"She should be exposed," Grace said. "What's her name?"
Rita pointed her empty glass at us. "Deb. Deb Jenkins. The tramp. She lives in Union Square."
I asked, "How long had your ex-husband been seeing her?"
Rita snapped, "Let me put it this way. He wasn't my ex when she took up with him. Now she's got my money, and all I've got is this." She looked around the room, then the glass tumbled from her grip onto the carpet.
"I need a drink," she said.
Rita started digging through the cabinets, and I put a hand on Grace's arm. "Let's go," I said softly.
After hearing a string of curse words, directed at bottles that somehow had managed to empty themselves, Grace nodded her agreement.
I closed the door behind us, setting the lock as we went. At least Rita would be left alone with her bender, unless she chose to open the door again herself.
Once we were in Grace's car, I said, "I feel sorry for her."
"She brought it on herself," Grace said. Her father had been an alcoholic, and I knew there were still wounded spots in Grace's heart from it.
It was no time to get into a philosophical debate about the perils and causes of alcohol abuse. "At least we've got a new lead. Let's go find Deb Jenkins and find out her side of the story."
Grace got a new address, and as we drove there, I said, "You know, we've got to add Rita Blaine to our list of suspects."
"Why's that?"
"By her own admission, she didn't know the divorce was final when he died. She might have been trying to get her hands on that insurance while she still thought she was entitled to it. I wonder if Chief Martin has spoken to her yet."
"Let's call in an anonymous tip," Grace said. "I'd love to hear him interview her."
"Not even I'm that cruel," I said. "Why don't we leave her alone, at least for now? I have to admit, I'm dying to hear Deb Jenkins's take on things."
Grace parked in front of a condo, then asked me, "Are we still newspaper reporters?"
"I don't see why not. It's worked okay so far."
Grace frowned. "We didn't even need a cover for Rita Blaine."
"No, but I've got a feeling we're not going to be so lucky with Deb Jenkins."
"There's only one way to find out, isn't there?"
Grace got out of the car, and I followed her lead. Hopefully, Patrick Blaine's girlfriend might be able to shed light, where the ex wife had failed.
Before we had the chance to walk up the steps to Deb Jenkins's house, my cell phone rang.
"Don't answer that," Grace said. "We're doing something important here."
"How do you know this isn't?" I flipped the phone up and saw that the caller was restricted. Who on earth could be calling me from a blocked phone?
"Hello," I said.
"Why aren't you home?"
"Hi, Momma. I'm sorry, I didn't realize I had to check in with you after work. When did you start blocking your caller ID?"
I shrugged as I looked at Grace, who tapped her watch.
"Don't get an attitude with me, young lady. You know I'm concerned about your welfare."
"My welfare's just fine," I said. "Is that all you wanted? I'm kind of in the middle of something right now."
"What are you doing, Suzanne? Are you taking unnecessary chances with your life?"
"How would I know if it is necessary or not? I'm with Grace. Would you like to speak with her to be sure I'm all right?"
"That's exactly what I'd like to do."
I handed the phone to my friend. After she put her hand over the receiver's mouthpiece, she asked, "What? Why are you giving it to me?"
"She wants to talk to you," I said.
As Grace said hello, walking a few paces away, I saw a curtain flutter at the house. Someone was watching our comedy routine from the second floor. What must Deb Jenkins be thinking? Maybe it was
a good thing Momma had called. It might give our next interviewee a chance to think about why we were there, and if that kept her off balance, it might be just as effective as alcohol had been for Rita Blaine.
After a full minute, Grace handed the phone back to me. I was surprised to find that my mother was no longer on the line.
"What did she want with you?" I asked.
"I had to promise to keep you out of trouble," Grace admitted reluctantly.
I laughed, in spite of the humiliation of what she'd promised. "Good luck with that. Let me know how you do."
"I didn't know what else to say. Your mother is a force of nature sometimes, isn't she?"
"You don't have to tell me," I said as I put my phone back in my purse.
I looked back at the house, but the curtain had returned to its closed position. "Someone's been watching us from inside."
Of course Grace looked at the house. "I don't see anyone there."
"That's because you spooked her. Let's go have a chat with Ms. Jenkins and see what she has to say."
Deb Jenkins opened the door before I even had a chance to knock. She wasn't anything like I'd expected the "other woman" to look like. Deb had mousy brown hair and wore no makeup that I could detect. I couldn't really see her body, since it was hidden by a bulky sweater, but I had to admit, I was beginning to wonder what Patrick Blaine had seen in her that he liked enough to leave his wife. Maybe
she was a sweetheart, or had a bubbly personality that belied her appearance.
"What do you two want?" she snapped.
So much for that theory.
"We're from the
Observer
," I said, "and we'd like to include you in an upcoming article we're working on."
"Is it about my moth collection? I wrote your editors several times, but I've been amazed by their lack of interest."
"Absolutely," Grace said. "That's why we're here. Could we possibly see it?"
"Come in," she said, the change in her personality striking. "Where's the photographer? I told them in my letters that the article won't be anything without photographic evidence. My collection would be rather difficult to describe in print."
"He's coming," I said, "but he was held up at a wreck."
"So that's who you were talking to out on the walk."
I said, "We're sorry for the delay, but perhaps you could show us your work while we wait. That way we can finish the interview before he arrives."
"That would be fine," she said. We followed her through an ordinary enough home, filled with frilly pillows and framed needlepoint works hanging from the walls.
"It's in here," she said, as she led us into what had to be a spare bedroom at the top of the stairs.
