“Viola. I was so sorry to hear about Portia.” I was engulfed in a floral-scented hug. Cheryl’s mom, Charlene, was as sweet as they came. She was a retired schoolteacher who spent her time volunteering at the Historical Preservation Society and working on various art projects.
“Thanks,” I mumbled as she let me go. “It’s all pretty terrible.”
“That Bat.” She shook her head, sending salt-and-pepper ringlets dancing. “I swear that boy needs a stern talking to. As if Portia would ever hurt anyone.”
There was general agreement among the bunco ladies. Cheryl shoved a glass of wine in my hand. “You’re going to need it,” she murmured. “They’re on a roll tonight. They’re going to want every single detail of your investigation and then some.”
I grinned. “And so goes bunco night.”
Sure enough, as we all piled our plates with snacks and prepared to start the first round, Agatha pounced. “So, what’s this I hear about an investigation?” She gave me a nudge, nudge, wink, wink motion and tucked her tongue in her cheek. Her short, gray hair was almost as spikey as Cheryl’s, and she wore a flowing, Bohemian-style top with layers of beaded necklaces.
She probably knew more about it than I did at this point, but I humored her. “Well, I can’t trust Detective Battersea to prove Portia’s innocence,” I told her as I sat at one of the card tables. “So, I figured I’d do it myself.”
“I heard you did an okay job with the last investigation,” she agreed, grabbing the score pad and a pen, her necklaces making a slight clicking sound as the beads hit each other. The bell rang, and Hazel, another one of our founding members, grabbed the dice and rolled. There was silence as we started our turns.
“Well, I had some help,” I admitted. “But I figured if I did it once, I can do it again. I have to try. For Portia.”
The other three women at the card table—Hazel, Agatha, and the quiet Rose—all nodded their heads. It was a little like receiving a benediction.
“Somebody’s got to help her,” Rose said softly, running fingers through her salon-golden hair. “I doubt she can afford a private detective on her salary.”
I hadn’t even thought of that, but Rose was right. Besides which, there wasn’t’ exactly an overwhelming selection of PIs in Astoria. The few that existed were mostly focused on things like cheating spouses. They’d have no idea how to properly investigate a crime. Granted, neither did I, but I’d at least seen several episodes of Lt. Joe Kenda. Not the same, I’d grant you that, but better than nothing.
As we played, I caught them up on some of the tidbits I’d found, like the lipstick. Not to mention Blaine’s behavior and Mrs. Nixon’s extramarital shenanigans.
“I need to question Blaine. I’m certain he’s hiding something.”
Agatha giggled. “Of course he is.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“He’s been dating Portia for ages. Didn’t you know?”
We all shook our heads. The other two women were as keen on the news as I was. Nothing like some good gossip to perk up a game.
“Oh, yes. They were keeping it on the down-low, you know, because August Nixon would have been furious.”
I frowned. “Why? Portia is an amazing person. Blaine should be so lucky.”
“Exactly. Which was why August wanted her for himself, the snake. Also, I think he was hoping Blaine would marry into money so he could stop supporting the kid. Fat chance of that with Portia.”
Kid? That “kid” was at least thirty years old. Maybe even thirty-five.
“Doesn’t he have a job?” Hazel asked, somewhat shocked.
“Sure,” Agatha said. “He’s a talent rep or something, booking bands and whatnot at various venues up and down the Coast. Like that makes any money around here.”
She had a point. Many coastal towns were economically depressed, completely dependent on income from tourists. “That’s great info. Thanks, Agatha. I wonder why Portia didn’t tell me and Cheryl. We’re her friends, after all.”
“Oh, you know how it is when women start dating men. They lose their ever-loving minds,” Hazel said sagely.
I sighed. “Well, I guess I’ve got a good place to start questioning him. Now if only I could figure out who Mary Nixon was having the affair with.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Agatha said with a laugh.
We all stared at her. “Who?” three voices, including mine, chimed in.
“Everyone knows. Don’t they?” she looked surprised.
“Spill it,” Hazel snapped.
Agatha shrugged. “I thought it was common knowledge. I’ve seen them together several times. Twice coming out of that B&B over in Warrenton.”
“Agatha!” I snarled in frustration.
“Roger Collins,” she said. “Mary Nixon has been having an affair with her husband’s assistant director.”
Chapter 11The Dirty Dog
I WANTED TO TALK TO Portia first. She was supposed to be my friend, and I wanted to know more about her relationship with Blaine. And why she hadn’t told me.
It took some fancy footwork, but they finally let me in to see her. When the guard ushered her into the visiting room, I couldn’t hold back my astonishment. She looked nothing like the Portia I knew. Gone was the sleek sophistication and elegant fashion. She was pale, worn, with bags beneath her eyes and an equally baggy uniform in an unsightly shade of beige.
I started to hug her, but the prison guard barked, “No touching.” I barely refrained from responding with a very immature tongue-sticking-out.
We sat at the Formica table in uncomfortable plastic chairs where we stared at each other for a good thirty seconds. For once, I had no idea what to say.
“Thanks for coming,” Portia finally said, her fingers clasped together tightly on the table. “Sure. Of course. We’re friends. It’s what we do, right?”
She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t stand it in here, Viola,” she
