wanted to sell two years ago?”

“Well, yes. She’s been wanting to list her house for ages so she can move to Sedona.”

“But I thought that was a recent development.”

“Heck no,” Myra said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “We’d finally decided to go ahead about eighteen months ago because she was desperate to leave…her sister’s been ill, you know. Then Ernie went and parked that motor home in the driveway.” Myra shuddered at the memory. “I don’t know how he could afford such a thing. Someone must’ve given it to him. Anyhoo, she was so thrilled when I told her that you bought it, thinking you’d spruce it up in a jiffy and she’d finally be able to sell.” Myra sighed. “But then you went and found Ernie’s body.”

“Skeleton, technically.”

Myra shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to a prospective buyer. The sooner they close this investigation, the better for everyone.” She leaned closer to Kit. “Speaking of which, any developments on that front?”

“I’m afraid not,” Kit said, except for the one that Myra had just provided. Why would Peregrine lie to the police unless she had something to hide.

“Tell your cousin that all of us realtors appreciate him keeping it out of the papers. No need to cause unnecessary panic in Westdale. We’ve got to keep up appearances, after all.”

Kit didn’t doubt it. “See you around, Myra.”

She continued to the end of the hall where Crispin’s office was located. Although the door was open, she tapped on it anyway.

“Hey there,” Crispin said, gesturing for her to come in. “I thought you got lost in the stairwell.”

“These are nice digs,” Kit said, admiring the sleek interior. The room looked more like the office of Forbes than the Westdale Gazette.

“Thanks. Feels weird that you haven’t been here before.”

“You weren’t William Randolph Hearst the last time I was here.”

Crispin grinned sheepishly. “I did like your place in L.A. I suppose you didn’t keep it.”

Kit shook her head. “I sold it.”

“And used the proceeds to buy a murder mystery mansion.”

“Hardly a mansion, but yes.”

“Auntie Heloise still hasn’t budged on your trust fund, huh?”

“Nope. Don’t think she ever will, either. That’s okay, though.” Kit spun around in the swivel chair, feeling like a ten-year-old. “I’m getting my degree and building my own life.”

Crispin arched an eyebrow. “Psychology, Kit? Really?”

“Did you know Josh Hardgrave is the teaching assistant for my psychology professor?”

He chuckled. “I feel sorry for the rest of the class. The two of you in one room is like a negative energy vortex.”

“What’s your problem with my major anyway?” Kit said in exasperation. “I expect it from my mother, but you? It’s a perfectly respectable choice.”

Crispin laced his fingers together. “I suppose I’m no better. My parents were mortified when I majored in journalism and bought this rag. Father thought for sure that I would work in finance.”

Kit tossed a ball of rubber bands into the air and caught it. “You know what? I’m glad you didn’t. I hate those guys.”

Crispin nodded. “Me, too.”

“So what does Frederick Breedlove do?” Not that she was interested.

Crispin laughed awkwardly. “He works for Lehman Brothers.”

Kit groaned. “Great. I’ll be downing gin and tonics for breakfast like my mother.”

“What’s the latest on the murder investigation? Everyone’s very tight-lipped next door.”

“Seems everyone’s tight-lipped here, too,” Kit remarked. “Why haven’t you reported on it at all?” He opened his mouth to speak and she stopped him. “And don’t give me that baloney about protecting my privacy. What’s the real reason?”

Crispin squirmed under her critical gaze. “I was asked not to report on it yet.”

“By whom?” Kit asked. “It’s got to be Chief Riley or the mayor. They’re the only people with that kind of clout.” The police department was located in the town hall, which was next to Crispin’s office building. The location wasn’t a coincidence.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” Crispin said.

Kit continued speculating. “Who am I kidding? Is it the Pilgrim Society?” She gripped the arms of the chair. “Oh God, is it Mother?”

Crispin tapped his pen on the desk. “I’ll give you this much — it wasn’t your mother.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t Romeo…I mean, Detective Moretti.”

“Romeo?” Crispin queried. “Does he look like a Romeo?”

“I don’t know,” Kit said. “What does a Romeo look like?”

