Chapter Eleven
Monday night
I eat two more slices sitting on the deck of my temporary home, cool air blowing off the bay and drying the sweat on the back of my neck. I lounge with my head back on the cushion as the sun melts behind the trees, the orange-yellow ball dissolving into the wispy palm fronds. Shadows slink across the deck like creatures of the night.
Diablo stands on the corner of the table working on a piece of crust. I carry on a conversation with him as though he is a person, as though he is the ghostly Merrick. I outline facts we know so far, which are few: Nona was murdered in front of dozens of partygoers. There is no clear killer. Several people have motives, though, in my mind, none warrant killing someone. Of course, to me nothing warrants murder, but…
I squash the vision of Nona’s body lighting up like a New Years Eve celebration. For gosh sakes, it was so bad it singed her white blouse and turned it grey.
Clues to this puzzle are as sparse as the motives: a pair of wire cutters, a threatening letter, and a prescription for liver trouble. Why do I consider the meds a clue? Because Nona’s illness might have been the catalyst for her murder. It probably stopped her from going on tour, which prompted the decision to open the recording studio, after which came the arguments between she and the band members. And the whole thing escalated from there.
There aren’t many suspects right now either: Hank Summers, Philip Newsome, and Whitney Gale. I will add a sub-suspect too: Hank’s electrician brother Kenneth. As with the prescription, he too could have been a catalyst of sorts. No, that’s wrong. If Hank is guilty he didn’t need his brother to help out; he could just watch a video. Did you know you can watch a YouTube on how to build a bomb? So finding one that tells how to— Oh, never mind.
I hate putting Whitney on the list for obvious reasons. Could she be a killer? I guess, given the right—or wrong—set of circumstances, anyone can kill. Take into consideration that I’ve only known her a couple of months. We met when she became mixed up in a murder involving her boyfriend at the time. During that time, in no way did she grow violent or out-of-control. She remained logical and in-charge, so, for the time being, I will assume murder is not in her nature. But, that said, the authorities will have her on the list, probably close to the top of it because of the ongoing conflict with Nona. In my mind, the only way to clear Whitney is to keep her on my list and, as I go, compare all clues against the possibility of her guilt. That way her innocence should show quickly.
Tuesday morning
I arrive at the police station by nine. Eddie is out on a call. I ask if I can look at Nona’s belongings and am escorted to the evidence room and given a table and chair. In a few moments they bring a cardboard box and set it before me.
“It’s okay to touch everything?” I ask and receive a nod.
The officer yanks off the tape then folds back the flaps. Right on top is Nona’s singed blouse. Using fingertips I remove it and lay it on the table.
“I said it was okay to touch,” says the officer who stayed around to make sure I don’t tamper with anything.
“I know.” I wrinkle my nose and push forward. What type of evidence might be on her shirt? I want to assume there is none and proceed by digging back into the carton, deciding the same with regard to the rest of her clothes. Next in the pile is Nona’s phone. It’s got a bit of charge left so I swipe through her contacts, emails, and texts. Here is something interesting: back and forth texts between Nona and Philip regarding the new studio. Apparently Philip is all for it. Then why did he act so negative about it around Hank? Was he afraid of what Frank would do or say if he agreed with Nona? I don’t know either of them very well, but the impression Philip leaves is not one of complacency or weakness.
I drag her purse, a standard snap closure in black pleather, from the box. Inside are the usual things: wallet, checkbook, ballpoint pen, wire notebook, pack of tissues, a birth control pack with three tablets missing, and a plastic zipper travel bag of makeup.
I hand the box back to the officer, ready to leave. Then stop. Something’s not right.
“Are you finished?” the officer asks.
“Um. Yes, I just thought of something that’s missing.”
“You might bring that up to the chief.”
“I will. Thanks.” I will if I can think what it might be.
I head up the stairs to the sound of the clanking door of the evidence room as the officer stows away the box. That’s when lyrics start.
These days there’s a million ways to be pulled and torn, to be misdirected. These times there are sins and crimes…
Yes, Mr. Joel, I’m being pulled and torn. And yes, there are definitely sins and crimes. A bunch of them. But the lyrics usually point toward something specific that I’m supposed to notice—or beware of. I—
A throat clears behind me and I grin at the officer.
“Still haven’t thought of what’s missing?”
I shake my head and continue up the stairs. Eddie’s voice booms from his office along with two others: Jakob and another officer. They’re discussing the call from earlier this morning but break off when they spot me standing in the doorway. Eddie wiggles two fingers for me to enter. The third man, an officer I don’t know, rises and leaves, smiling as he passes.
“Come on in,” Eddie says. He’s smiling so that’s good. He’s not angry any more.
Jakob uncrosses his legs so I can walk between him and the desk to the other chair. I get the aroma of his aftershave—earthy with a hint of, what’s that…cinnamon? His eyes follow my every movement. Funny. So do Eddie’s. I flop in the seat and wait for him to speak. He did, after all, invite me here.
