“Darla, go have some fun,” Tinkie said. “We’ll find a nice place after the parade and just have some drinks and eat in town. We’ll have time in the morning before we leave to tell you goodbye and thank you for the wonderful week.”
“Have you resolved your case, then?” she asked. “Do you know who’s after Clarissa?”
“Not yet. Not all of it,” Tinkie said. She was more troubled by this than I was.
“We have a lot of leads but no real suspect.” I wasn’t totally truthful. “Darla, if the basis for all of the mean things that have happened is revenge, do you know who might be seeking revenge against Clarissa. And for what?”
Our hostess shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t have a clue. I don’t run with that crowd, but I’d be willing to bet they’ve left a slew of people perfectly willing to tack their hides to the wall.”
She was likely right about that—and the truth was no help in solving the case.
We waved the men off, and Cece and Millie took off with Rex and the limo to tour Friendship Cemetery. Cece was going to do a feature on the cemetery for the newspaper, and Millie wanted to see it. Tinkie and I had a scant six hours to finish up with finding the culprit involved in shooting arrows at Clarissa.
Tinkie and I had one excellent clue to run down, which came from the night of the mumming. We walked into town and headed straight for a store that sold hunting supplies, including crossbows. The one we’d found at Clarissa’s house—sans fingerprints—had cost someone a pretty penny. The owner of the hunting goods shop was the first positive lead we’d had.
“Sure, I remember selling that exact bow,” he said when I showed him a photo. “Bart Crenshaw bought it. Said he was going to take up crossbow hunting.” His lips curled into something of a sneer. “I didn’t think the pretty boy had it in him.”
“Did you sell him hunting arrows, too?” I asked.
“Sure did.” He led us to an aisle where he showed us several different arrows. “He bought these. Fletched with these feathers.”
Identical to the arrows lodged in Clarissa’s front door.
“I told all of this to that policeman name Goode,” the owner said. “It seemed to mean something to him.”
Goode had done the preliminary investigating. Coleman’s instincts were good. “Thanks.”
We left the shop and Tinkie blew out her breath. “It all circles back to the swingers. Every single lead. But Bart Crenshaw was standing on that front porch when the arrows were fired. He couldn’t have done it. Nor his wife. Nor Tulla, Bricey, or Clarissa. How did the archer get Bart’s bow and arrows?”
“He could have given them to someone. But who? All of the swinger participants we know were in plain sight when the archery session occurred.”
“There’s someone we’re missing.” Tinkie had reached the same conclusion I’d come to earlier. “Someone in this group that so far hasn’t shown his or her face.”
“How do we find this person?” I asked. That was the issue to resolve.
“Clarissa.”
We had to do it. We could dislike her, but it was time to quit dithering. Either solve the case or give her the money back. Since I’d ordered Coleman’s saddle and paid special delivery to have it at Zinnia for Christmas morning, I didn’t have the luxury of a choice.
The day was sunny and warm, and we’d done nothing but eat for an entire week, so Tinkie and I opted to walk to Clarissa’s. The old historic neighborhood where Rook’s Nest was located wasn’t that far from downtown. I could easily visualize a time when the downtown, also situated near the river, had been the center of a booming residential area that included the W.
Clarissa was surprised to see us, and at first she tried to stall us at the door. When we got inside, we realized why. A carpenter was at work on the top step. “A repair?” I asked pointedly.
“Yes, it seems the riser wasn’t firmly tacked into place. I guess when Bart tumbled, the step tilted and he lost his balance. He wasn’t pushed. He said that all along.”
“If he had been injured, he or Sunny could have sued the pants off you,” Tinkie said. She knew a lot more about liability than I did.
“But he wasn’t hurt. And he isn’t going to sue. And neither is Sunny.”
The way she said the last made me wonder. Everyone had said Sunny was on the porch when Clarissa was nearly killed, but I didn’t remember seeing her. She could have been. Or she could not have been. If anyone had a reason for revenge, it was Sunny. She was almost too obvious, and also very evasive. We still hadn’t run her to ground and today was our last chance.
“Do you think Sunny would want you dead?” I asked. Her husband had bought the crossbow. It was a perfect opportunity.
“Why? Over Bart?” She laughed that Southern belle laugh. “Sunny wouldn’t care if Bart was hit by a septic tank truck. In fact, it would simplify life for her. She could find another man like that.” She snapped her fingers. “One not so inclined to share his charms.”
“Has Sunny ever been alone in your house?”
Clarissa realized I was serious. “She has, but so has every person involved in our group. Sometimes I leave the key under the doormat for lovers to meet if I’m going to be out of town. We all do that.”
So everyone in the group had access to the staircase. Any one of them could have loosened the step. And that also answered our question about how the archer could have gotten his or her hands on Bart’s crossbow and arrows. “Did you ever consider that perhaps you were intended to take the fall? Not Bart.”
At last I truly had her attention. “No one would dare