“Like he’s straight out of Verona.”

“That sounds vaguely racist. Let’s just say that I prefer Romeo Moretti to whatever a Breedlove is.”

Crispin caught the rubber band ball as Kit tossed it in his direction. “Point taken.”

“My new college friends and I are going to Eastdale tomorrow night for drinks. Care to join us?”

Crispin studied her. “Katherine Clementine Winthrop Wilder, are you trying to set me up with one of your girlfriends?”

“They’re both Mayflower stock, if that sells it to you,” Kit told him.

“Why Eastdale?” Crispin queried. “Why not the Weston Inn?”

“Just thought it would be nice to cross over to the dark side for a change.”

“Okay then. I’m in.”

“Great.” Kit hesitated. “Crispin, did you know the remains are missing?”

Crispin’s brow furrowed. “The skeleton took a walk?”

“Apparently. Romeo is furious. Officers Harley and Jamison were in charge of delivering the bones to the medical examiner’s office. They say they left the remains, but the M.E. doesn’t have it.”

“Why didn’t the county forensics team bring it to West Chester?”

“I don’t know, Crispin. You’re the journalist. Maybe you play your part in the system of checks and balances.”

“Someone was paying attention in Civics class,” he teased.

“I’m serious,” Kit said. “Why would you ignore this story?”

He exhaled deeply. “Because Chief Riley asked me nicely,” Crispin said.

“And why would he do that? Because a murder here makes him look bad?”

“The reason he gave is that he doesn’t want to tip off the murderer that the investigation is underway. He says it will give them an advantage.”

“Assuming the killer even reads the Westdale Gazette,” Kit pointed out. “You said ‘the reason he gave.’ So what’s the real reason?”

Crispin lowered his voice. “Off the record, I suspect it’s because he’s rather fond of your neighbor, Peregrine Monroe.”

“Really?” Kit leaned back in her chair. “You could knock me over with a feather on that one. I can’t imagine anyone being fond of Peregrine Monroe.”

“Apparently, she tried to get Chief Riley to do something about the state of Ernie’s house at one point.”

That made sense given what she’d just heard from the realtor. “Well, he obviously didn’t.”

“According to my source, the chief spoke to Ernie and Ernie complained of financial trouble. He said he was behind on all his payments, including his mortgage, but that he was expecting one of his investments to pay off soon.”

“My neighbors seem to think he ran through money like it was water. Did Chief Riley believe him?”

Crispin shrugged. “I think he felt sorry for him. It’s hard to watch someone’s life unravel.”

“I don’t know if it unraveled as much as Ernie pulled his own threads.” Sadly, Kit realized that she could relate to the dead man. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Fanatics was a sports bar on the outskirts of Eastdale. The Phillies were playing on three of the wide-screened televisions and the noise level in the bar rose and fell with each swing of the bat.

Kit wound her way through the crowd, praying that no one recognized her. Based on the audience demographics, she had a feeling that there were plenty of
Fool’s Gold
fans in this group. The fact that she wore her brown hair loose down her back was helpful. Ellie’s hair was usually slicked back in a no-nonsense ponytail.

“I withdraw my vote for a night on the dark side. Why in God’s name would you choose this place?” Crispin hissed. “Crossing the bridge into Eastdale is bad enough. I saw a guy wearing socks with sandals.”

“You like sports,” she replied.

“I like cricket and tennis,” he snapped. “Not pot-bellied old men squatting behind a plate. They look like they’re fed a diet of Twinkies and hot dogs.”

“When you put it that way, it does seem unappealing,” Kit agreed. She had no particular feelings on the subject of baseball. Her mother didn’t follow any sports teams and her father had watched Wimbledon, the US Open and the Kentucky Derby. That was about it.

The rooms were so loud and crowded that Kit wondered if she’d be able to talk to Vincent Delfino even if he was there.

“Someone’s waving to you,” Crispin said, tapping her on the shoulder and gesturing to a table in the back room. “Judging by the Hermès bag on the table, I’m guessing they’re your friends.”

“You’re the only straight guy I know who would recognize an Hermès bag,” Kit said.

