“Me?” She seemed surprised.
I nodded. “I’m trying to help Portia, and I was wondering if you knew anything. Anything at all. About the murder, I mean.”
“Oh, no. The police asked, but I don’t know anything. I have no idea who would murder Mr. Nixon or why.”
“Other than the fact he was a letch?”
Her cheeks blazed. “He was, rather unfortunately, not a nice man in that area, but I can’t imagine someone murdering him over it.”
Other than his wife, maybe. Wives were often displeased by philandering husbands.
“Good point,” I said, going along with her assessment for the moment. “What about the night he died? Did he have any visitors? Appointments?” Maybe Annabelle knew who the pink-lipstick wearer was. I noticed she wore a nude shade of lipgloss, so it likely wasn’t her. If the salon girl thought I’d look bad in pink lipstick, she should meet Annabelle.
“Oh, yes, he had an appointment that night at six. I don’t know who, though. He put it on the calendar himself. We all sync our calendars, but we’re responsible for our own appointments.”
“Can you look?”
She shrugged. “If it will help Portia.”
“It will.”
She nodded and pulled her cell phone out of her purse. A few swipes on the screen later, she gave a triumphant smile. “Here it is. Six p.m. Mrs. A.”
“Do you know who Mrs. A is?”
“Sorry, I don’t.” She looked ready to cry.
“It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.” Maybe. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying to think. “So, were you here the night of the murder?”
“Oh, no. My son was ill. I stayed home that day to take care of him.”
“Sorry to hear that. Hope he’s okay.”
She gave me a tremulous smile. “He’ll be fine.” She didn’t sound convinced. I felt badly for her, but I was more concerned with Portia at the moment.
“Anything else? Did Mr. Nixon have an argument with anyone recently?”
She blanched again. “The police asked that too. And I’m sorry, but I had to tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
Annabelle swallowed. “That the day he died, Mr. Nixon had a violent argument with someone and that person threatened to kill him.”
A feeling of dread pooled in my stomach. “Who was it?”
“Portia Wren.”
“HOW DO YOU KNOW ANNABELLE is telling the truth?” Cheryl asked as she scooped up a forkful of salad. She’d agreed to meet me for lunch, even though she was on a deadline for her latest thriller. Like me, Cheryl was a novelist. Unlike me, there was no bodice-ripping in her books, and she wasn’t cursed with writer’s block. “She could have lied, you know.”
“She could have,” I admitted. “It would be an easy enough thing to fake. And with only the kid to corroborate. But still, I got the feeling she was being genuine.”
“You and your gut feelings. What was it this time?” She munched on the rabbit food with gusto. I couldn’t stand salads. Even if they were smothered in hunks of bleu cheese and slices of fried chicken.
I set down my turkey Reuben and ruminated on it. “Her reaction when I asked her about anyone who might have threatened Nixon. When she told me about Portia, she was practically in tears.”
“Could have been faking.”
I shrugged and took a sip of root beer. “I suppose, but I honestly think she was telling the truth.”
“Okay, so maybe she was.” Cheryl switched into devil’s advocate mode. “It’s possible she was trying to make Portia look bad. Shift the blame. I mean, Annabelle could have had a motive herself, you know.”
I frowned. “You think The Louse was harassing her, too?”
“It’s a possibility.” She took another bite of her salad. It was peppered with slivers of almonds and chunks of dried cranberry. If they put that in a muffin, I’d be all over it.
“Okay, I can see that. She’s pretty, and Nixon was, well, a louse. Plus she’s super mousey, and he delighted in bullying people he deemed weaker than him. But I can’t see her killing him over it. She’s timid. Not like Portia.”
“Not ballsy, you mean?” Cheryl said dryly.
I cleared my throat and held back a laugh. “Exactly.”
“She could have another motive. Something that was worth killing for.”
I chewed a big bite of the Reuben. “I’ll bite. What sort of motive would Annabelle have that would get a timid thing like her riled enough to kill a man?”
“Is she married?”
“Nope. No man in the picture, as far as I can tell. Just the kid.”
“And she said he was sick?”
I nodded. “If I recall correctly, Portia once mentioned the kid was sick a lot. Something chronic maybe.”
“So, what if she wanted time off and he wouldn’t give it to her?”
I snorted. “Wouldn’t she just quit?”
“Maybe. Unless she was too afraid of not having a job.” I shook my head. “I can’t picture that one. What about money? Maybe he wasn’t paying her for some reason?”
“That would make me murderous,” Cheryl said, wadding up her napkin and tossing it on the table. “What if the money she was making wasn’t enough?”
I frowned. “To take care of her and her son, you mean?”
“Right. Illness is expensive in this country. A single mom with a sick kid and probably the most basic insurance? Bound to get spendy.”
“You think she killed him because she wanted a raise?”
“Well, no, of course not, but money is often a motive, right?”
She was right about that. “I guess she could have been doing something illegal to make money, and he caught on. She killed him to shut him up.”
Cheryl frowned. “But what, though? Pot brownies maybe?”
I laughed. “Not exactly illegal anymore.”
“Yeah, but she probably isn’t licensed, and I doubt you can sell them out of a museum.”
“But still not worth killing over. I think you’re on to something, though. I’m going to look into the money angle some
