him?”
“Oh, right . . . maybe Ken simply pretended that he’d accidentally poked Brennan with a pair of scissors or a sharp pencil. Then maybe he gave the syringe to Shelby, who hid it in the women’s room for him—and Shelby had Josh retrieve it.”
“Except Josh had to search the women’s room, didn’t he? If he’d been sent to retrieve it, wouldn’t he know where it was?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.”
“And what’s Kenneth’s motive for killing Brennan? What does he gain?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t like Brennan, though. He called him a bastard. Maybe he just disliked him enough to kill him.”
“Doesn’t fit. The man has too much to lose to risk a murder rap when he could have just told the old jerk to go to hell.”
I slumped in my seat. “I guess I don’t know what to make of it all, then.”
Jack’s eyes studied me some more. I put my hand to my throat, partially to hide my deep cleavage, where his gaze had decided to settle.
“Eavesdropping’s a funny thing, doll, your marks talking about washing the green and you think he’s talking about laundering money, when all along he’s making a salad.”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you hear anything else? Think, now.”
“Kenneth said something about how ‘thank you’ just wasn’t in Timothy Brennan’s vocabulary. And that Brennan ‘stood in the way.’ ”
“The way of what?” asked Jack.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“What do you think he meant, then?”
“How should I know?”
Jack narrowed his eyes and finished off his drink in a single gulp. “You’ve got to listen to more than words in this business, doll. You’ve got to listen to what’s under them.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ken was bitter because Tim had been ungrateful for something Ken did for him,” said Jack. “That means Ken did something big for Tim—so big that he was still boiling about it, even with the old man lying on an M.E.’s slab. Think. What could Ken have done for Brennan that was so big, so important that it would still be sticking in his craw?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
Jack got up from the desk and strode to the window, his back to me. “To hell with you. You’re not even trying.”
“I am so! I tailed them, didn’t I? I almost got run down by a truck, for heaven’s sake!”
Jack wheeled. “Then you weren’t paying attention. And that’s your problem, doll face, you want to stick your head in the ground, avoid confrontation, run and hide from any jerk who challenges you. You want to keep thinking the world is some play-fair sandbox. But you’d better open your eyes, sweetheart, or next time that truck’s going to leave tread marks on your face. Then where will that little tyke of yours be—left without a mother or a father?!”
His words came so fast and furious that I broke down. Tears rolled over my cheeks. I lifted my hand to brush them away and noticed the deep red nail enamel on the tips of my perfectly manicured fingers—a color I’d never worn in my life. More lost and confused, my sobbing intensified.
“Turn off the faucet, doll,” Jack said gently, coming to my side. “I hate it when dames cry.”
My sobs lessened. “That’s better,” he said. “I only wanted to wise you up. Toughen your hide. You’re a sitting duck otherwise, and I’d hate to think . . .”
“What?” I said with a sniffle.
“I don’t know . . . I’d hate to think of someone serving you up with orange sauce.”
I laughed. A spotless handkerchief was stuffed into my palm, and I swiped at my eyes, leaving streaks of black mascara on the fresh white cloth.
“I’ll be happy to stay on the case,” he said. “My fee is—”
“I know,” I replied, “twenty bucks a day, plus expenses.”
There was a long silence. Jack’s single finger lifted my chin. I stared into his slate-gray eyes, swallowed hard. I felt his hand caress my cheek, his body lean toward me . . . but I’m a married woman, I thought . . . I can’t do this. . . .
I may have felt frozen, torn. But Jack didn’t. His rough hands gripped my upper arms and lifted me, pulling my lips to his without the slightest hesitation. My mind went blank. There were no thoughts left. Just feeling. Just his hardness and my softness, the vivid sensual impression of his body . . . the sweet weight of it . . . as it pressed into mine. . . .
“PEN? PENELOPE, DEAR! Time for church!”
My eyes slowly opened.
The dream was over. I was in bed, the heaviness of Brennan’s open book pressing against my chest.
“Did you hear me, dear?!” called my aunt from the hallway. “Coffee’s on. Rise and shine!”
CHAPTER 16
Revelations
This pool of fire is the second death.
Book of Revelation, chapter 20
THE LATE MORNING sun nearly blinded me as I emerged from the gloomy interior of the First Presbyterian Church of Quindicott. Aunt Sadie’s conversation with Gertie Butler—concerning the upcoming church bazaar—didn’t look as though it would be ending anytime soon, so I was grateful when Fiona Finch rushed up to me at the top of the flagstone steps, where the wind was whipping strands of my copper hair into one big tangle.
“I have to show you something—at the inn,” Fiona whispered, one hand on her blue hat, its wide brim fluttering and flapping.
A small, brown-haired sixty year old, Fiona was the sort of wrenlike person one might easily overlook, except for her piercing dark eyes and flamboyant bird pins. Today’s was a black-capped chickadee, floating in the ruffles of her sky-blue blouse. She had at least two hundred of these molded feathered friends, and once a week she dragged her husband, Barney, around to every yard sale within miles on her never-ending quest for more.
Although few would ever guess it, Fiona was also an avid true crime enthusiast, her most recent purchase from our store being an out-of-print hardcover edition of James Reston Jr.’s Our Father Who Art in Hell, the story of how Jim Jones led one thousand members of his People’s Temple cult into killing themselves with poison-laced Kool-Aid.
Along with her husband, Fiona ran the town’s only hotel—many believed for the sole purpose of listening in on her guests’ private conversations. And with Deirdre, Kenneth, Shelby, and Josh all staying at Finch’s Inn, I was pretty sure Fiona had some dirt to dish.
I had an hour to spare before the bookstore opened and I was more than a little curious. So when Fiona approached, of course I touched Aunt Sadie’s arm and said, “Something’s up. I’m going with Fiona.”
“Not without me, you’re not,” Sadie replied, and we took off.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I steered my aunt quickly past young Rev. Waterman. I didn’t know what Sadie might have said to him, if given the chance, but I doubted it would have been charitable.
During today’s service the reverend had made a general announcement after his sermon: “The church parking lot is not to be used as a solution to the business district’s parking problems. Given that
