I found Ringo sitting on top of a bed pillow, glaring at me, when I entered the bedroom. “I’m sorry we had to leave,” I whispered as I undressed. “We need to work to buy you food. How was your time with Mrs. Wilson?”
He shut his eyes and turned away from me.
Ugh. Such a cranky cat.
Once I’d slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, I joined Mrs. Wilson in the living room.
“I hope you don’t mind, Patty. I helped myself to some tea.”
“Not at all,” I replied, sinking into the couch. “You’re always welcome here.”
“Thank you, dear. Now tell me your tale! You’ve got my mind spinning with what it may be!”
As I told her the story of the passenger trapped in the bathroom, I tried to remember every detail. My memory for names might not be the best, but since meeting Bill Hart, I was focusing on remembering things I’d normally overlook—like the color of Sam’s shirt and the time of day when he’d first reached out for help.
Once I finished my story, Mrs. Wilson stared at me wide-eyed, enthralled by my tale, her tea disregarded.
“My word,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry for that poor man.”
I nodded in agreement. “Hopefully, we’ll find out he’s just fine. It was a terrible thing to happen to anyone, but he was nervous before he even stepped foot on the tarmac.”
“What a shame. I hope they put some mechanical thing in place to prevent that from happening again.” Smart woman. After the incident, it seemed they’d do something to avoid future passenger trappings.
“Have you heard any more about Charles’ murder?” I asked. “Has the police been by?”
“No. It’s been so quiet. I hate to say it, but with Charles gone, I’m sleeping through the night and not waking up to his screaming any longer, bless his soul.”
“How odd,” I replied. “I would think the police would have come to talk to us again.”
“I’m afraid not. I worry that they are just going to let the murder slide and it’ll become another cold case. There’s so much crime these days, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if that’s what happened.”
“It would be a shame,” I said, completely uncomfortable with the idea. “That would mean that a murderer could possibly be living in our building! Or walking the streets ready to strike again!”
“Oh, I’m aware of that. It’s truly frightening, especially for women like us who live alone. At times like these, I wish my husband was still alive.”
And I wished Donna had come home with me.
“I better get going, Patty. I’ll leave you to rest.”
Standing, I walked her to the door, then bent down and gave her a hug. “Thanks again, Mrs. Wilson. I appreciate you so much.”
“The feeling is mutual, Patty. I couldn’t ask for better neighbors.”
Just as I was about to shut the door, she turned to me. “Oh! I should give you your key back.” She fished it from her pocket and placed it in my palm. “Here you go. Anytime you need me to watch Ringo, just let me know.”
I shut the door behind me, walked over to the key drawer and tossed it in. After it landed with a clink, I gazed at it for a moment before picking it up again.
As I held it up in front of my face, my heart raced and sweat broke out on my brow. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Gripping the counter with one hand, I grabbed the other two keychains from the drawer and brought them all over to the couch, then flipped on the side table lamp. Laying all the keys out on the coffee table, I stared at them for a long time.
My goodness.
Had I just discovered the murderer?
Chapter 21
I grabbed a pad of paper and pen from the side table and wrote with a shaky hand.
Motive.
Opportunity.
Once I filled those out and jotted other miscellaneous notes and a timeline, I tossed the notebook to the side and rubbed my temples. I had either solved a murder or I was losing my mind.
A knock sounded at the door, but I didn't answer. Too distracted. Besides, what if it was the killer?
I hesitated to share my findings. After all, I'd been reminded many times I wasn't a police officer and had no training in the art of finding killers. But yet, as I stared at my notebook and the keys, I realized I had to tell someone. And if I was wrong? I'd be the stupid stew with an overactive imagination. If I was right... well, I'd just solved a murder.
Which was more important? Justice for Charles or my delicate ego? I'd been underestimated my entire life, so I was used to that. But Charles deserved to have his killer put away. Those surrounding the case deserved safety.
After locating Detective Peterson's number, I picked up the phone and dialed, my hands still trembling. My call was answered on the second ring when I was told Detective Peterson wasn't in and I'd need to leave a message.
“Please tell him Patricia Byrne called regarding the Charles Bernard murder.”
When I hung up, I immediately decided to phone Bill. If he could use his badge and crankiness to track down a stew in New York, he could hunt down a cop in San Francisco. I hurried to my bag and fetched his number then returned to the couch. After dialing, I studied the evidence in front of me. All of it was well and good, but I had no proof. Only a very strong suspicion.
“Bill Hart,” he answered with a sigh, as if his phone had rung far too many times during the day.
“Bill, it's Patty Byrne.”
“Well, hello, Patty. It's nice to hear your voice.”
“I think I may have solved Charles' murder.”
A moment of heavy silence fell, then he burst out laughing. I listened to him
