“No,” I said firmly. “The poor guy needs is to solve the Miriam Jilton case.”
Karen asked if we had any theories.
“We do,” I said. “But it’s even more complicated than Willow’s well issues.”
“Say what?”
I started explaining, but Karen interrupted to mention that mile of kitchen cabinets. “We’ll talk later,” she said. “We’ll cover all these W-issues—your writing, Willow’s well.” She skipped a beat. “Wilson’s wedding.”
I groaned again.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Marry Wilson, and I’ll build you guys some furniture as a wedding present. Anything you want for the little cottage.”
“It’s a shack,” I said, but she had already hung up.
A call to Candy proved equally fruitless.
“I’d love to brainstorm about Willow and Kipp,” she said. “But today’s the big day.”
“Mrs. Marachini’s much-anticipated emergency shopping spree, correct?”
“The Fister-Bickerson wedding is right around the corner. Gosh, it’s a small world. All that stuff Karen’s building is also for Trisha.” Candy hesitated. “Speaking of the W-word.”
“W as in world?”
“Duh. W as in wedding. And speaking of your wedding—”
“We weren’t speaking of my wedding.”
“Speaking of your wedding, you need to come into Tate’s sometime soon. I’ll set you up with lingerie for your honeymoon. It’ll be my wedding gift.”
Chapter 32
Kipp Jupiter stood stock-still and watched Zachary Clark ride away. He had plenty of chores to get back to, but Kipp waited until Zachary disappeared beyond the horizon, and still he didn’t move.
The man had come all the way out from Hogan’s Hollow to warn him about his new neighbor. The lowdown, no-good Will LaSwann was out to get him—out to get Kipp’s land, to be exact.
According to Zachary, LaSwann, or LeSwine, or whatever he wanted to call himself, had ventured into Hogan’s Hollow that very morning and had spoken to everyone in town about Kipp. According to Zachary, LeSwine asked every question under the sun about Kipp’s land and how he had come to own the largest ranch on the prairie.
“I’d watch my back if I were you,” Zachary told him. “That new neighbor of yours is up to no good, or my name isn’t Zachary Zebediah Clark.”
Kipp Jupiter finally moved. Indeed, he turned in the direction of the LeSwine ranch and snarled accordingly. That varmint was after his ranch! That’s why he hadn’t paid any attention when Kipp tried explaining the water and well situation. Why bother? The greedy LeSwine had his eyes set on Kipp’s land instead!
Kipp took off his cowboy hat and swatted at a fly. “The varmint!” he exclaimed to the fifty or so steer grazing in the field before him.
***
“Varmint, swine?” I tore my eyes from my computer and spoke to a sleeping Snowflake. “Is there no end to Kipp Jupiter’s disdain?”
The cat opened one eye.
She was right of course. My stupid story wasn’t worth waking up for.
“Stupid Uncle Hazard.” I stood up and started pacing. “Why did he give his niece such stupid advice? Impersonating a man. Sheesh!”
Snowflake opened both eyes and stared at the nearest copy of
Sensual and Scintillating
.
I snatched it up and started rifling through the pages willy-nillly. “How are these people ever going to hop in a haystack together!?” I asked.
Snowflake gave up on her nap. She sat up and stretched, and made a point of ignoring my histrionics to watch the histrionics down at street-level.
I tossed the book aside and gave my long-suffering muse a few forehead-to-tail-tip strokes.
Varmints, swine. Whatever I wanted to call the fools outside, I needed some fresh air and exercise. I needed a walk.
I changed out of my sloppy writing attire, and into a pair of jeans and a summer cardigan, and was out the door before the thought of facing Jimmy and Alistair on limited sleep could deter me.
I hurried past the second floor landing and past Candy’s empty apartment. Ms. Poppe was off selling bras and other unmentionables to Mrs. Marachini and company. And before I even made it to the first floor lobby, I could hear the power tools buzzing from behind Karen’s door. She, too, was hard at work on those custom cabinets. I stopped short at Peter Harrison’s door. Even in retirement, he kept busy. I listened to the piano music coming from within.
But something wasn’t right.
I checked my watch. It was too early for afterschool piano lessons. And what about that music? Even I knew it wasn’t Mozart.
I reached out and knocked loudly.
***
“What did you think?” Peter asked as he invited me in.
I told him it sounded good to me and pointed to his piano. “But that certainly wasn’t Beethoven. It was Elton John. “Crocodile Rock” to be specific.” I tilted my head. “Are you feeling well?”