Seconds tick by on the industrial issue clock on the wall behind me. To break the interminable sound of the ticking, I ask if there is any news on the letter I found in the hutch.
“There are prints all over it.” His brow dips over the bridge of his nose. “I hope none of them are yours.”
My response? “You have mine on file for comparison.”
Jakob snickers and squashes the sound by slapping a palm to his mouth. Eddie can’t miss the action but, other than a pulsating of his nostrils, there is no reaction.
A small grin—no, make that a smirk—appears. “All the prints are Nona’s.” He leans back in his chair, which creaks, making Jakob and I flinch. “What else did you find as you ransacked the woman’s home?”
Suddenly, what bothered me downstairs in the evidence room shoots into my awareness. “Did you find Nona’s meds anywhere?”
“Medications?” He’s frowning. This comes as a surprise to him.
“Nona had cirrhosis of the liver.”
“How on earth do you find out something like that?” I see his mind whirling with possibilities.
“Simple. I asked Preston.”
“You went to see the pharmacist? Why?” This is said, believe it or not, more with concern than suspicion. He honestly cares about my wellbeing.
“Anna and I bumped into him walking his dog and we asked.” I explain what Preston told us.”
Eddie points at Jakob who launches to his feet. “Go see him.” Jakob is halfway to the door when Eddie stops him and says to me, “I don’t suppose you know the name of her doctor?”
I shake my head.
“Wow, something you don’t know,” is all he says. Jakob snickers again as he leaves.
“You have any information to share?” I ask him.
He describes the way Nona’s guitar was rewired to become a murder weapon. I realize I’m grimacing so he stops mid-sentence. “I put in a call to Hank’s brother Kenneth. Waiting to hear back.”
“He’s also known as Cheetah.”
“Like the cat or a philanderer?”
I chuckle at his extra-long word, out of character for him. “My question too. Supposedly it’s the cat.”
“How did you learn about this man being in town?”
“Shay at The Café.” Where to begin? “She has her eye on Hank who was there one day and introduced her to him.”
Eddie lifts his cell phone from the top of a to-go container and punches a number. “When you’re done with Preston, take a run over to The Café— No, I don’t want any food.” He inhales and holds it. “Talk to the waitress Shay about Hank’s brother being there.” He hits the End button and sets down the phone.
“Anything else you’ve learned?”
Eddie thumbs through his ever-present notebook, stops on a page and thumps a knuckle on it. “Apparently Nona and Xander had it out a few days before the party.”
“Really? Sweet tempered Xander? What happened?”
“Unable to reach her by phone, he went to Nona’s house to double check on the time they were to play at the Thanksgiving party. He no sooner walked through the door when she went ballistic on him.” Eddie frowns. “You knew?”
I realize I’m nodding. “No. I’ve heard a couple of things about her flip-flopping personality. One minute she’s calm and smiling, the next she flies into a rage.”
“There are health issues that cause this,” he offers.
“Yes, and certain medications.”
Eddie’s back on the phone to Jakob telling him to ask Preston about this.
I start to rise thinking the conversation is over, but remember Nona’s phone. “What do you think about the texts between Philip and Nona?”
“They seemed innocuous enough. Why?”
“Not when you know about the recording studio.” I explain how Philip pretended to be against the idea.
“So, that’s why Nona’s been so meticulous about the place. Whitney told me in her interro—her interview—that Nona’s been a pain the behind.”
“I can attest to that.”
Eddie flips a page in the notebook and reads some incomprehensible scribbles. He peers up. “Do you want to check into this? Find out their true feelings about the proposed changes in their lifestyle.”
“Sure. I planned to speak to the guys alone. When I talked to them I had the idea each had something to say that they didn’t want to say in front of the other.”
“Okay, good. Anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“Which means there is.”
“It’s nebulous at this point. I’ll know more once I speak to the guys. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Just like you did yesterday?”
“We called to tell you what we found.”
“You didn’t let us know you were going to break into a crime scene.”
“We—”
“I know, I know, you didn’t technically break through the tape.” He waves me off.
“In my favor, Eddie, I was on the way to ask one of you to drive me there when you shot out of the building like a bullet from a gun.”
I head across to the store, intent on several things. First, food. Second, to find out about Xander’s confrontation with Nona. Third, to speak with Merrick and fill him in on the latest news. Which is what exactly? That his son-in-law has just been deemed a murder suspect?
The most recent lyrics come into my head again. These days there’s a million ways to be pulled and torn, to be misdirected. These times there are sins and crimes…
Okay, not often the lyrics get repeated. So I take this to mean I missed something. I let them play again twice in my head and suddenly know…the key word is misdirected. Something isn’t right about…what—the crime, the clues, or the suspects? Am I supposed to seriously consider Whitney? Or, really, am I to add Xander to the list?