“I knew I shouldn’t ask.”
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” I said. “You’re the one who gave me the idea. You told me not to get Peter involved.” I shrugged. “So of course I got Peter involved.”
“You’re a little scary. You know that?”
“He thinks she was shot.”
“Peter?”
“No, Richard Dempsey. He thinks Miriam Jilton was shot,” I said as Snowflake and Wally finally decided to join us. They took one look at the overabundance of cat on Wilson’s lap and chose me. While I wrestled the two of them for space on my Adirondack chair, I summarized the guilt trip Dr. Dempsey had gone through over Ms. Jilton’s death.
“He’s wrong about everything. Motive, opportunity, and definitely means,” I concluded. “He didn’t do it.”
Wilson reluctantly agreed. “Dempsey’s a pain in the neck, but I can’t come up with any motive for him to kill Jilton.”
“Which brings us back to the million-dollar question—why she was left on my car.” I continued struggling for space on my chair. “She wasn’t having any kind of illicit affair, so the killer wasn’t making a statement about Miriam.” I finally got Snowflake settled onto my lap, with Wally squished in next to us, his chin resting on my knee. “The killer was calling attention to me.”
Wilson looked at the moon. “Maybe so,” he said quietly, and I groaned.
“What’s wrong, Jessie? I’m agreeing with you. You’ve come up with a plausible answer to the million-dollar question.”
“But I hate the answer.” I sunk my hand into the fur at Snowflake’s neck. “I’m responsible for that poor woman’s death.”
“No, Jessie.” He took my hand away from Snowflake and made sure I was paying attention. “You are not responsible. The murderer is responsible.” He gave me his sternest cop-like look. “We straight on that?”
I bit my lip and fought back another wave of tears.
***
“Who knew where your car was that night?” Wilson asked eventually, and I let out that sob I’d been holding back.
He squeezed my hand. “If we want to find this guy, we have to think about this. Everyone and his brother knows about your license plate. But.”
“But only a finite number knew where it would be on Saturday.”
“Yep.” Wilson tried to sound encouraging. “For instance, I didn’t know you’d loaned your car out. Not until I was looking at the body on it.”
“Well then, I guess we can rule you out.”
He squeezed my hand again. “Work with me. Who knew the Smythe kid had your car.”
“The Smythe kid himself, obviously. And Frankie was so excited, I know he told all his friends.” I thought back. “He called me on Thursday and picked up the Porsche Friday after school. Which means he had all day Friday, and Saturday, to tell who knows how many people.”
“Where was it parked on Saturday? During the day, that is.”
“At the Smythes’ house on Maple Street, I imagine.” I bolted upright, and Snowflake and Wally both scolded me.
“Yep.” Wilson nodded. “Ian knew.”
Yep, he did. My ex-husband got the house in our divorce settlement, I got the car and the cat. This means, of course, that Ian and his new wife live next door to the Smythes and could have easily noticed my car in the Smythe driveway.
“Ian might have asked the Smythes what the Porsche was doing back in the old neighborhood,” I said. “Or Amanda could have asked. Or any of my old neighbors, for that matter. Alistair Pritt, even.”
“Start with the people who hate you,” Wilson said. “The Crawchecks.”
I told Wilson to brace himself. “You’re not going to believe this, but.”
“But let me guess. You’ve been talking to Ian again.”
“He left three messages on my answering machine today.”
“Saying what?”
I shook my head. “Believe it or not, I didn’t listen. I was so proud of myself for ignoring him, Wilson. I deleted them without a second thought.” I snapped my fingers. “Zip!”
Wilson frowned at Snowflake. “She had to choose today to get mature about her ex?”
“Convenient, no?” I thought about my stupid ex and his even stupider new wife. “Ian did not kill Miriam,” I concluded. “Neither did Amanda.”
“Let me guess. Because they hate it when you get attention.”
“Just think what Amanda’s country club friends would say if Jimmy Beak accused me of murder again.” I feigned a gasp. “Just think of the humiliation to dear, innocent, sweet Amanda.”
“I get it,” Wilson said. “No on the Crawchecks. But I’ll still have Densmore check.”
“Tell Russell to do me a favor and put the fear of God in them.”
“I’ll do just the opposite.”
I was indignant, but Wilson insisted we needed to keep the true motive for the murder to ourselves. “Densmore needs to be discreet. We want the rest of the world to continue thinking this was about Jilton. Not you.”
