Checked Out for Murder, page 9
“Are you in touch with your mother now?”
Robby shook his head. “No, and neither was Daphne. Daph was horrified when she took off without a word to either of us. Of course she wasn’t around at the time of my trial either, which I sorely resented at the time. I think she’s remarried and living somewhere in Oregon. I suppose she hated her life with my father so much, she didn’t want any reminders of it, and that included Daphne and me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know what it’s like to come from a dysfunctional family.”
“There’s one more thing I want to share with you. Recently, Daphne picked up strong vibes from someone who knew our mother.”
“That’s not surprising,” I said. “I’m sure there are plenty of people in Clover Ridge who knew her.”
Robby laughed. “Of course, but this is where her newfound psychic abilities kicked in. Daph was out in a public place when she received a very strong sense that someone she’d passed had known and loved our mother very much.”
“Was it the man she’d seen a few times leaving your apartment complex?” I asked.
“She wouldn’t say. She wanted to make sure before she told me any more.”
“How could she make sure? Did she know his name? Where he lived?”
Robby shook his head. “I have no idea. She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Then Daphne was murdered,” I murmured. “That’s no coincidence.”
He shot me a look of pure anguish. “But why would someone who loved my mother all those years ago want to kill my sister?”
“Did you tell all this to Lieutenant Mathers?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? Do you know how it sounds? Besides, I was pissed at the way they questioned me—as if I’d hurt my own sister.”
I nodded. “And you’d like me to find out who did.”
“Yes. With all my heart.”
* * *
It was close to six thirty when I finally walked through the front door of my cottage. Smoky Joe was happy to see me and led me into the kitchen, where I dropped off the items I’d bought for that night’s dinner and fed him a large supper. While he was chomping away, I wandered into the living room. His displeasure at having been left home all day was evident—throw pillows on the floor, a chewed-up magazine; even some papers I’d left on the coffee table had been scattered about.
“Sorry, Smoky Joe,” I told him when he joined me in my bedroom after eating his fill. “I know you hate to be left here on your own.”
I changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then headed back to the kitchen to prepare dinner for Dylan and me. I set the kitchen table, then heated up the barbecued chicken and roasted veggies I’d bought after meeting Robby, and dressed a salad with my homemade dressing. All the while, my mind reviewed the events of the day.
It was hard to believe it had been just this morning that I’d stopped by the movie set to watch them film a few of Tom’s scenes. My mother’s interchange with Ilana had upset me, but more disturbing was learning that Daphne had been murdered.
Daphne is dead! Robby is really her brother, Billy Harper. And he wants me to find out who killed his sister. This was both something I wanted to do and something Dylan and John wanted me not to. Why was life so complicated?
I exhaled loudly. Maybe there was no mystery here. Sometimes the most obvious solution was the right one. Bert Lutz had probably murdered Daphne. The spouse was always the most logical suspect, and Bert was a hothead and a wife-beater. I’d seen for myself how angry he’d been when he’d accosted Daphne on the Green, furious because she had dared to leave him.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering if Daphne’s murder was connected in some way to her father’s. A farfetched possibility, since that was now a very cold case. Suspects might have moved away or died. Chet Harper had had a violent temper and must have set someone off. Discovering who had murdered him was close to impossible. Neither Roy Peters nor Lester Brown, two people who had known him, could give me any leads.
Dylan came over at seven thirty bearing an expensive bottle of white Bordeaux. “Mmm,” I said, taking it from him when I left his warm embrace. “This will go very well with dinner. I’ll open it now.”
“Allow me to do the honors,” he said, following me into the kitchen. “Smells good. What have you created this evening?”
I laughed. “Barbecued chicken and roasted veggies. Straight from a new market,” I said, and was relieved when he didn’t ask why I hadn’t gone to Gourmet Delight.
Over dinner, Dylan told me about the new client who had stopped by his office. “He’s a software inventor and thinks one of the three people working for him might be stealing his secrets.”
“Sounds intriguing,” I said. “How do you plan to catch the thief?”
“I’m working on it. First I have to familiarize myself with the kind of software material Terry’s working on. Then I want to understand the working conditions—how they all work together, who has access to Terry’s files and how secure they are.”
“In other words, you need to gather information and then you’ll start investigating.”
“I suppose you could put it that way.” Dylan laughed. “It’s still a far cry from chasing after stolen artwork and jewelry.”
I cleared our dishes and turned on the coffee. Dylan stretched his arms overhead. “It’s good to be home.”
“I hope you stay here a while.”
“Me too.” He opened his arms, and I slipped onto his lap for a long and satisfying kiss. I loved Dylan and believed we were together for the long haul, which meant I had to get something settled, and the sooner the better.
I stood when the coffeemaker began to make noises and set out mugs and plates for our dessert.
“I stopped by the gym before coming home,” I said as I poured coffee into Dylan’s mug.
“Really? That must have been one fast workout.”
I reached inside the refrigerator for the milk container. “I went there to talk to Robby Dowd.”
