“Like losing his mind?”
“Sort of. The gambling losses were causing a lot of stress. He snapped at the least little thing. I did not want to set him off. I figured things would settle down eventually and then I could tell them. In my own time.”
“Portia seemed to think you were also trying to protect her from your father’s unsavory advances.”
He snorted. “As if I could do that. She worked with the guy. But it kept her off my back. At least for a while until I could figure things out.” He shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t matter now. Mom may be disappointed, but tough. Everyone will find out the truth about good ole August Nixon soon enough.”
I mulled that over as I sucked down my bottle of juice. “So, you knew all about the money being gone.”
He swallowed. “Sure.”
I knew he was lying. “You had no idea! You thought you’d inherit.” And that was a darn good motive for murder.
“Listen,” he snapped, “I may not have known, but that didn’t mean I killed the bas—my father. I had no reason to.”
“How about needing money?”
“Why would I need money?” He didn’t quite meet my eye. “I’ve got a job. Might not make me rich, but I do okay.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but until I could prove otherwise, I decided to let it go. “How about an alibi?”
He rolled his eyes. “Who do you think you are? Jessica Fletcher?”
“I’m trying to help Portia. You want that, don’t you?”
He sighed. “Sure. Fine. I was in Seaside at a concert.”
I nodded. I would definitely check that out. “Thanks.” I slid off the barstool. “I might have more questions later.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
I was nearly to the door when a thought struck me. “Hey, Blaine, do you know anyone called Mrs. A?”
He frowned. “You talking about that old biddy that donates to the museum?”
I stepped a little closer. “Old biddy?”
“Sure. She’s been donating for years. Dad used to kiss her backside on a regular basis.”
“You remember her last name?”
“Um.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if it might have inspiration. “Yeah. Archer. Mrs. Glennis Archer.”
I beamed at him. “Thanks!” I was out the door and nearly to my car before I realized I never got my receipt.
Chapter 12Winos and Riffraff
“ARE YOU SURE SHE HAS anything to do with it?” Cheryl asked, peering over my shoulder. She’d come to my place to help me investigate the mysterious Mrs. A, and now we were both sitting in my breakfast nook, staring at a picture of Glennis Archer on my laptop screen.
She was an elegant woman with her silver hair cut into a smooth bob, makeup perfectly applied, and expensive but understated jewelry. She stared back at us from a business website with an article about how she had taken over operations of the family business from her deceased husband and actually increased the company’s income tenfold. That meant she was smart and savvy. Or had excellent advisers who she was intelligent enough to listen to.
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “But we need to talk to her. She had an appointment with The Louse the same night he was killed. Maybe she did it.”
“She doesn’t look like a killer, but then they rarely do.”
She made an excellent point. “Even if she didn’t do it, maybe she saw who did.”
Cheryl scrunched up her nose. “Any ideas how to get close to her? I doubt we could waltz into her place of business and demand to see her. They’d probably have security throw us out.”
“I already tried to make an appointment. Her assistant claims she’s booked for a month.” Not that I believed that for a minute. “I think I need to use some finesse with her.”
Cheryl gave a sort of gigglesnort.
“Hey, I can finesse when I need to.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a better idea. I think we need to approach her somewhere away from her office. Somewhere she’ll have her guard down and won’t suspect anything.”
“Like?”
“Like when she’s getting her nails done or something.”
“It’s a good idea,” I agreed. “But how are we supposed to find out when she’s getting her nails done?”
“Social media, naturally.” She gave me a smug look.
“You think a woman as smart and rich as Glennis Archer is going to plaster her itinerary all over the web?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to look.”
I pulled up one of the most popular social media sites and did a search for Glennis Archer’s name. I got a big, fat goose egg.
“Nothing. Any other ideas?”
“Try her maiden name. Maybe she’s trying to keep a low profile.”
Which is exactly what I would do if I were a mucky-muck like Mrs. Archer. Question was, what was her maiden name? Google searches yielded nothing. Likely she and Mr. Archer had been married years before the advent of social media. “Maybe we should ask Agatha,” I suggested, only half joking. “That woman knows everything.”
“Oh, good idea! Let’s call her right now.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“Sure. Apparently she doesn’t sleep much.”
Which might explain her propensity for gossip. Sheer boredom, no doubt. Maybe she needed a hobby besides bunco and painting. Her house was already over flowing with art.
“Agatha, hi, it’s Cheryl. Mmmhmmm. Yes. Mmm. Right.”
I rolled my eyes. Who knew what Agatha was going on about now? Although likely it was juicy. To somebody.
“That’s so interesting,” Cheryl finally blurted, “but I have a question for you.”
There was excited chatter from the other end of the line. I gave Cheryl a sympathetic look.
“Actually,” she said, giving me a sly look, “Viola wants to ask you herself.” She shoved the phone at me and nearly doubled over in laughter.
I glared at her, but took the device. “Hi, Agatha.”
“You need some information? Is it about the case?” She sounded a little too enthusiastic.
“Um, yes. It is. And we need to keep this on the down-low.”
“Mum’s the word,” Agatha said cheerfully. “How can I help?”
“Do you know Glennis Archer?”
“Not personally,” Agatha admitted, “but everyone knows Glennis Archer. I mean,
