Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday late afternoon
Philip Newsome lives in a small ranch house on the way back toward town just off Route 70. Air conditioners hang like warts out of almost every window. A newer brown Camry is parked in the yard. Could this be the car from my place the other night? For the life of me, I cannot remember what they were driving, or what the return vehicle looked like.
I wonder if Hank warned Philip we were coming. If so, will he pretend not to be home? The answer to that is No. He answers the door wearing only beat up plaid sleep shorts and running his hand through his tousled hair, blinking at the intrusion of light as he ushers us inside. I try not to stare at the furry mass on his chest. It gives me the willies.
I guess Hank didn’t bother warning him. Which makes me wonder about the depth of their friendship. Is it only band-member-deep with no further relationship outside of music? That could be significant during the investigation—what you can say to whom and why.
Obviously we’ve gotten him out of bed. Gosh, it’s mid-afternoon. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging a person who sleeps the day away, I just can’t personally imagine staying in bed this long when there are so many things to do during the daylight hours. And, yes, I get it, some people come alive at night and sleep during the day. So does a bat.
Philip stands back so we can enter the dark space. He hurries around opening blinds and folding a crocheted afghan I bet his grandmother made on the couch where he’d clearly been sleeping. He excuses himself and disappears into a bedroom—the only bedroom in the place, from what I can tell; an air conditioner whirs from that space. He returns a moment later, fully dressed and with his hair combed. His nose wrinkles as if he smells something rank—which he is.
He tips his head and purses his lips. “What happened to you?”
“I was giving Hank swimming lessons.”
“Hank hates the water,” he says without hesitation, but as the words exit his mouth, his confused expression turns to one of concern. I don’t want to explain right now, so I wave it off.
Philip isn’t awake enough to take the conversation further. “Sit down. Can I offer you some coffee?”
I decline the coffee and the seat, as I’m still pretty wet. Whitney selects the single armchair in the room. Philip sits too—on the sofa facing my friend. I officially become what’s known as a wallflower. Since Whitney is getting more—okay, all of—his attention, I let her take the lead on the questioning.
She begins with, “The other night, when you and Hank went to the houseboat to visit Joy…how did you know where to find it?”
“Not sure I know what you mean, doesn’t everyone know where she lives?”
“Um, no,” I say, “I’m only boat-sitting for Christine. Very few people know this. So, who told you?”
“A guy at the bar the other night. They were talking about you being a detective and such.”
I get this sinking feeling inside me. Yes, I see how Leif could assume we were cops, but he only met me that night. On top of that, he’s brand new in town. While at the bar, did Anna or I mention I was taking care of Christine’s boat? No. Definitely not. So, how could he have found out?
“That makes sense, Joy, doesn’t it?” Whitney pokes me in the leg and I jerk alert.
“What?”
“Fergus. You told me he was at the bar the other night when you and Anna were there.”
“Ah, yes, he was.” The little hamster in my brain finally gets his wheel turning again. “You mean he’s the one who told them where to find me?” And not Leif.
“Yes,” Philip says.
“How would he know?”
Whitney chuckles. “Fergus has a way of knowing things. I’ve only been in town two months and I’ve learned that already.”
That makes me feel better.
“Where did you move here from?” Philip asks Whitney. He makes a face at his butchering of English grammar.
“Seattle. But I’m not from there originally. I followed a guy.”
“The same for me!” he says as if joyed to learn of a fellow north westerner.
Whitney pretends to be shocked. “You followed a man there?”
“Actually, I did. My dad worked on oil rigs and he got transferred there when I was thirteen. My gramma lives—lived—on Mercer Island. We stayed with her until she passed away.”
“So, that’s where you met Hank?” she asks.
“In high school. We started a band called Summer News—after Hank’s name, Summers. Get it?”
“Yes.” Whitney manages to say this without adding a ‘duh’ at the end. “Tell me about Nona’s mood swings. I certainly got to witness some of them firsthand so I know they exist.”
“They started about a year ago. We—” he chuckles— “Hank and I figured it was menopause.”
“Isn’t she only forty-two?” I ask.
He shrugs. “No idea about that kind of stuff. It was the only thing we could think of to explain what was happening.”
“So, you were all for her opening the recording studio?”
His face brightens. “I couldn’t—still can’t—figure out what was taking so long. No offense Whitney, for a long time I blamed it on you. Well, Nona did, loudly.”
“I—”
“But after a while I saw with my own eyes how she kept shouting at you for doing things she told you to do the day before, then making you change them.” His broody eyes perk up, but then it’s as though he realizes some thought that popped into his head.
“Spit it out,” Whitney says, noticing the same thing.
“It’s just that…” He leans forward. “I won’t tell the cops. I promise.”
“Tell the cops what?” I ask, then get it. He assumes the situation with Nona gives my friend a reason to murder. Again she makes the same connection as me.
“It’s okay,” she says, “the police already know the relationship I had with Nona. I’m at the top of their suspect list.” She says this as though she’s mentioning a new shade of lipstick she bought. “What I don’t get,” she adds, “is why she kept delaying? I couldn’t help thinking there was a reason she didn’t want the studio to open.”
“If there was, she didn’t mention it,” he says, “but it sure seems that way, don’t it?”
“I have one more question,” Whitney adds. “Well, one or two related to each other. Did Nona use that red guitar often?”
“Yes, it was her favorite. It’s the one she used during rehearsals. Pretty sure it was the first guitar she ever had.”
I was afraid of that. This means the rewiring job had to be done no earlier than the night before she died.
Whitney keeps going with, “How do you think it might have been rewired to turn it into a murder weapon?”
