Goody Goody Gunshots (17 page)

I have no idea what time I finally fell asleep, but I woke the next morning to clear blue skies, springlike weather, and a town full of long faces brought on by the realization that the ski resorts probably wouldn’t open for Thanksgiving.

The morning flew by in a flurry of phone calls and paperwork. I even finished the centerpieces for Richie and Dylan. At a few minutes after eleven, I left Divinity for lunch and set off down the stairs that would take me down the hill to Ski Jump Way. Five minutes later, I opened the door to the small first-floor office of Big Horn Real Estate.

A young woman who looked familiar sat behind the reception desk just inside the building. Her dark hair and wide, almond-shaped eyes blended with her deep olive complexion to hint at an exotic ancestry. The nameplate on her desk said Elena Whitehorse, but that didn’t help me place her.

She smiled as I came inside. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m looking for Quentin Ingersol. Is he in?”

She nodded and lifted the receiver from her phone, then waited with one finger poised over the keypad. “Who should I tell him is here?”

I couldn’t believe my luck. Maybe things were finally looking up. “My name is Abby Shaw.”

“Are you a client?”

“No, but this won’t take long. I just need to ask him a couple of questions.”

She punched in a series of numbers. “I’ll see if he has time to see you. Why don’t you have a seat over there?” She nodded me toward a row of chairs near the window. She spoke for a few minutes in hushed tones, then replaced the receiver and smiled as if we were friends again. “Quentin can give you five minutes,” she said. “His office is down this hall, the last door on your right.”

I thanked her and wandered down the hall until I found Quentin’s office, where he was waiting for me. I guessed his age at late twenties to early thirties, a husky guy with blond hair and a tuft of hair just below his bottom lip. He wore jeans and a striped blue shirt under a sports jacket, and he strode toward me wearing a broad smile and holding out a hand for me to shake. “Ms. Shaw, what can I do for you?”

I shook his hand and followed him into the sunny office, the walls of which were covered with framed certificates and licenses. Just in case I had any doubts about his qualifications, I guess. I settled into a nicely stuffed chair across the desk from him and waited until he sat to tell him why I was there. I figured it would be harder for him to throw me out if I’d already laid claim to something solid. “I know this sounds odd, Mr. Ingersoll—”

“Call me Quentin. Please. ‘Mr. Ingersoll’ makes me feel like an old man.”

I smiled and started over again. “I know this sounds odd, but I’m wondering if you can give me some information about a man I believe was a client of yours.”

Quentin looked surprised by the question, but he leaned back in his seat and rocked slightly. “That is an odd request. What do you want to know?”

“I’d like to find out who he is, and if you know why he was here in Paradise.”

“Was?”

“He’s the man who was murdered outside the drugstore the other night. Someone told me that they saw you picking him up a couple of times.”

His eyes shuttered, and the expression on his face gave nothing away. “Whoever told you that must have been mistaken. I never met the guy.”

“How can you be so sure? Did you see the dead man?”

“Of course not. The police came by the businesses on the block with a photograph. I couldn’t help them, and I can’t help you. Even if I had known him, I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything about him. We take our clients’ privacy very seriously.”

Between the blank-eyed stare and the stony expression, I had a hard time believing that he was being truthful with me. “And I’m sure your clients appreciate it. But these are kind of unusual circumstances, so I’m hoping you’ll make an exception.”

“And what’s so unusual—besides the fact that someone killed the poor guy?”

“I nearly ran into him out at Hammond Junction one night. I thought he’d been killed that night. Obviously he wasn’t, but I guess that near accident made me feel responsible for him somehow. I’m curious to know who he was.”

The edges of Quentin’s lips curved slightly. “That’s understandable, I’m sure. But as I said, I didn’t know the guy.”

“Are you sure? I’ve talked to a couple of people who are sure he got into your car on more than one occasion. If he wasn’t a client, maybe he was a friend.”

Slowly, Quentin folded his hands in the center of the desktop. “I don’t know where you heard that rumor, but I can assure you it’s not true. I’ve never met the man who was murdered the other night.”

