Candy Apple Dead (27 page)

After a lengthy internal debate, I slipped the bottle into my purse and left it there. Just in case. Never say never.

I drove back across town and pulled into my parking space next to a shiny black Lexus I recognized from its vanity plates. Maggie Sherwood is between sixty and sixty-five with salt-and-pepper hair and a Tennessee accent so thick it curls vowels when she talks. She’s not a skier, hates the cold, and complains from October to May every year, but her husband loves it here, and she, for reasons only she understands, has made the sacrifice. I’m not sure I could. Maybe I’ve just never loved anybody that much.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for a week,” she said before I even got out of the car. “You can’t plow into a police officer’s car and then avoid my calls. That isn’t smart.”

“I wasn’t avoiding your calls,” I assured her. “I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

“Too busy to cover your ass?”

I stood and sent a little half-smile to see if I could coax her into a better mood. “I thought that’s what the insurance was for.”

“Don’t be flip, Abby. Just tell me how this happened.”

“You haven’t seen the police report?”

“I have. I want to hear your version.”

I gathered the goodies I’d picked up at K-Mart and started walking. “My version pretty much matches what it says in there. I was backing out of the driveway, and I didn’t see him.”

“In spite of the fact that he was parked directly behind you? Parked, Abby. Not pulling in. Not moving. Parked.”

I chewed the side of my lip and tried to decide just how honest to be. I didn’t need my insurance rates spiking on top of everything else, but I didn’t know if a tiny white lie or two could prevent that or if I’d only make things worse. “I was upset,” I admitted. “I didn’t check as thoroughly as I should have.”

Maggie’s scowl deepened the lines around her mouth. “Sounds to me like you didn’t look at all.”

“I did.” I flashed a look at her and added, “I think. I don’t really remember.”

Closing her eyes in dismay, Maggie let out a sigh that could have launched a hot-air balloon. “This isn’t going to be good, Abby. You have to know that. You’re going to lose your preferred driver discount for sure, and I don’t know what all might be involved.”

She followed me into the candy kitchen and snitched a couple of butterscotch buttons from the mound Karen had left on the counter for me. “It was an accident,” I said, sounding all of about twelve. “I didn’t mean to hit him.”

“Well, thank God for that! I can’t even imagine what kind of mess we’d have if you had. Have you even bothered to get an estimate on your car?”

“I have.” And thankfully I had it in my bag. I dug it out, a little worse for the wear, and passed it over. “Can you believe that? It’s the only one I’ve gotten, but I can get others . . .”

She waved away the offer. “This is one of the approved body shops we work with. You’ll be all right taking it there.” She smoothed both hands across the form and studied it for a minute, and for some reason that seemed to cut the edges off her anger. When she looked at me again, her eyes were filled with the same warmth that had made me choose her for my agent in the first place. “You weren’t injured?”

“Just my pride.”

She nodded toward Max who was trotting behind me like a perfect angel. “And your friend? When did you get him?”

I gave her the short explanation of when and how, ending with, “I don’t know if I’ll be keeping him, though. Brandon’s wife is in town to pick up his effects. I’m assuming that includes Max.”

“Really? Too bad. He seems to like you.”

“Yeah.” I noticed a few mug arrangements sitting near the window, sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Karen, and shoved one toward Maggie. Each mug had an autumn motif with brightly colored cellophane “leaves” creating a background for the wrapped caramels inside.

Maggie’s mouth pursed into a little “O” of pleasure, and I felt myself relax a little. I scratched the top of Max’s head, and he lifted his nose for more. “The dog hasn’t been around long, but I’ve enjoyed the company. Gives me somebody to talk to at the end of the day.”

Maggie unwrapped a caramel and slid it into her mouth. She’s a woman after my own heart. “We all need somebody, don’t we? Nobody makes it through this life alone.”

I knew what she meant. Technically, I wasn’t alone. I had friends. I had family. I just didn’t have someone to curl up with at the end of the day. On the other hand, I hadn’t had that when I was married, either.

In true Maggie fashion, her moment of softness was over almost before it began. Her head snapped up, and she whipped toward the door as if the world was about to come to an end somewhere else, and she had to get there first. “I’ll have Marielle call you for a complete accident report. Meanwhile, get your car fixed. You’ll feel better.”

“Right,” I called after her. Then, to myself, “The very minute I can afford the deductible.”

I settled Max outside the back door with some food and water, thought again about giving him his medication, and decided against it. Maybe in a day or two after my nerves settled again. I was just coiling the hose behind a park bench when a new Trailblazer pulled up in front of the curb at Picture Perfect. It was either the color of sand or champagne, depending on the way you look at life, and I recognized Duncan Farmer behind the wheel.

Since Max was with me, it was the middle of the day, and cars were passing at a regular rate on the street, I decided to wait a minute and see how Max reacted to him. One growl, and I’d be on the phone to Jawarski.

Duncan heaved himself out of the SUV and squaddled toward us. He’s a large man whose reddish-gray hair seems to shrink away from his face. Even when his clothes make it all the way around him, he seems to be overflowing them. He was big enough to have made the footprints outside of my apartment. But had he?

He didn’t look happy to see me but, then, Duncan never looked happy to see me. He didn’t look unhappy, either, so I took that as a positive sign. Puffing a little, he stepped onto the curb and glanced at Max. “Abby.”

“Duncan.”

If Max had any objection to Duncan’s presence, he wasn’t sharing it with me.

“You’ve got my Stella mighty upset. I guess you know that, don’t you?”

“She mentioned it.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “It’s not a good thing to go around accusing people of things. You can make enemies that way. That’s one thing nobody needs.”