The old guy blushed and produced a stack of sheet music from beneath the piano bench. “All rock and roll,” he said as he handed it to me.
“But I’m the rock and roll enthusiast, Peter.” I shuffled through a stack of music I knew and loved. “You prefer classical music, remember?”
“Well,” he sang. “Lizzy Sistina is broadening my horizons.”
I looked up. “Her electric piano? Don’t tell me you’ve given up Beethoven for Lizzy and her girl group?”
“Of course not. But the girls have big plans. They’ve named themselves Like, The Lyricals, and they plan on playing at weddings. They want to put some rock and roll oldies into their repertoire.”
Peter swiped his thumb down the entire keyboard. “That move’s called a glissando,” he informed me. “Lizzie and I are embarking on a study of all the great rock pianists—Elton John, Billy Joel, Jerry Lee Lewis.”
“Stevie Wonder, Carole King.” I smiled. “I think I’m going to like The Lyricals.”
“No, Jessie. You going to like Like, The Lyricals.”
“I do like The Lyricals.”
“No,” Peter repeated. “The band’s name isn’t The Lyricals. It’s Like, comma, The Lyricals. Like, Like is part of the name.”
I shook my head and warned my neighbor I was functioning on very limited sleep.
“The murder investigation?” he asked. “Richard Dempsey continues to call me. He’s still worried this will ruin his retirement plans.”
I told him Principal Dempsey needn’t be concerned, and rummaged through the sheet music while Peter asked a string of questions I couldn’t answer.
“Here it is.” I slipped “Your Song” onto the top of the stack and handed it back. “That’s my favorite Elton John song. Perhaps because I’m a writer.” I tapped the sheet music. “I always thought it’d be a nice song at a wedding.”
Peter grinned. “Whose wedding are we talking about?”
***
“Stupid, stupid W-word,” I sputtered to myself as I stepped outside to face the usual jibes and insults from Jimmy, Alistair, and the like.
Oh, but what was this? Lord help me, they, too, had picked up on the wedding theme. Alistair and his gang sported new posters—about the ‘Wedding Bell Blues,’ and being ‘Engaged To The Enemy.’
A gleeful Jimmy Beak bullhorned the significance to me in case I wasn’t catching on. “Captain Wilson Rye,” he shouted. “Engaged to the enemy!”
Yadda, yadda, yadda. I raced down the stairs, pushed Jimmy aside before Joe the cameraman could come to his rescue, and headed down Sullivan Street as fast as my feet could carry me. I didn’t even take time to wave to Roslynn.
Why aren’t there laws against such harassment, I asked myself as I made it past the fray. But if I despised book banning because it impinged on my right to free speech, then I had to accept Alistair and the ilk’s right to assemble, correct?
I shook my head and decided my sleep-deprived brain was ill-equipped to tackle questions concerning the Bill of Rights. I’d do better concentrating on Willow and Kipp.
Alas, no ready solutions presented themselves on that front either. And by the time I wandered onto Hamilton Avenue, my baffled brain had wandered back to thinking about the murder and Wilson’s enemies.
Annoying but true, I knew very little about my fiancé’s work. The man made a point of telling me virtually nothing about the people he had arrested over the years. Dianne Calloway being the perfect example.
Of course, I did know many of the people Wilson worked with. Call me naïve, but intuition dictated that none of those cops was a cold-blooded murderer. I thought about the two I had never met, Gene Fagan and Darla Notari. Unlikely or downright impossible. I didn’t need a degree in criminology to tell me dead people don’t kill.
Willow’s well, or Wilson’s arch-enemy. Whatever the problem, I had no solution, and by the time I rounded the corner onto Vine Street to head home, I was thoroughly annoyed. And passing the building where my ex-husband had seen fit to set up business didn’t help my mood any.
Whatever Wilson might say, Clarence really was a small city. I mean, how unlikely was it that my seriously irritating ex-husband’s equally irritating wife Amanda had actually witnessed Trisha Fister’s bridal-shower debacle? Leave it to Amanda Crawcheck to somehow be related to the kooky Marachini-Fister clan.
I stopped short.
A few passersby had to step around me as I focused my attention at the corner of Sullivan and Vine. A three-ring circus—Roslynn and the pastel people, Jimmy and Joe, Alistair and the ilk.
“They have different last names,” I said out loud, and the next pedestrian crashed into me.