What was with these people? First Kerry Hendrix, now Quentin Ingersol, both denying things I
knew
must be true. “If you did, it’s only a matter of time until the police figure it out.”

Quentin’s lips tightened into a thin line. He tugged on his cuffs to adjust his sleeves, and I had the impression he was trying to buy time. “I have to admit, I find this all very troubling. Why don’t you satisfy my curiosity and tell me who’s spreading these nasty rumors?”

Did I look that gullible? I shook my head and matched his smile. “That’s not important.”

His gaze grew as stony as his face, but I wasn’t ready to give up. “The dead man was out at the recreation center last week. I saw him myself. He got into a dark-colored SUV with a broken light on the side. Do you know who owns that SUV?”

Quentin’s eyes locked on mine. “How would I know that? There must be hundreds of SUVs in this part of the world. The man is dead, Ms. Shaw. Why don’t you just let him rest in peace, whoever he was?”

“I wonder if someone who has been murdered can rest in peace.”

Quentin didn’t even bother with a reply. He stood, making it clear he considered our conversation over. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Ms. Shaw, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, your five minutes are up, and I have a busy schedule.”

I couldn’t think of an argument that might change his mind, so I stood and handed him one of Divinity’s business cards. “If you change your mind, give me a call.”

“Of course.” He tossed the card into a desk drawer where it would probably stay until he emptied the drawer into the trash. I could feel him watching me as I walked down the hall, and I saw him step back into his office as I left the building.

That, I told myself as I walked away, had been a monumental waste of time. Other than validating my suspicions about Ingersol, I’d only succeeded in frustrating myself more than I already was. So far, what I knew about the dead man and his reasons for being in Paradise could fit on the head of a pin and leave room for a blog entry or two.

I thought about stopping at the bank to see if Frank Ogden would talk to me, but I know a dead end when I see one. Frank Ogden would rather eat rocks than tell me about an account holder, dead or alive. Besides, I didn’t want to get Chloe in trouble for telling me about the dead man’s accounts in the first place.

I’d climbed the first couple of steps leading back to Prospector Street when I heard someone call my name. I turned back and saw Elena Whitehorse hurrying toward me, her pretty face pinched with worry. She checked over her shoulder as she walked, and I had the distinct impression she was trying to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

Intrigued, I turned around and descended the stairs again. Without saying a word, she snagged my sleeve and tugged me toward an alcove nestled beneath the stairs. A quiet little voice inside my head whispered caution, but her behavior was so odd I ignored the warning and went with her.

Chapter 22

A cool breeze circled through the alcove as Elena
and I hid beneath the stairs. Darting concerned glances at people passing by on the sidewalk, Elena spoke in a soft voice. “Quentin will kill me if he finds out that I’m talking to you. He thinks I’m getting coffee.”

My heart beat a little faster. “Why wouldn’t he want you talking to me?”

“I overheard your conversation,” she almost whispered. “He’s not telling you the truth.”

That wasn’t exactly a news flash, but she’d piqued my curiosity. “How do you know that?”

“Because the guy who was killed over at the drugstore came into our office more than once. I know. I saw him there.”

“How do you know it was the dead man? Did you see the picture the police have?”

She nodded. “I stood as close to him as I’m standing to you right now.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Have you told the police about this?”

“Not yet.” Elena’s gaze flickered away, then snapped back to my face. “I probably will. No, I’m
sure
I will. I just . . . well, it’s complicated, and it has nothing to do with the murder.”

“You’re withholding information, Elena. That could mean serious trouble.”

Her dark eyes clouded. “I’ll tell them. I promise.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I’d done what I could. “So who was the guy? Was he there to meet Quentin?”

Elena nodded and leaned forward a fraction of an inch so she could check the traffic on the sidewalk again. “Yeah. I made the appointments for him.”

“Do you know who he was? You know his name?”