“I never accused her of anything, Duncan. The detective asked me a question, and I answered it. If I hadn’t, someone else would have.”

He turned one of those “there, there” looks on me. “Now, Abby, you know Stella isn’t capable of hurting another human being.”

“I know she was angry with Brandon,” I said, “and I know she has a temper.”

“She’s a passionate woman.” Some of the syrup in Duncan’s voice dried up. “She feels strongly about things, and she has a real dislike for people who take advantage. If that’s a crime, this world is a sorry place.”

“Look,” I said, “I know Brandon wasn’t perfect, but I still don’t know what he did to upset her so much. From what everyone says, he wasn’t in good shape financially, so it doesn’t make sense for him to try putting you out of business.”

“And yet he came up with that lame suggestion for expanding the Arts Festival.”

“Not as a means of driving you out.”

“You don’t think so?” Duncan smirked as if he felt sorry for me, and I battled the urge to wipe that smile right off his face. He mopped his forehead again and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I guess we’ll never know what he was up to, will we? I’m just glad the question of expanding that damn Arts Festival is finally out of our hair.”

“There’s been no vote yet.”

“Well, sure, but without Brandon to spearhead it, the idea’s pretty much dead in the water.”

“Unless somebody else takes it up.” Yeah, I know. It wasn’t exactly smart to antagonize him, but I liked the idea, and not because Brandon had suggested it. Getting all those tourists walking around the downtown area for days at a time with money burning a hole in their pockets? Sounded like a great idea to me.

Duncan narrowed his beady little eyes at me. “You aren’t getting any big ideas about that are you?”

I shook my head and flashed a reassuring smile. “Not me.” I hadn’t decided anything for sure, and I figured one little white lie wouldn’t hurt.

The relief on his face was so thick it might have been laughable if we’d been talking about something else. “Well, that’s good. That’s real good. I’m not worried about many of the others. Stella and me, we can talk sense into the rest of ’em, no problem.”

I knew all about Stella’s brand of “talking sense,” and I didn’t like it. “I wouldn’t be too sure,” I said. “There are plenty of people who like the idea.”

“Not anymore. Look what it got Brandon.”

“You think someone killed him over the Arts Festival?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“But why? It’s only four days out of a lifetime.”

“Not to some people.”

Was he serious? “Who?”

“Griff Banks, for one. He’s spent the past ten years trying to put Paradise on the map with the film festival. Then along comes Brandon, and instead of joining forces the way Griff suggested, Brandon takes off with a whole different idea and steals the thunder for himself.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped before I could stop it. “
What
thunder?”

“There’s a lot of prestige attached to events like the Arts Festival, Abby. A
lot
of prestige. Griff’s had his eye on the mayor’s seat for the last few years. Building a name for himself is important.”

I knew Griff, of course. I think everyone in town did. But he’s also a regular customer at Divinity and a surprisingly gentle man. I just didn’t see him as a serious murder suspect. “And he saw Brandon as a threat to that?”

Duncan arched an eyebrow at me. “He saw Brandon as a big threat. Ask anybody who was at the Gaslight last Monday night.”

“What happened at the Gaslight?”

“The two of ’em got into quite a squabble, from what I hear.”

“Brandon and Griff? At the Gaslight?” Talk about mental images that just won’t form. I had trouble enough picturing Brandon there, but the Gaslight just isn’t the kind of place a hopeful future mayoral candidate ought to hang out.

Duncan looked as if he might say more, but his cell phone let out a beep, and he moved away to answer it. I didn’t know whether to wait or leave, but when he tossed a wave at me and headed toward Picture Perfect, still chatting away, I figured it out.

I wondered if Jawarski knew about Griff Banks, and even briefly considered telling him. But it also occurred to me that Duncan might have been blowing smoke to divert suspicion from himself. I still wasn’t completely convinced that Stella wasn’t dangerous.

So maybe I’d drive over to the Gaslight and see what I could learn there. There’d be plenty of time to tell Jawarski if I found out that Duncan was telling the truth.

The Gaslight Lounge is one of the holdovers
from Paradise’s mining days. It squats on the edge of town near the turnoff to Sapphire Lake, a low gray building with only a few neon signs to relieve its sheer ugliness. I’d never been inside, and as I pulled into the parking lot I wondered if I was being foolish.

When I saw Wyatt’s truck nosed right up next to the front door, I decided I didn’t care. All the days of worry and sleepless nights came rushing back at me. The times I’d defended him, the accusations I’d defended him against. And here he was sucking down beer.

Furious, I wedged the Jetta into a parking space, tied Max’s leash to the front bumper, and stormed inside. Unfortunately, my grand entrance was spoiled by the murky interior. It’s hard to look like somebody capable of dropping a man on his ass when you can’t see a thing.

Gradually, I was able to make out a long U-shaped bar across the room, a deserted dance floor right in front of me, and several tables, most of which were empty, scattered along the walls. The whole place had an air of sad neglect, from the mismatched chairs to the smell of mold that stale cigarette smoke can’t quite disguise. You don’t find that musty smell much in the Rockies, where humidity has been sucked out of the air by the altitude, but the Gaslight had it, strong enough to make me crinkle my nose.

Only a couple of tables were occupied. One, by a stunning brunette and her blond companion. The other by a couple of guys who were already slobbering all over themselves. The brunette watched me walk in, probably making the same kinds of value judgments about me that I was making about her.

The low hum of conversation gave way to an eerie silence. I heard a muffled curse and turned toward the sound of my brother’s voice. The long walk across the deserted dance floor gave me plenty of time to work on what I wanted to say.