“He’s her uncle!” I told him and ran for home.
Chapter 33
No car.
That altogether infuriating revelation hit me as I elbowed my way around this, that, and the other protester at the corner.
Candy was at Tate’s, Karen was off installing custom cabinets, and Peter drove way too slowly.
I made it to the semi-safety of my stoop, and proof that there is a God in heaven, remembered I had my cell phone with me. I pulled it from my back pocket and tried finding a number for a taxi while the three-ring circus worked on distracting me. Alistair and his clowns screamed at me, Jimmy and Joe jeered at me, and Roslynn and the pastel people cheered at me.
Roslynn!
I clicked off my phone and made a beeline for my protégé.
***
“If you really want to help me,” I yelled at her over the general commotion. “Put down that sign and take me to your car.” I reached for her ‘Romance Rocks’ poster, but Roslynn refused to relinquish it.
“No can do!” she said. “I can’t leave until Alistair does. Geez Louise’s direct orders.”
“I need a lift, Roslynn. It’s an emergency.”
“No can do!” She jiggled her stupid sign even more aggressively. “Geez Louise wants me to stay on Dee Dee Larkin’s radar. If this lasts long enough, maybe I’ll get another spot on the national news. That’ll be good for both of us, Jessie.”
“Oh, for Lord’s sake!” I reached out and none too gently pulled her toward me. “I need to get to the police station,” I whispered in her ear. “Now!” I said a lot louder.
While Roslynn looked me over, perhaps to see where I was bleeding, I yanked the poster from her hand and shoved it at the hapless demonstrator standing closest to us. She fumbled, trying to rearrange her own poster to accommodate carrying two. Meanwhile I wrestled with Roslynn, trying to move her unyielding person in any direction whatsoever.
“Cat fight!” Jimmy exclaimed, and he and Joe the cameraman came rushing.
“Please!” I shouted at her, and Roslynn finally got the hint. Or maybe the sight of Alistair and his groupies stampeding toward us stirred her to action. Whatever the reason, she grabbed my hand, and we raced down Sullivan Street toward her car.
Behind us Alistair was shouting some nonsense about the unbecoming behavior of women who write smut, and Jimmy kept asking where we were headed.
“The public has a right to know,” he screamed, and it occurred to me I have a bad habit of making a scene whenever I figure out who a killer is.
“Stop!” I yanked poor Roslynn’s arm, and we came to a screeching halt.
While Roslynn inspected the damaged heel of her lilac pump, I turned to head off Jimmy. He and the cameraman were so shocked we had stopped, they stopped, too. Alistair plowed smack into Joe, and down they went.
“Roslynn will be back shortly,” I told Jimmy as he stepped over the two big guys. I tried to sound calm. “I just need a ride to the—” Nothing came to me. “I need a lift to the—” Again I stopped.
“To the library!” Roslynn helped me out. “Jessie’s out of reading material!”
***
“The police station,” I ordered as Roslynn started her car. “And would you please lock the doors,” I said as Jimmy came running. Evidently he’d seen right through our ingenious library-excursion ruse.
Bless her heart, Roslynn followed orders. And as soon as we were safely ensconced in midday traffic, I called Wilson.
“I figured it out,” I told him.
“Great. I can’t wait to read it.”
“What? Read what?”
“The solution to Willow’s water rights.”
I scowled at the dashboard. “We’re not talking about Willow’s well, Wilson. We’re talking about the murder. I know who did it.”
Dead silence. No pun intended.
“Did you hear me?” I asked. “Are you at the station? I’m on my way over. Roslynn’s driving me.”
“Who?”
“Is Russell there? If not, get him.”
“Who?” Wilson asked.
“Lieutenant Russell Densmore!”
“No, Jessie. I mean, who’s the killer?”
I glanced sideways at my driver. “Later,” I said and hung up.
***
“Stick with the library story,” I told Roslynn as I climbed out of her car.
“But what about the murderer, Jessie. Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Nooo. I am not going to tell you.” I shook my head and started closing the passenger door, but remembered something. “Roslynn?” I bent down and peeked back in.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” I took the time to smile. “Thank you for your help with
A Singular Seduction
. Thank you for your protest march. And thank you for this.” I pointed to her steering wheel. “Thank you.”
She waved me away, and I noticed she had chipped a nail. “Anything for Adelé,” she said and drove off.
I turned around and into Wilson.
“Who?” he asked, and I told him he’d been right all along.