This question registers as confusion throughout Philip’s body, right down to his bare toes that curl on the floor below the glass-top coffee table. “I rewired a lamp once. Could I figure out how to do it to a guitar? Probably. It can’t be rocket science, can it? What a terrible thing though. If somebody wanted her dead, why not just use poison or even a gun? Why go to the trouble of electrocution? Is it somehow significant?”
“Good question.”
He leaves the question there and we rise and walk toward the door.
“Did you have a nice visit with Hank’s brother when he was in town?” I ask, making general conversation.
Philip spins around. “Ken was in Uncertain? When?”
“I’m not sure when he got here, but I heard about him being in town the day before Nona died.”
“I was in UptheGrove Beach all day hanging with some friends. It was one of Flak’s birthday.” Philip shakes his head. “I’m sorry I missed him. It’s been a while. He’s a cool dude.”
“That means…” I’m not sure how to word the next sentence, but again, Whitney is on the same wavelength.
“Did Hank know you’d be out of town all that day?”
“I might have I mentioned it.” He thinks a second. Then he nods. “Yeah, I asked if he wanted to come. He doesn’t know my buddy Flak real well, but he likes him. He said he had some things to do around his house.” Philip frowns. “Now that I think about it…he wasn’t exactly the kind of person to ‘do things’. He always hired people.”
That goes along with what Hank admitted to us.
“Ken is an electrician, isn’t he?” I ask.
Here’s where Philip connects all the dots and a picture enters into his head, and, once seen, he cannot un-see it. His expression sags. No, strike that. His entire body sags. He wilts against the doorframe. It looks like he’s about to cry. “No. No.”
I spit out, “Sorry,” because I don’t know what else to say. Right now the word—which has been used to cover every circumstance throughout history—seems so deficient.
“Okay, thanks. Sorry we woke you.”
Whitney moves another step to the door. Philip beats us and pulls it open like a gentleman. I step outside, ducking under his arm. Whitney does likewise but halts on the stoop and turns to him. “So, when are you going to ask me out?”
Philip and I are equally taken aback.
He rakes fingers through his nicely cut hair, then grins. “You mean it was as easy as that?”
She shoots him a flirty grin. “How about we take in the museum down in Clewiston?”
“Sounds great.”
“Six o’clock?” She tucks her business card into his palm and we’re off.
“So, Miss Whitney, what was that all about?” I ask as I buckle up. “You got the hots for him like he does for you?”
She giggles like a schoolgirl. There’s a delay while she gets the car moving onto the highway. “…and at the same time,” she says as if she’s been speaking already, “and I thought I could use it in my favor. In our favor. I thought if he and I had time alone, he might open up.”
“Are you looking at him seriously as a suspect?”
“No, but I think he’s got information that can help solve the case.”
I sing the words that began banging through my head when I sat in the car: And although this is a fight I can lose, the accused is an innocent man. Whitney sings along with me.
She drives back toward town, asking, “So, Joy Wagner, what kind of pizza-pie do you crave tonight?”
“Something simple. Fresh mozzarella, basil, and sun-dried tomato.”
She voices a desire for a chef salad with creamy Caesar dressing. No surprise. That’s exactly what we find waiting for us. Along with two policemen. Well, they aren’t actually waiting for us, but Eddie and Jakob see us come take seats at the high top in the front window, and leave their places at the counter and slide in beside us, plates of food half eaten.
Eddie picks up his beer bottle and tilts it first at me, then Whitney. “So, ladies, what did you learn from the misters Summers and Newsome?”
For a second the terminology throws me. “How did you know where—”
“Actually…” This from Eddie. “I was on my way to talk to Philip when I spotted you two going into his apartment.”
“And at the pub,” Jakob adds, “I heard what happened in the river.” He wrinkles his nose. “I’d guess you haven’t gone home to shower and change yet.”
“Eddie, give that officer a commendation.”
“Are you okay?” Jakob asks. “You look like crap.”
“Yeah.” Eddie chuckles. “Like you’ve been in the sandbox making mud-pies.” He lets a beat pass, then adds, “With your face.” He helps himself to a slice of my pizza. “You were coming to the station to fill us in, right?”
“In the morning,” I say.
“Why wait so long?”
“If I came in every time I learned something you’re head would spin.” I get an image of the girl on The Exorcist.
“My head spins when I think of you at any time.”
“I wouldn’t take that as a compliment,” Whitney says.
Eddie rolls his eyes and takes in half the slice in two bites—without chewing in between. We fill in the guys on what we learned from Hank and Philip.
“We heard Nona was seeing someone.”
Eddie chokes on his—my pizza—and we wait until he gets himself together.
“Good pizza huh?” Jakob laughs.
“I guess it’s the green stuff. What is that anyway?”
“Basil? You’re offended by basil?” I ask.
“Pizza should have meat on it.”
Whitney and I just shake our heads.
“Didn’t you know there’s a pizza guidebook?” Jakob asks.
“I’m not much of a reader,” I say the same time as Whitney offers, “I must’ve missed that on the Best Seller list.”
“Were there any prints on the letter we found?” I ask.
“Yes. Unfortunately, they were all Nona’s.”
Not a surprise. Few killers slip up in that way.
“Have you ladies formed any opinions as to our killer?” he asks, trying to act nonchalant but it’s obvious his higher-ups are pressuring him to get the case closed.
“I don’t think either of the guys killed her,” I volunteer.
At exactly the same moment, Eddie’s dark broody eyes and Jakob’s grey-blue ones flash toward Whitney. So…what’s up? She’s truly the only other person on the suspect list?