I WANTED TO MARCH STRAIGHT over to the Nixon house and confront Blaine, but the late hour combined with fortified wine and a head injury convinced me otherwise. I hit the hay the moment I got home and didn’t move until the phone shrilled at eight the next morning.
I glanced at the caller ID. Agatha. I considered not answering, but she’d just call back. Besides, she might have some juicy gossip for me.
“Good morning, Agatha,” I said, trying to sound perky and awake and likely failed miserably. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Viola. Good. I caught you.” As if she didn’t know my only phone was a cell phone and therefore “catching” me was pretty much guaranteed. “I was talking to Mavis Buchannan. Her daughter works with the police. You’ll never believe what they found in Annabelle Smead’s apartment.”
“Do tell.” I tried to sound surprised and eager, although I knew very well what they found.
“It was a bookend. From the Flavel House. Annabelle stole it.”
“How shocking!” I tried to sound dutifully horrified.
“Apparently she’d been stealing for a while. August Nixon, too, can you believe?”
“Did you hear anything else about it?”
“Funny you should ask. There was blood all over it. The bookend, I mean.”
“Ew. That’s not good.”
“Not at all. And here’s where it gets interesting.” She paused for dramatic effect. “The blood was August Nixon’s.”
“That is interesting. You’re sure?”
“Well, Mavis was. Got it straight from her daughter. And you know what that means.”
I did. It meant that Annabelle Smead had been in August Nixon’s office the night he died. And she’d stolen the bookend after he’d been murdered. Which meant that either Annabelle herself was the killer, or more likely, she’d known who the murderer was. And if I had to guess, it was the latter, and that was what got her killed.
Chapter 21An Appropriate Bribe
THE NIXON’S LARGE VICTORIAN loomed against the gray sky, the greens and yellows brightening up the neighborhood with cheerful abandon. Who’d have thought it would be a house of mourning?
I climbed the stairs, my head throbbing slightly with each step. The lump on the back of my skull was smaller, but it still hurt like a son of a bee sting. I’d even iced it and everything.
Chimes rang from the other side of the door as I pressed the button for the doorbell. That set off a frenzy of yappy barking and tiny paws scrabbling against the wood, trying to get out and viciously rip out my throat.
“Tank, shut up.” The male voice had to be Blaine’s. The dog didn’t listen. “Quiet, Tank, or I’ll lock you in the damn basement.”
Tank shut up. The door swung open to reveal a rumpled Blaine, who’d clearly just crawled out of bed, barely. He was still wearing pajama pants with his Iron Man t-shirt and his hair stuck out in several different directions. He squinted at me. “What?”
“Good morning to you, too,” I chirped brightly. “I stopped by to see how you and your mother were doing.” I gave him an innocent smile and held out the white bag I was carrying. “And I brought you pastries.” To my mind, pastries were always an appropriate bribe.
“We’re fine.” Ignoring the pastry bag, he leaned down and scooped up what I could only assume was Tank as the tiny dog made a break for freedom. I almost burst out laughing. Tank was a Chihuahua.
“That’s good to hear.” I held the pastry bag awkwardly in front of me, not sure what to do. “I thought maybe yesterday might have been a bit of a shock for you. You know, bringing up old memories.”
“What do you mean?” His expression was a total blank.
“I saw you at the docks yesterday. Where Annabelle Smead was murdered.”
“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “Just passing by. Wondered what the fuss was about.”
“Interesting. Because someone ran Cheryl’s car off the road after they followed us from the docks. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Why on earth would I?”
“Well, you were there. You might have seen something. A dark-colored SUV with tinted windows?”
“Well, I didn’t.”
I gave him a long look. “Or maybe you’re the one who was driving the SUV?”
His eyes widened. “You’re nuts. Why would I do that?”
“Because you realized we were getting close to the truth.”
He snorted. “And what truth would that be?”
“That you killed your father.”
He stiffened, his face turning an angry red. “I think you better go now.” He started to slam the door, but I stuck my foot in the gap. The door bounced off my shoe, and I tried not to wince. Believe me, it looked cool in movies, but in real life it hurt like a mother.
“Actually, I think we better talk; otherwise, I’m going to let the police know everything.”
He went a little pale. “There’s nothing to tell. I didn’t kill my father. I have an alibi.”
“Really? Because that whole thing about being out with the band is pretty weak. You could have slipped out at any time. No one would have noticed.”
He looked downright ill. “Listen, I didn’t want anyone to know before. But, um, I was with someone.”
My eyes narrowed. “A female someone?”
“Er, yes.”
“And not Portia.” Obviously.
He swallowed. “No.”
“Who?”
He sighed. “I really was out with the band. At the bar where they were playing, I ran into an old girlfriend. We talked. Had some drinks. One thing led to another.” He shrugged.
“You cheated on Portia?” I didn’t have to fake my outrage.
“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
“What? You just tripped and fell into bed with another woman?”
“Well, not exactly—”
“Oh, shut up. You make me sick. I suggest you call Detective Battersea immediately and give him your real alibi.”
“You’re not going to tell Portia are you?”
I gave him an evil look. “What do you think?”
I stomped back down the porch steps, livid, calling Blaine all sorts of names in my head. It was a good thing he had refused the bag of pastries, because I was either going
