“But they benefited financially from the crime.”
So let me get this straight. You figure one of those spool-junkies spiked Brennan’s fancy tap with peanut oil, on the off chance that he’s allergic, that he’ll get hinkey in front of the cameras, do the danse macabre, then croak deader than vaudeville?
“Okay, maybe that’s not the best scenario,” I told him with a sigh.
Go back again to the night of the murder. Take it step by step, from the moment the happy author arrived.
“Brennan didn’t like the setup, so he bullied Deirdre and Kenneth to move the tables around. Some of the water bottles tumbled to the floor, and Deirdre picked a few up. So did Kenneth.”
What about our other suspect? Miss Priss?
“Shelby Cabot? I had to leave the events room, so I didn’t see what happened next, but I doubt she lifted a finger. She’s not the type.”
And yet Miss High-and-Mighty showed up yesterday, in the middle of the night. And a rainy night, too, risking ruination of the hair and makeup. She served you up some insult for a midnight snack, and then she left.
“That’s right. Doesn’t make much sense. I mean, her affair with Kenneth Franken was obvious from the conversation I’d overhead, but I never did stop to figure out why she’d come by in the first place—”
Yeah, and he just happened to show up right after she arrived, don’t forget that.
“What are you getting at?”
He followed her. Maybe because he was helping her tie up some loose ends.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Last night, when Shelby came here, she asked to use—”
The ladies’ john—to “freshen up.”
“I didn’t get suspicious because she’d asked to use the one upstairs—”
Misdirection, babe. Made her appear innocent. Oldest trick in the book.
“Did you see what she did in there?”
No, I stuck with you. Franken was with you at the time, and I wanted to hear what he had to say.
“I remember Shelby was pale when she came back from ‘freshening up.’ She seemed nervous, too.”
Because she didn’t find what she was looking for. Josh Bernstein had already snatched it.
“I don’t know, Jack, this is going to be awfully hard to prove—”
Suddenly a wave of raw emotion washed through me, and I reeled, grabbing the counter to steady myself against what felt like the wind being knocked out of me.
We can’t let this frame-up artist get away with murder—twice. You and I know that hit-and-run tonight was no traffic accident. Brennan is dead. Brennan’s daughter is innocent. And some peach-faced kid ended up as roadkill, maybe because he tumbled onto his boss’s and her lover’s plan and was ready to dish dirt to the cops.
I took a deep breath, not sure whether I was more shaken up by Jack’s reality check or the intimate rush of his intense emotions.
“Where does that leave us?” I asked.
If I were the hangman, I’d place the noose around Shelby Cabot’s neck. Hers and Kenneth Franken’s.
My heart sunk. It had been a disillusioning few days for me. First I discovered that a much-admired literary figure was, in reality, a cruel, bitter old tyrant who bullied everyone around him. Then I’d learned that the sour old man stole most of his ideas from a real-life detective, and that he hadn’t even written some of the best work attributed to him. Now Jack was telling me that the very son-in-law who had written those novels—without thanks or credit—was probably a double murderer. From this set of facts alone, one might get the impression that a life in book publishing was as ruthless as a career in the Mafia.
“Okay,” I said. “How do we prove to the State Police that Deirdre is innocent? And that Shelby and Kenneth are the real murderers?”
Jack Shepard’s glee was a palpable thing, carbonating my veins like soda pop.
Call them up and invite them over for a chat.
“That’s crazy! For starters, Fiona told me Kenneth went to Providence. That’s where the State Police took Deirdre, and he’s trying to secure a high-profile criminal lawyer before her arraignment tomorrow. Fiona said he’d be back after that to pick up the luggage.”
The faithful husband routine, Jack replied. Or maybe Kenneth was the one who stole farmer Zeb’s truck and used it to run down Josh Bernstein. Either way, it works out better for us. You might not be able to handle Franken, but Shelby will be a pushover for a saucy tomato like you.
“I’m no saucy tomato, Jack. And Shelby’s no pushover. She’s tough as nails and twice as hard. I butted heads with women like her during my eight years in publishing—and it was I who wore the bruises.”
That was before you met me, doll, Jack said. I can show you the ropes. And I’ve always found the toughest nuts are the easiest to crack. Poke a few holes in their skin and they deflate like balloons. You just have to muster the nerve to take a jab or two.
“Okay. Even if I buy your mixed metaphor, how am I going to convince Shelby to come over here?”
Play the blackmail card. Tell her you have something she left, the very thing she was looking for the other night. Giver her the drift that you know the score, that you have the syringe. And this is key: make her think you’re on her side.
“But I don’t have the syringe. The police do—”
That’s our ace in the hole. My bet is the police haven’t enlightened Deirdre or Kenneth as to what they found yet—and no one else saw it except Bird Woman—
“Fiona Finch!”
—And that kind of information won’t be made public until after the arraignment, if at all. So even if Shelby and Kenneth planted the evidence on Deirdre themselves, your mentioning a syringe will set Shelby’s blood boiling because you ain’t supposed to know. How could you? Unless you saw something.
In fact, as far as Shelby’s concerned, you just might have the real syringe, and the one Josh Bernstein found was a phony. Make her believe that, and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.
“Are you sure?”
Sure I’m sure! Even if she thinks you’re bluffing, she’ll know something’s up—something that smells like blackmail. And if she thinks you have the real syringe, even better.
Shelby probably wiped the fingerprints off the syringe, but she’ll still have doubts. Murderers always do, and doubts prey on guilty minds in the wee small hours. It gnaws at their edges, exposing the raw fear of being caught. You’re in a good position to take advantage of that dame’s night sweats. Dangle that syringe as bait and you’ll get her over here. Then you can give her the third degree.
“I’m supposed to give her the third degree? I don’t even know the etymology of the term.”
Keep your panties on. I know the routine. I broke con artists, hit men, and nickel grifters as a private dick—and without breaking their knees, either. Well . . . most of the time. Anyway, I’ll be right here inside your head, telling you what to say.
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t do it. I’m just not very good at being tough, Jack. I’m sure I’d just fold and mess it all up somehow.”
There was a long, empty silence. A chill bit the air, and I shivered.
“Jack? . . . I’m sorry . . .” But there was no response. No voice. Not even a sense of him. Just a cold, empty room.
Suddenly, a hard, sharp series of knocks sounded on the glass of the store’s front door. I jumped and turned. A dark blue uniform shifted from foot to foot on the sidewalk: Officer Eddie Franzetti.
I went to the door, unbolted it. “Eddie? What brings you back?”
He didn’t speak right away. I didn’t like the expression in his dark brown gaze.
“Oh, hey, I saved you a copy of Shield of Justice,” I said, trying to lighten the