“Huntley would.”

“The jury’s still out on Huntley,” Kit replied as she squeezed her way to the table.

“Kit, you made it,” Francie said, standing to air kiss each cheek.

“This is my cousin, Crispin Winthrop,” Kit said.

“You both look familiar,” Crispin told them, now that he was up close.

“I’ve seen you around,” Francie said, “but we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Francie Musgrove and this is Charlotte Tilton.”

“Ah,” Crispin said, “I should certainly recognize a Musgrove when I see one.” Crispin pointed at Charlotte. “And I know your sister, Rebecca. And your father, of course. How is he?”

Charlotte studied the napkin in her lap. “He’s not great, but we’re all praying for him.”

Crispin took the seat next to Charlotte. “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s a good man.”

“Crispin runs the Westdale Gazette,” Kit mentioned in an effort to change the subject.

“Can I get you all some drinks from the bar?” the waitress asked. She was dressed in a tight half-shirt and denim shorts. Kit thought about some of the skimpy outfits she’d worn on television and quickly recognized that she and the Fanatics waitress weren’t very different from each other. It was just that Kit had been paid a lot more money.

“I’d like an old fashioned,” Crispin said.

The waitress studied him. “Funny, you don’t look eighty years old.”

“How about a French 75?” Francie suggested. “My family practically lives on it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” the waitress snapped. “How about you try a beer? Hot day like this one, I bet you’ll find it refreshing.”

Crispin loosened his collar. “I’ll have a martini, neat.”

The waitress looked him up and down. “Shocker.” She turned to Kit. “And you?”

“I’ll try a local ale,” she said, ignoring Crispin’s critical look.

“We’ll have iced tea, no lemons, and a basket of cheese fries,” Francie said.

The waitress flashed her teeth at Francie. “You won’t regret the cheese fries…at least not while you’re eating them.” With those parting words, she retreated to the back of the bar.

Kit took a moment to survey the room. She had no clue what Vincent Delfino looked like. Her Google search had turned up a priest in New York and a college student at the University of Miami with an interesting Snapchat profile. Any one of these beer-swilling, denim-wearing guys could be Vincent Delfino, the bookie.

“See anyone worth talking to?” Charlotte asked, noticing Kit’s wandering gaze.

Francie gripped her arm. “Ooh, do you see the criminal?”

“What criminal?” Crispin asked. He cast a suspicious glance in Kit’s direction. “What are we really doing here?”

“We’re breaking free of our Westdale chains, obviously,” Francie said quickly. “Someone in our class mentioned that this was a good place to hang out.”

“Are you sure you weren’t talking to the janitor?” Crispin asked, wrinkling his nose.

Kit laughed. “I have missed you, Crispin. Listen, I need the restroom. Can you entertain my friends while I’m gone?”

Francie offered an appealing smile and Crispin softened. “Of course.”

On her way to the restroom, Kit spied the waitress coming out of a back room.

“Excuse me,” Kit said, getting her attention with a wave. “I’m looking for Vincent Delfino. Any chance he’s here tonight?”

The waitress sucked in her cheeks. “I say this out of the kindness of my heart. Go back to Westdale and stick to the country club circuit.”

“I’m not here to make a bet,” Kit said. “I’m looking for someone and I think he might know where he is.” Like under the floorboards in her house.

The waitress jerked her head toward the nearest bar. Kit spotted a dark-haired man in a white Phillies T-shirt and jeans standing between two other men on bar stools. They were all riveted to the television. The Phillies scored and the crowd erupted. Delfino punched his own hand in a triumphant gesture.

Kit made her move while he still appeared euphoric. She didn’t want to take so long that her friends came in search of her and ruined the moment.

She maneuvered her way between Delfino and the man to his right and smiled at the busy bartender who wasn’t even looking in her direction. She felt Delfino’s gaze on her but kept her eyes on the bartender.

“Troy always hangs out down there,” Delfino said, nodding toward the other end of the bar. “I think you can see why.”

Kit noticed a group of attractive young women huddled en masse. A collection of beer bottles sat on the bar top and Troy was deep in conversation with the redhead.