Elena shifted her gaze back to my face and nodded. “I can give you a couple of names, but I’m not sure either of them were real. At first, he told me his name was Arthur Hobbs, but I heard Quentin call him Lou a couple of times.”

Neither name rang any bells with me. “Why was Hobbs meeting with Quentin? Was he a client?”

Elena shook her head. “I don’t think so. If he’d been looking at property, Quentin would have said something about the listings he was showing, or he’d have taken keys with him when he left the office. He didn’t do either. He just took off when they had an appointment, or sometimes they’d just go into Quentin’s office and shut the door.”

“How often did they meet?”

Elena shrugged. “Once a week.”

“For how many weeks?”

“The last month or two, I think. I can’t remember, but I could check my calendar if it’s important.”

The dead guy had been in town that long? That surprised me. “It might be important,” I told her. “Did you ever hear what they talked about?”

She shook her head. “When they were here, Quentin always made sure I had something to do that kept me away from my desk.”

She seemed sincere, but after getting stonewalled by Kerry, Quentin, and Dwayne Escott, her willingness to talk seemed a little suspicious. Was she being honest with me or setting me up? “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because I know Quentin’s hiding something. He knew the man who got killed, and now he’s claiming that he didn’t. Why would he do that unless he has something to hide?”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want to get involved in a murder investigation.”

She shook her head firmly. “I don’t think so. That’s not like Quentin. He’s hiding something, and I don’t want any part of it.”

She had a point. “Do you think he is involved in something illegal?”

“I think he might be,” she said with a dark scowl. “I know the signs. I’ve seen them before. But my family doesn’t need any more trouble. My mom’s been through enough.”

Finally, I remembered where I knew her from. I hadn’t seen her since she was a girl when her stepbrother was accused of assaulting a girl a few years younger than me. Ben had been in and out of trouble for most of his teenage years, and last I’d heard, he’d been sentenced to prison for aggravated assault. Elena was right. Her family didn’t need any more trouble.

Now that I remembered her, I shoved my suspicions aside. “If Hobbs wasn’t a client, were he and Quentin friends?”

Elena shook her head. “I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t think Quentin liked Hobbs at all. He always seemed annoyed when Hobbs was around, and when I’d tell him that Hobbs had called or something, he’d swear or slam his desk drawer shut or bang the phone down. To tell you the truth, I think Hobbs made him nervous.”

“Then they must have had business together. But why would Quentin do business with someone he felt that way about?”

“I wish I knew. Whatever it was, Quentin was doing it off the books.” Elena darted another nervous glance at the sidewalk. “I’ve been gone too long. I should get back before Quentin gets upset.”

I touched her arm gently. “Are you afraid of him, Elena?”

The question seemed to catch her offguard. “He has a temper,” she said after a brief pause. “And
somebody
killed Hobbs on Sunday night.”

“Do you think Quentin did it?”

“I don’t know. He’s not normally a violent person, but you never really know about another person, do you?”

Maybe she didn’t
know
if Quentin was guilty, but she thought he might be. “Why would he want Hobbs dead? What’s his motive?”

Elena bit her lip, and her eyes shuttered, as if she realized she’d said more than she’d intended to. “I don’t know why I said that,” she said, backpedaling. “Quentin’s all right, really. And you’re probably right. He’s probably only denying that he knew Hobbs because he doesn’t want to get dragged into the investigation.”

She tried to leave, but I caught her hand. “You don’t really believe that,” I said, “or you wouldn’t have come after me.”

“Even if he
did
kill Hobbs, I don’t know why he’d do it. I’ve only worked for him for six months. I don’t know him that well.”

“Wait! One more question. Does Quentin have any listings near Hammond Junction?”

Confusion clouded Elena’s dark eyes. “Two. Why?”

“That’s where I saw Hobbs for the first time. Which properties is Quentin handling?”

“The old Davenport house is on the market, and Colby Tilley is selling off about twenty acres near the creek.”

I had no idea whether the information was important or not, but I filed it away just in case. “Do you know where Hobbs was staying?”