Grace and I followed her in, and I immediately started wishing we had an exit strategy, despite why we'd come. In place of needlepoint, the walls were
covered with framed display boxes featuring the wildest array of dead moths I'd ever seen in my life. Each specimen was carefully labeled, and there were tables filled with displays, as well. I've never been that big a fan of moths in the past, but my heart went out to them when I saw this torture chamber dedicated to their demise.
"It's really something," I said, searching for anything that would hide my disgust.
Grace seemed fascinated by the displays. "What drew you to moths? There has to be a flame somewhere in your life."
The reference zipped right over her head. "I began my collection when I was nine, and it just seemed to grow and grow. Moths are lovely, and they need to be protected from man's devastation and development. Their lives are too fragile."
Especially with her on the loose. The main thing they needed to be protected from appeared to be Deb Jenkins.
"I'm curious," Grace said. "Does your husband share your love of moths with you?"
"I'm not married," she said curtly.
"Your boyfriend, then," Grace pushed.
"What does my love life have to do with your article? It should be about my moths, not my life."
"It's part of the human-interest angle," I said.
Grace nodded. "Our editor won't even look at the story if we don't have human interest."
Deb seemed to mull that over, then said, "Fine. If you must know, my boyfriend wasn't a big fan of my hobby. He didn't get it."
"Is that why he's not your boyfriend anymore?" I asked.
"He died," she said curtly. "I really don't want to discuss it any further, if you don't mind."
Grace closed the notebook she'd been scribbling in. "I'm sorry you feel that way. We're sorry to have bothered you." She turned to me and said, "Call Max and tell him we don't need him for the photo shoot after all."
"Wait, you can't leave," Deb said as she grabbed my arm. She had a grip like a longshoreman.
"Sorry. It's out of our hands," I said as I tried to pry her loose.
"I'll talk about him," she said. "He was murdered, and the police don't know who did it. They haven't even talked to me, and I could help them."
"What would you tell them if you could?" I asked.
"They should focus on his ex-wife. She wanted his life insurance money, only Patrick fooled her."
"And left it to you instead?" I asked gently.
"That's what he promised me. What's wrong with that? We were in love."
Grace said, "Some folks might think that gave you a motive for murder. Was it a lot of money?"
"Not really. I wanted him alive and with me. What good would the money be to me without Patrick? I haven't even contacted the insurance company yet."
"So you and his ex-wife both had motives," I said. "She thought she was going to benefit from his death, but it sounds as if you're the one who really did."
Deb wasn't about to take that. She snapped, "You know what? There are more people than me who had a reason to kill him. You should talk to his secretary at the bank. Her name's Vicki Houser, and she had every reason in the world to want to see him dead herself."
I thought of that sweet and caring woman I'd spoken to the day before, and I couldn't imagine her as a killer. "Why do you say that?"
"She's been in love with him for years, and Patrick finally had enough of her pining and sickening adoration. He told her he wasn't the least bit interested in her romantically a month ago. She wouldn't accept his rejection, though, and when she found out he was seeing me all along, she said she'd see him dead before she'd let him throw his life away on me. There's the one you should talk to."
Could she be telling the truth, or was Deb Jenkins just trying to muddy the waters? I'd been focusing on the business end of motives, but this afternoon's interviews had revealed an entirely separate line of investigation. I wondered if Chief Martin had even thought about the possibility that Patrick Blaine had been killed for love, instead of money. Then again, if Deb Jenkins had done it, it might be because of a little bit of both.
Grace's cell phone rang, and she excused herself.
Deb looked at me, then said, "Can we please talk about my collection now? It's fit for the finest museum."
"You've certainly been thorough in your dedication," I said.
Grace hung up, then said, "We've got to go."
"What about the photographer?" Deb asked.
"I'm sorry, they bumped the story. Thanks for your time, though."
Deb snapped, "So that's it? You're just going to walk away?" Her voice had gotten louder with each word she spoke.
"Easy," I said. "There's no reason to lose your temper."
She nearly shouted, "I don't have a temper!"
Grace's eyes grew large while I envisioned both of us pinned and labeled on a board under glass, and added to her collection.
I said, "We'll do our best to convince our editor that this is a worthy story. We'll be in touch."
That seemed to mollify her somewhat. "Do you have a card?"
"Sorry, I'm all out," I said. "Maybe there's one in the car."
We got into Grace's car and drove off as fast as we could.
Once we were out of sight, I turned to Grace and asked, "What was so urgent about that telephone call?"
"My dentist's office called to remind me of my next appointment. I had to get out of there. She was creepy, wasn't she?"
I fought back a chill. "What did he ever see in her? She isn't pretty, by any stretch of the imagination, and she has the personality of a psycho. I just don't see the appeal."
"Are you asking me to explain a man's behavior? You're talking to the wrong gal. I haven't been able to figure them out yet."
I noticed that we were driving away from April Springs, instead of toward it. "Where are we headed now?"
"I thought we'd have a chat with Vicki Houser."
"The reporter angle isn't going to work," I said. "She already knows I'm a donut maker."
"Then we'll just have to ask her point-blank if she had anything to do with her boss's death."
"This could get ugly," I said.
"Uglier than Moth Girl? I don't see how."
We didn't even get to find out. At the bank, we learned that Vicki Houser had turned in her notice, and was taking accumulated vacation time, as of that morning.
It appeared that one of our suspects had gotten away.
At least for now.
As we were driving back to the donut shop, I had an idea. "Let's find out where Vicki Houser lives."
"You heard her replacement at the bank. She's gone."
"Do we know that, really? Just because she quit her job and took her vacation time doesn't mean she's left town. It takes time to pack up everything you own. I'm willing to bet she hasn't left town yet."
"I knew there was a reason I kept you around. That's not a bad idea."