“Did you start dating him when I was out of town?” Dylan teased.
“He wanted to talk to me about Daphne.”
“The woman who was murdered?”
“Yes. Robby’s real name is Billy Harper. He’s Daphne’s brother.”
“Oh.”
I set the container of milk on the table harder than necessary. “Before you start to lecture me, I need to say what’s on my mind.”
I drew in a deep breath, hoping I wasn’t setting myself up for an impasse in our relationship.
“Robby called me at work and said he needed to talk to me. At that time I had no idea he was related to Daphne.”
“But why did he call you?”
“Because he knew that I’d helped solve other homicides. He wants me to find the person who killed his sister.”
Dylan pursed his lips. “I see.”
“I know you hate when I get involved in an investigation because you’re worried something will happen to me. I tell you I won’t do it again—but I do, and—well, I’m sorry.” That didn’t come out as planned.
“Then you’ll explain to Robby that you’re a librarian and he should talk to John.”
“I already told him to talk to John.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “But I’m sick of apologizing. I’m going to help Robby.”
Dylan gaped at me as if I’d just told him I was going to the moon.
I reached over and rubbed his arm. “Dylan, I love you and I love that you care about my safety, but I’m not a child. I can’t have you trying to stop me from doing something I believe is important.”
I put up my hand to stop him from speaking. “I don’t want us to fight over this. I promise to use good judgment and will try not to do anything rash or put myself in danger.”
Dylan took my hands in his. “I’m an investigator. I deal with thieves and worse. I’ve seen men shot and knifed, and I’ve been in plenty of tough spots myself. It’s hard for me to see you involved in another murder investigation. Even before you knew that Robby was Daphne’s brother, you went to check out that man who had fought with their father shortly before he was stabbed to death.”
“I did. I promise to be more discreet in the future.”
Dylan shook his head. “There’s no point in arguing with you, Carrie. You’re going to do what you feel is right, and I can’t change that. All I ask is that you please be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Chapter Twelve
That night Dylan fell asleep holding me close. Though he’d respected my wishes and refrained from berating me for getting involved in another homicide investigation, I knew that he feared for my life. But he seemed cheerful enough when the sun rose on a lovely April morning.
“Since I don’t have anything urgent to take care of at the office and you start late today, why don’t we have breakfast out?”
“Sounds like a great idea,” I said. “Did you have anyplace in mind?”
“There’s a cute B and B north of here that serves the best waffles and French toast. I went there with my parents a few times.”
“That was years ago,” I said. “Are you sure they’re still in business?”
Dylan grinned. “Uh-huh. I called them yesterday.”
“Sneaky!” I said, bopping him on the head with a pillow.
He bopped me right back. We got into a pillow fight until Smoky Joe jumped on the bed meowing for his breakfast.
“I’ll feed you in just a minute,” I told him. “And don’t worry—I’m taking you to the library as usual. I have to remember to bring some cans of cat food and some more kitty litter. We’re running low on supplies.”
Half an hour later, Dylan and I were in his BMW, heading for the Westcott Inn. I studied his profile as he drove. His face muscles were relaxed, his mood contemplative.
“Do you have any idea how you plan to start your investigation?” he asked.
I laughed. “None whatsoever. After that big buildup last night, I have no idea where to begin. I have two thoughts, though—either Daphne’s ex-husband murdered her, or her death is connected to her father’s murder twenty years ago.”
Dylan nodded. “A sound deduction.”
“Really?” I was pleased by his compliment.
“Sure. Daphne was strangled. There was no evidence of sexual assault or signs that her assailant was after money or valuables.”
“Sounds like you spoke to John about it,” I said.
“I did.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
He shot me a shamefaced grin. “I was, until you mentioned you’d gone to speak to someone you thought might have murdered Daphne’s father.”
“John put out an APB for Bert Lutz,” I said. “I’ll know soon enough if and when he’s brought back to Clover Ridge for questioning.”
“And what are you planning to do about tying Daphne’s murder to her father’s?”
I shrugged. “Good question. I read through the old newspaper items. The only thing that caught my eye was the argument Chet Harper had with Lester Brown. He seemed to think that Lester was having an affair with his wife. Lester said Chet was way off base on that.”
“Maybe she was having an affair, only it wasn’t with Lester.”
I nodded. “Robby said that Daphne told him she’d picked up vibes from someone recently who had deep feelings for her mother. She was going to check him out.”
Dylan rolled his eyes.
“I know. Pretty flimsy information. If only I could speak to Patricia Harper and ask her who this person is. Though of course that doesn’t mean he killed her husband.”
“Robby’s not in contact with his mother?”
“Nope. He said she remarried and lives in Oregon. Oh—and that Dowd was her maiden name.”
Dylan patted my knee. “We investigators have our arsenal of tools to track down people who try to fly under the radar. I’ll see what I can find out about Patricia Harper née Dowd now Mrs. Something-Else who’s living in Oregon.”
I leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks so much, Dylan. I can’t believe you’re helping me with this.”