“Thus keeping the murderer complacent?”
“Very good.”
I asked permission to explain the new theory to Candy and Karen. “They know something’s up, and they’re very concerned.”
Wilson told me to remind them about the discretion thing. “But focus on your old neighborhood for now,” he said. “Who else could have seen your car at the Smythes? You mentioned Pritt? He hates you, and the Hava Java is right there.” He raised an eyebrow. “And his protest started right after the murder.”
“And Captain Rye does not like coincidences,” I told the cats.
I complained that I had wasted enough time fretting about Alistair Pritt, and recommenced fretting about Alistair Pritt.
“No,” I said eventually and shook my head. “You’re just going to have to accept the coincidence. Alistair didn’t need to kill anyone to start his book-banning crusade. Jimmy Beak’s given him ample ammunition against me without a murder.”
I counted off Jimmy’s ammunition on my fingers. “The Stanley Sweetzer fiasco, the Focus on Fiction fiasco, and the Romance Writers Hall of Fame-slash-Shame fiasco.”
“What about Beak?” Wilson asked, and my mouth dropped open.
What about Beak?
“He hates you,” Wilson reminded me, quite unnecessarily, and I got up to pace.
“All those other attempts to tarnish my character didn’t work, did they?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “So Jimmy decided to kill someone. And then blame me! For murder!”
“Keep going.”
“And!” I rounded the small porch for the fifth or sixth time. “And Jimmy knew exactly what the media would do with this story! For Lord’s sake, he is the media!”
“Your threat of a lawsuit would have upset the plan.”
“Which explains why he’s latched onto Alistair with such abandon. He’s ignoring every other story under the sun in order to concentrate on the Queen of Smut campaign.”
Wilson watched while I paced back and forth at a frantic speed, huffing and puffing in righteous indignation.
“What!?” I snapped.
“You think Beak’s capable of murder?”
I stopped short. “Do you?”
“No.”
I stamped my foot.
“Sorry, Jessie, but Beak doesn’t have the brains for something this sinister. And there’s another problem with this theory.”
Unfortunately, I knew what it was. I plopped back into the Adirondack chair. “Jimmy had no idea where my car was that night.”
“The Junior Cotillion wasn’t real newsworthy until the murder.” Wilson reached for his cell. “But we’ll check anyway.”
He called Russell Densmore, apologized for the late hour, and gave him some instructions.
Meanwhile the cats and I got comfortable again. We listened to the night sounds of Lake Lookadoo—the water lapping against the dock, the occasional quack from a duck in the distance, a bullfrog somewhere closer, the wind rustling in the trees. Snowflake looked up at me and clicked contentedly.
I closed my eyes.
***
A phone rang, and I awoke with a start. “How long have I been asleep?” I asked into the darkness.
“Ten minutes.” Wilson tapped his phone. “Densmore.”
“Wow. That was fast.” I sat up and tried to focus while Wilson listened to whatever Lieutenant Densmore was saying. Even in the dark I could see his face drop. And drop some more.
“What?” I said as soon as he clicked off.
“Let’s go to bed.” He shooed all the cats away and pulled me to my feet.
“Wilson! Did Russell find out where Jimmy was on Saturday? Where?”
“You’re tired. We need some sleep.” He held the door to the shack open, and the cats and I paraded in.
Wilson and I brushed our teeth in the rusty old sink of his supposed bathroom and climbed the rickety stairs to his supposed bedroom. But the rustic amenities dissuaded me not at all, and I remained on topic.
“Where was Jimmy on Saturday?” I asked for the umpteenth time.
“We don’t know yet. Densmore didn’t want to ask him over the phone.”
I watched my beau—make that my fiancé—as we undressed for bed. Now bed, of course, is a relative term. Wilson’s bedroom is a low-ceilinged loft with a mattress on the floor. Yes, it’s a comfortable mattress. And yes, the sheets and linens are quite cozy, and yes, the floor is clean, and yes, there’s a lovely view of the lake.
But still.
He got into bed—or onto mattress—and patted the one clear space the cats had yet to steal. “Join me?”
I folded my arms and glared from a kneeling position. “What is going on, Wilson? What did Russell say?”
“Beak wasn’t home tonight, but Densmore tracked him down.”
“And?” I prompted as I plopped onto the mattress.
“Jimmy and his cameraman are on the road. They’ve also been busy tracking someone down.”
