“Do you believe he killed himself?” Kit swallowed more beer.
“As opposed to what? Someone staged it to make it look like he did?” I asked.
Kit nodded. “There’s one person who wanted them both dead.” She picked up her beer coaster and began rolling it back and forth like a wheel. “Ross.”
“Who couldn’t have done it,” I said flatly. “He wasn’t there. So let’s move on. Georgia left the party with Hugo Lang, but he was on the phone all night making calls after he said good night to Georgia. And he gave a cheek swab for DNA. So he wasn’t the one who had sex with her, though I think he’s nervous about something.”
“Hell, yeah. It’s called the vice presidential nomination,” Kit said. “He needs this kind of tabloid fodder tarnishing his pristine image like a hole in the head. I’m sure he can’t wait for the funeral and everything to blow over.”
I thought about what she’d said and Hugo’s shaking hands. That kind of high-stakes politics—even without all the tawdriness of Georgia’s death and now Randy’s body being recovered—could account for the strung-out nerves. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. So eliminate Hugo. You want something to eat? I’m starved.” Kit signaled for the waitress and asked for an order of french fries. Then she said, “So who did it, if you’re so sure it wasn’t Ross?”
“I still think we ought to consider the possibility someone was after Randy, rather than Georgia.”
“You mean besides the Cancún girlfriend?” she asked, and I nodded. “Who’ve you got in mind?”
“Jen Seely seemed too defensive when I asked her about Randy. I think she knows something. Or she’s hiding something. Maybe about Randy.”
The french fries arrived with two plates. Kit picked up the ketchup bottle and went to town. “Are you serious?” she asked. “Sorry, I can’t picture her mixed up in this. She’s not the type.”
“She used to date the drummer in Randy’s band and she’s pretty tight with everyone in Southern Comfort.”
“Maybe we’re knocking ourselves out for no good reason,” Kit said. “It could just be a case of Occam’s razor.”
“What’s that?”
“A principle that some guy named William of Occam came up with. Kind of the KISS theory of the fourteenth century. You know, ‘Keep it simple, stupid’? Occam was a Franciscan friar, so he lived a really simple, spartan life and that’s his theory. Don’t make anything more complicated than it is.”
“What’s the ‘razor’ part?”
“That you should shave off the assumptions that don’t make any difference in the outcome.” Kit picked up a french fry and laid it on her plate. “One. Georgia is found dead at the vineyard.” Another french fry parallel to Georgia. “Two. Randy’s body is pulled out of the Potomac River. Looks like suicide because he left a note.” A third french fry across Georgia and Randy. “But we’re thinking maybe it’s a double homicide faked to be a suicide.” She picked up the connecting french fry and bit into it. “According to Occam’s razor, it’s always the simplest explanation. So it is what it looks like. Randy killed Georgia, then he killed himself. Period.”
She picked up the other french fries. “And that’s probably what the cops are going to go with, unless something else turns up,” she added. “If they can close a case, that’s what they’ll do. They’ve got too many others to solve to start asking a million what-ifs once they get all the ducks in a row. Don’t forget, it’s an election year and the sheriff’s running, too.”
Her explanation was neat and tidy, tying up all the loose ends. Plus, it meant Ross was no longer a suspect. But what was still nagging at me?
Kit wiped her hands on a paper napkin and set it by her beer glass. “Something else bothering you? You seem kind of preoccupied. Is it that thing with the EPA?”
“That’s part of it.” I picked up the saltshaker and studied it. “Mick Dunne hired Quinn as a consultant. He’s looking for land to buy a vineyard.”
Kit traced a pattern in the ketchup on the plate with one of the fries. “That’s no big deal, is it? Just some consulting work?”
“I guess.” I pulled my wallet out of my purse and made a check-writing gesture to the waitress, who immediately set the bill down next to me. I handed her my credit card right away.
“What else?” she asked shrewdly. “It’s not like you to pay without at least looking at the bill.”
I blushed and thought about Bonita and Quinn last night in the summerhouse. This I couldn’t talk about. “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing else.”
She didn’t ask again.
The sensational nature of Georgia’s death and the aura of scandal meant the press was well represented in front of B. F. Hunt & Sons Funeral Home when I arrived shortly after seven-thirty. A couple of cruisers and a handful of officers from the sheriff’s department tried to keep them at bay, but it didn’t stop one woman with a microphone from sticking it under my nose. She knew who I was, too, thanks to the cane, which not only gave me away but also slowed me down so there was no chance of outrunning her.
“Lucie Montgomery,” she said. “The woman who found the mutilated body of Georgia Greenwood on a deserted road on her vineyard. Tell our viewers, Lucie, what you saw and how you felt.”
“I saw a dead woman. I felt horrible,” I said. “Excuse me.”
The carnival-like atmosphere outside had pervaded the funeral home. A crowd already packed the place. I signed the guest book and glanced at the long list of names. Hugo Lang had been one of the first to arrive. Mick Dunne had signed in as well.
Many of my neighbors own farms, so the cycle of life and death is something we live with all the time. But an unnatural death like Georgia’s is something you never get used to. Friends and neighbors had come to pay their respects, but everyone was curious, too.
Georgia’s closed casket, which I nearly ran into as I rounded the corner to the viewing room, was surrounded by flowers. A heart-catching photo of her and Ross in happier times, arms twined around each other and leaning against what looked like a ship’s railing with water and tropical paradise as a backdrop, was propped on a stand next to a large bouquet of white roses. The card, clearly visible, read, “I love you, darling. Ross.” A basket of prayer cards sat next to the flowers. Georgia’s name and the dates of her birth and death were on one side. I picked up a card and turned it over. Ecclesiastes.
I stopped reading. When was it ever a time to kill?
Someone took my elbow.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Mick Dunne said quietly. He wore an expensive-looking charcoal gray pin-striped suit, a sober tie, and a pale gray shirt. Same wing tips as the other day.
“I just got here. I haven’t had a chance to pay my respects to Ross,” I said coolly. “I really ought to go find him.”
He let go of my arm. “Is something wrong?”
“How did it go with the real estate agent?”
“Brilliant.” He looked curiously at me. I’d avoided his question. “I found a place I quite liked.”
