“You know you’re being unreasonable, Jack.”
Another long pause ensued.
“Jack?”
That’s the first time you called me by my name.
Penelope bit her lip. “Sorry.”
No, no, it’s all right by me. Jack breezed close again. I liked hearing you say it.
Penelope gave a little shiver. “Let’s get back to that business of Josh,” she said. “What would he want with a hidden syringe?”
Here’s my theory: That syringe was used to poison Brennan in some way last night. Now, the killer would have been crazy to keep it on her because she couldn’t bet the police wouldn’t search the people in attendance in some way. And she wouldn’t throw it in the trash because that’s exactly where the cops would look first—and the State Police did cart last night’s trash away, didn’t they?
“Yes, they did. But why do you keep saying ‘her’ and ‘she’? How can you be sure the killer was a woman?”
Because a man going into the ladies’ can on the night Brennan keeled would have raised immediate alarms. A man would have hidden it in the men’s room. The person you’re looking for has to be a woman—at least as far as hiding the syringe goes. Doesn’t necessarily mean she’s the actual killer. She could simply be an accomplice, working with a man or another woman.
“I’m with you. Go on.”
The woman would have hid it in your ladies’ john, hoping to return for it another day.
“Or she might have paid someone to retrieve it for her. Someone like Josh.”
It’s possible. But wouldn’t she have told Josh exactly where to find the syringe, instead of making him search for it and risk getting caught?
“Well, if Josh wasn’t hired to find the syringe, then why was he looking for it in the first place?”
Don’t know.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Didn’t you read his thoughts?”
Couldn’t.
“But you’ve been reading mine.”
Told you before, I can only read yours. Get it through your head, babe, I’m not some kind of all- knowing divine spirit. I’m just a dead dick.
“All right. I get it. So what should I do now?”
Narrow down your suspect list. Josh is suspect number one. But he had to search for that syringe, which means he wasn’t the one to plant it—so who did?
“Deirdre?”
Possibly. She has the best motive. You yourself heard her say she had no love for Daddy dearest. And she’s inheriting all his loot.
“I’m sure that’s what Lieutenant Marsh will conclude.”
Who else?
“Her husband, Kenneth Franken?”
They could be in it together. Who else?
“Deirdre said Brennan was about to divorce his third wife. Maybe she tried something.”
Wouldn’t Deirdre or Brennan have recognized Brennan’s wife at the event last night?
“Oh, yes, that’s right. They would have.”
She could have hired someone, though—a doll willing to do the dirty deed. And there could be other suspects with motives we just haven’t uncovered yet.
“What about Shelby Cabot? Josh reports to her. So it makes sense he’d do a favor for her like retrieve the syringe. But what motive could she have? Unless she was hired by Brennan’s wife.”
It’s a long shot. So far Deirdre and you look like the prime suspects.
“Me?!”
Don’t act so shocked, doll; you said it yourself earlier. You’re benefiting from the murder, aren’t you? You and Sadie.
“The police haven’t called it a murder yet.”
But you know they think there’s foul play. They’re just waiting for the medical examiner to give them the toxicology evidence before they make their arrest.
Penelope took a deep breath. “Then what do I do next?”
Suddenly a tap, tap, tapping sounded on the store’s arched front window, and Penelope nearly jumped out of her skin. Jack didn’t have any skin, but the vibrations startled him, too.
Looks like you’ve got a visitor, said Jack. And a late one at that. So here’s my professional, expert opinion about what to do next—
“What?”
Answer the door.
CHAPTER 14
Strangers in the Night
Somebody was nuts. I was nuts. Everybody was nuts.
None of it fitted together worth a nickel.
—Philip Marlowe, “Trouble Is My Business” by Raymond Chandler, Dime Detective magazine, August 1939.
OUTSIDE IN THE darkness, a trench-coated figure stood beyond the bookstore’s rain-splattered window. An open umbrella, tilted at an angle, masked the face.
“Who is it?” I whispered to Jack.
How should I know? I’m a spirit, not a psychic.
Tap, tap, tap went the person at the window once more. I stepped around the counter and into a cone of light cast by the ceiling fixtures. The big black umbrella moved, and I recognized the pretty pert face and short, shiny, raven hair of Shelby Cabot, the publicist from Salient House. She caught sight of me and waved.
“What should I say to her?” I whispered to Jack. “I mean, to get her to say what she might know about Josh and Deirdre and Kenneth?”
Just get her talking. About anything. Then turn the conversation where you want it, so she doesn’t get wise to being grilled.
“Okay,” I murmured, “wish me luck.”
Baby, you don’t need luck in this profession. What you need is brains, and you got plenty, so go to it.
I unbolted the door, and Shelby stepped in. “I know it’s late, Mrs. McClure,” she said as she shook the large umbrella, dripping water all over my newly restored plank floor. “I was strolling by the store and saw the lights on and, well—”
“Uh-huh,” I replied, frankly dubious that anyone would be “strolling by” on a night like this one.
Shelby pulled off her sopping raincoat and draped it over a nearby Shaker-style rocker. Dribbling water puddled in the cross-hatched seat.
“I heard sales were brisk today,” she said.
“Oh, yes.”