He pursed his lips, pretending to be angry. “Neither can I. But to tell you the truth, I’m overwhelmingly impressed by you, Miss Carolinda Singleton.”
“Thank you, my love, but I’ve told you—I changed my name to Carrie fifteen years ago.”
“You’ll always be Carolinda to me.”
“So much for changing things legally,” I said wryly.
We stopped at a light, and Dylan turned to face me. “You have changed, Carrie. You blow me away.”
“Really?”
“Without a doubt! You seemed so tentative that October morning you came to look at the cottage—unsure of yourself and your place in the world. And now you’re a confident, well-respected member of the community.”
I laughed. “I’d just gotten my job at the library. I didn’t have enough money to pay what I imagined the rent would be. And then you let me have the cottage at a ridiculously low rate.”
“I think I was beginning to fall for you even then.”
“And now?”
“I know I’m the luckiest guy around.”
“How lucky am I? I now live at the cottage rent-free.”
Our fingers entwined, and we rode the rest of the way without speaking.
* * *
The Westcott Inn was a pretty, sprawling, white wood-framed house with a red front door. We entered the narrow hall, and a smiling woman in her midforties led us to a table beside a window in the dining room. I gazed out. Just beyond the lawn, three horses were grazing in a meadow.
“Like it?” Dylan asked.
I took in the muted woven carpet, the knickknacks on the mantel above the fireplace, and grinned. “Can’t wait to come back.”
“Let’s first see how you like the food here,” Dylan advised.
Only two of the other six or seven tables were occupied—one with two older women, the other with a couple about our age.
“I imagine this place is very busy during the summer,” I said.
“And most weekends,” Dylan said from behind his large menu. “I’m having blueberry pancakes.”
“And I want French toast with strawberries and honey.”
“Good choice.”
Our waiter, a slender college-aged young man, approached with a broad grin. “Good morning! My name is Eric. Would you like to start with orange juice? Coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” I said. “With cream.”
“Orange juice for me,” Dylan said. “And we’re ready to order.”
“Great!”
We told him what we wanted to eat, and he sped away to place our order. I leaned back in my chair and gazed out at the horses.
“Happy?” Dylan asked.
“Very. As long as we’re home by twelve fifteen, I’m all yours.”
“I have nothing pressing right now. I plan to start interviewing for an assistant in a week or two.”
I suddenly remembered. “I haven’t spoken to my mother since I drove her home from the film shoot yesterday. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
I reached inside my pocketbook for my phone and called my mother’s cell. It went to voice mail. “I’m beginning to get worried.”
“Could be she’s watching another shoot and has her phone off,” Dylan said. “Why don’t you try her again after we eat?”
“Good idea.”
Eric brought over Dylan’s juice and my coffee and the rest of our order a few minutes later. My French toast filled a large platter.
“Wow! I’ll have to take half of this home,” I said. But a few minutes later I was finishing off the last of the toast.
Eric was pouring me a coffee refill when my phone played its jingle.
“Maybe that’s her,” I said.
It was John Mathers, sounding grim. “Carrie, your mother’s here at the precinct. I brought her in for questioning.”
“Questioning? For what? Why?”
“Ilana Reingold was found murdered this morning. Looks like she’d been struck over the head with a heavy object.”
A cold fear washed over me. “Where did this happen?”
“Dirk Franklin, the director, found her in her room at the hotel where most of the cast and crew are staying.”
“How awful! But why do you think my mother has anything to do with it?”
“Several of the cast heard her threatening Miss Reingold yesterday, and she doesn’t deny it.”
“I was there and heard her myself, but she didn’t mean it literally. She was hurt and angry because Ilana kept flirting with Tom, my mother’s husband, and frustrated because Tom acted like nothing was wrong. He and Ilana were engaged several years ago.” As I spoke, I realized how incriminating my words sounded.
“Right. That’s what the director told me. I’m about to interview the other actors.”
“John, this is my mother you’re talking about. She wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“Sorry, Carrie. I advised her to get a lawyer. She said she doesn’t know any lawyers in the area.”
I swallowed. “Is Tom with her?”
“No, he brought your mother here then took off. I’m not sure where he went.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I told Dylan what happened. He went in search of Eric to ask for our bill.
“I can’t believe John likes my mother for the crime because she got angry at Ilana yesterday for flirting with Tom,” I said as we exited the inn’s long driveway.
“Well, unless he has solid evidence to prove she’s a viable suspect, I doubt that he can book her.”
“She needs a lawyer. I have to call Ken Talbot. He doesn’t handle criminal cases, but he has a friend who does. I can’t remember his name.”
“Phil Demuth. His office is in the same building as Ken’s.”
“I forgot that Ken is your lawyer too. Do you happen to have Phil Demuth’s phone number?”
“Yes. I’ll call his office if you like, but Phil’s probably in court.”
Dylan instructed his phone’s virtual assistant to contact Phil Demuth’s office. His receptionist answered the call.