Why was my heart starting to race? “Where?” I sang.
He cleared his throat but still managed to mumble. “Umm. Columbia.”
I blinked at the ceiling a mere four feet above my head. “Please tell me you’re referring to Colombia, South America.”
“No.” He took me in his arms, perhaps to keep me from exploding through said ceiling. “Columbia, South Carolina.” He held me tighter. “Jimmy Beak paid a visit to your mother tonight.”
Chapter 22
“LaSwann,” Kipp Jupiter muttered to his horse Rex. “What kind of name is that? LeSwine is more like it.” Kipp realized he was talking to his horse and snarled in the general direction of the LeSwine ranch.
You would think his new neighbor, a man with practically no ranching experience, would appreciate some advice. But no.
Here Kipp had taken an hour away from his midday chores to ride over there and explain the basics of well-water management. And what did he get for his efforts? A gruff “Thanks, but if you don’t mind, I have chores to do.”
“Chores, my foot.” Kipp told Rex. “I saw LeSwine. Right after I left, he saddled up and rode off toward town.”
Kipp squinted at the sun. Four more hours of daylight, but five more hours of work that needed doing. He cursed his new neighbor once more for the hell of it and hastened off toward his lower forty.
***
I smacked my computer and glanced at the three cats. “Do ranchers even have lower forties?” I asked them. “Or does that only apply to farmers? And what about the ‘for the hell of it?’ Will Adelé’s readers tolerate such language?”
Snowflake, who was used to assisting me with such details, looked up from watching the ducks and meowed. But Wally and Bernice ignored me completely.
Who could blame them? The morning sun glistening off Lake Lookadoo was downright mesmerizing. And the duck swimming by with her brood of eight ducklings was also distracting—worthy of all the feline tail twitching happening on the porch.
Snowflake meowed again.
“Yep,” I agreed. “The ‘hell’ has to go.”
I was making the minor revision when Wilson came out carrying two plates heaping with scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Talk about distracting.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked and set aside my computer. “On a Tuesday morning, no less.”
He handed me a plate and sat down with his own. “Watching you write out here inspired me to cook. We’ll go back to Cheerios tomorrow.”
“I wish I was inspired to do something this useful,” I said as I dug in with gusto.
Wilson pointed to my laptop. “No luck?”
“I’m more exasperated with myself than Kipp is with Will-slash-Willow.” I waved a slice of bacon at the lake. “And the beauty of this place isn’t helping matters.”
Wilson looked at the cats. “Did she just call Lake Lookadoo beautiful?”
I pursed my lips and insisted I was referring to our breakfast. I finished my biscuit and indulged in a rather large forkful of eggs while Wilson regaled me with some nonsense about how Lake Lookadoo could actually inspire Adelé Nightingale’s creative powers. “If she allowed herself to get used to it.”
Yadda, yadda, yadda. I ignored him and ate a second biscuit.
***
“You can stop ignoring me now. I’ve stopped talking about the lake.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said.” Wilson waited until he caught my eye. “Who else knew where your car was?”
He got up to clear the plates, and I followed him inside with the coffee cups. He filled the old porcelain sink with soapy water while I poured more coffee and found a dishtowel.
“Have you ever considered getting a dishwasher?” I asked.
“The plumbing couldn’t handle it.” He handed me a wet plate.
“Supposed plumbing,” I said. “What about Septosauruses? Do you have any trouble with them?”
“Huh?”
“The Septosauri. They’re ancient monsters who thrive in ancient plumbing such as this.” I pointed my dish towel at the faucet. “Lake Looksee is having serious issues with the varmints. They pop out of sinks and stuff, and strangle people.”
Wilson dropped the plate he was washing back into the abyss and considered his faucet. “Since when do you write science fiction?”
I credited Frankie Smythe for the brilliant Septosauri premise. “But maybe Adelé should try sci-fi.”
“Maybe we should focus on your car,” Wilson said, and I reminded him I had spoken to very few people the previous week.
I pulled the next dish from the drainer. “I was quite the recluse, since I was desperately trying to make headway on
A Singular Seduction
. You called a few times. And Frankie called.”
I stacked the plates on the open shelf above my head and took a handful of silverware. “Geez Louise called about a dozen times between Friday and Saturday,” I continued. “She kept suggesting I get together with Roslynn for a brainstorming session about
Seduction
. She insisted Roslynn could help me get some sex on the page.”