“Oh, I know,” he said quickly. “But it’s not like an unsolved murder is exactly an appropriate assignment for a junior reporter.”
“Wow. I didn’t realize you had so little faith in me.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, I was just—”
“Just saying you think it’s a good thing that I was essentially demoted.”
“Riley, no, that’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean?”
He hesitated. “I mean, it’s just that some of the stuff you’re doing can be dangerous, even for the most experienced reporter. Plus, I gotta be honest, some of it sounds more like a job for law enforcement than the press.”
A tight feeling rose up the length of my throat. All the frustrations from the past couple of days—Kay Jackson and stupid Spencer and Holman being gone and Ryan and Ridley and the flowers that Jay didn’t send me—all came knock-knock-knocking at my door. “So, you think I should just stay in the office and what? Only write articles about puppies and rainbows?”
“What?” Jay said, his confusion obvious. “No, Riley, all I’m saying is that you’re not a cop. Interviewing suspects, sussing out alibis—that seems more like something the sheriff should be doing, not you.”
“I’m fact checking, Jay. Which is, by the way, maybe the most important aspect of my job. I’m a reporter, remember?”
“Yeah, but . . . c’mon.”
“C’mon what?” I asked, but didn’t give him a chance to answer. “You know what, I’m going to just go.”
“No, honey—I think we’ve just gotten way off track here—”
“Yeah, I think so too,” I said, a second before hanging up on him.
CHAPTER 30
I wanted to scream or slam a door or something, but with Ridley asleep on my couch I couldn’t do any of that. So I scribbled her a note, got into my car, and started driving without any real idea of where I was heading. Jay called back several times but I didn’t pick up. There was no point in talking to him when I was this angry.
Without really thinking about where I was going, I found myself back at the Nichols house. And this time when I pulled down the long drive, the blue truck was gone and the only car parked in the gravel driveway was a giant Mercedes, steel gray with the license plate: LIBEE1.
“What do you want now?” Libby said when she opened the door. Now wearing skinny jeans, a tight T-shirt, and a long Kendra Scott necklace, she looked every bit the Real Housewife, right down to her snotty attitude.
“Where were you and your husband when Arthur was killed?” If she wasn’t going to bother with pleasantries, neither was I.
“None of your business.” She held onto the edge of the massive arched wooden door as she spoke, and I wondered how long before she closed it in my face.
“I’m just trying to figure out who killed Arthur Davenport. I’d think you’d want to do the same, since the two of you were so close.”
She glared at me and then instead of closing the door, she swung it open, inviting me inside. She said nothing, but sauntered back toward the kitchen where, sitting on the massive white marble island, sat a half-empty glass of white wine.
“Chardonnay?”
I shook my head.
She picked up her glass, took a sip, and motioned for me to sit down on one of the upholstered swivel stools lined up in front of the island. I took a seat, waiting for her to answer my question.
“Bennett didn’t kill Arthur, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Bennett isn’t the only one with a reason to want him dead.”
A laugh gurgled up from deep within her chest. “Are you saying you think I killed Arthur?”
“The way I heard it, you weren’t too happy when he broke things off.”
She rolled her eyes. “He didn’t break anything off, genius. We just wanted people to think we were over. The truth is, we were far from it.”
I had suspected as much ever since I talked to Donna, but I was glad to have confirmation from Libby herself. “That’s not what you told me last night.”
“Listen,” she said after another sip of wine. “Arthur and I were more than just a fling. We cared about each other . . . a lot.” She paused, took another sip, and then slowly set the wine glass down. “I was going to leave Bennett.” Her big eyes were moist with emotion, and in that moment I had no idea if she was acting. If I were a betting woman, I’d say no—but it was hard to tell, since almost everything this woman had told me since I met her had been a lie.
“So what happened?”
“What happened was I fell in love with Artie and he fell in love with me. We didn’t plan it, it just happened. And we were finally ready to come out and be together—you know—in public and all. But then Bennett came home and found us that day.”
“So Bennett knew?”
She nodded. “I told him I was in love with Arthur and I was going to leave him. And that’s when he had his heart attack, or whatever it was.”
“And that was, what, about two weeks before Arthur was killed?”
“About.”
“And so how are you so sure he wasn’t the one who killed Arthur? Sounds like one hell of a motive to me.”
She laughed again, but this time with no humor at all—it was one big thrusty ha. With her eyes glued to mine, she pulled up the left sleeve of her T-shirt. As the fabric moved away, I saw a purplish discoloration that wrapped around her arm just under the shoulder. She turned a half-turn to the right and I could see three slots of unmarred skin between each swath of purple. Finger marks. Someone had grabbed Libby around the shoulder, hard.
“It’s not that Bennett wasn’t mad enough to kill somebody that night,
