body there?” The oyster faces looked mildly surprised. I was right. “Now are you going to tell me what your theory is?”
Boyd shook his head. “We don’t know who dumped Balachek in the creek.” He stabbed a stubby finger at me. “And you, Sherlock, can’t divulge anything about the color of his hands.”
“Was he shocked electrically?” I asked. They groaned. I pressed on. “Seems as if I remember somebody else dying of electrocution. The former spouse of someone at the castle, yes? Ring any bells?”
Again, the two cops looked at one another. Boyd sighed. “Carl Rourke, Sukie Hyde’s first husband, died in a freak electrical accident while working on a roof.”
“Do you think there’s any correlation between the two deaths?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Armstrong said. “I repeat, Goldy, you can not talk about Balachek’s burned hands, or the possibility of electric shock, with anyone. It’s a key.”
Uh-huh. Before I could protest or reply, our doorbell rang again. Three men from the sheriffs department had arrived to process the basement. I showed them in, then murmured to Boyd and Armstrong that if they weren’t going to share their theories on what had happened to Balachek, I really needed to get back to my injured husband.
“We’ll be calling Tom,” Boyd told me. “We’ve got copies of all of Andy’s e-mails. Last one was ten days ago.
Then he called you, wanting Tom. Said he was in Central City, but might go to Jersey after that. We’re wondering If Balachek tried to communicate after that phone call. Like by another e-mail, phone call, whatever.”
Maybe he sent Tom something by FedEx, I almost joked, but, for once, refrained. Had Tom mentioned anything else, they wanted to know?
Well, there?s some woman. “No,” I replied without looking at them. “He didn’t. At least, not that I know of.”
They said that was all for now, but they were staying at our house for a while, if that was all right. The doorbell bonged again and I went to get it. Thinking it was more cops, I pulled the door open without checking the peephole.
It was the Jerk, with Viv Martini at his side.
He looked thin and pale, and his face seemed hard, a tad less confident. The effect of several months in prison, no doubt. He wore charcoal pants, a yellow pullover, and what looked like a new reversible down jacket, black on one side, bright blue on the other, visible at the open neck. His still good-looking face, though, revealed a dark mood. Viv, with her thin face and body, spiked blond hair, black-heeled boots, tight black pants, and fashionably poufed black nylon jacket, looked as if she were on her way to a stint with a punk rock band. When she unzipped the jacket, a tight V-neck revealing her significant cleavage sprang into view.
“Get out here,” ordered John Richard, his command rigid with anger.
Without saying a word, I slammed the door and dashed back to the dining room. I told Boyd and Armstrong what was going on and asked them to accompany me back to the porch. Just in case, I added.
Oh, my, how I delighted in the look of dismayed surprise that clouded the Jerk’s face when the conspicuously armed Boyd and Armstrong stepped onto the porch behind me. When we were all outside - John Richard and Viv to one side, me with my cop buddies beside the porch swing - Sharks and Jets - I asked the Jerk what he wanted.
“I want my son.” His voice was thick with the attempt to be simultaneously mean and conciliatory. “How dare you slap a restraining order on me? It’s a good thing it’s temporary, because I am going to stomp you so bad in two weeks, you’re going to wish you’d moved to Florida. I already got the story on what happened to you here, by the way.”
“You’re in violation of a restraining order, and you’re out on probation, buster,” said Boyd. “So watch your mouth. And if you move even an inch closer to your ex-wife, I’m going to arrest you.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the Jerk retorted. Viv sidled closer to John Richard, slipped her hands around his waist, then slid her fingers inside his belt. John Richard stiffened and actually blushed.
“Move back, ma’am,” Boyd ordered. This Viv did, but with a reluctant pout. John Richard gulped. His time in jail must have made him awfully horny. Apparently, he’d found just the right gal to meet his needs.
Boyd walked up to John Richard. He folded his arms, lifted his chin, and waited. John Richard took a step backward, right onto Viv’s toes, and she squawked. I wondered if she was having the tiniest flicker of doubt about her new boyfriend’s power. After a moment’s hesitation, she took another precarious step back from John Richard. I felt… well… triumphant.
“I’ll make arrangements for you to see Arch,” I told John Richard. “Call your lawyer.”
John Richard’s voice was cold. His eyes stayed on Boyd. “We want to see him today. We’re going to take him back to my place, not some stranger’s castle, where you have to stay because somebody else you pissed off is taking potshots at windows in your house.”
I looked at Viv, who widened her black-lined eyes at me. In a deep, sexy voice, she said, “Windows don’t turn me on, Goldy.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Mac user?”
“Knock it off,” John Richard snarled.
“I’ll call your lawyer,” I repeated to him. “Now, leave. Please.”
“You have not heard the last of this,” John Richard said softly.
“Ooh,” Viv murmured. She leaned toward the Jerk’s ear and purred, “I love it when you threaten the rough stuff.” As I shook my head, John Richard took Viv’s hand and descended the porch steps.
“You haven’t heard even the beginning of the last of this,” John Richard shot over his shoulder.
How very unfortunate, I thought as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the gold Mercedes. How very unfortunate, indeed.
-14-
Head pounding, body aching, I trod upstairs, tossed a slew of outfits and odds and ends for Tom, Arch, and me into a large suitcase, and retrieved the canvas sack Tom had filled with our photo albums. There were bound to be several photos of the Jerk in one of the old books… enough for the Hydes and Michaela to get a good image of the guy who needed to be kept out of the castle.
And then the suspicious side of me, that voice I wished would be quiet, insisted I had one more thing I needed to do. I called to Boyd and Armstrong that I would be right down.
Rifling through Tom’s bureau made me wish that Episcopalians were as big on confession as Catholics. Yes, “reconciliation of a penitent” was a sacrament available to us. But it wasn’t so common among the Chosen Frozen that the thought of cleansing away my sin - in this case, deliberately invading my husband’s privacy - made committing the sin any easier. So I felt like a heel. Still, if there were love letters, charge receipts, anything, I wanted to find them, because I needed to know what was going on. After five minutes of frantic searching, I came up with nothing. Of course not, I thought, as I carried the suitcase and heavy sack of albums down the steps. I didn’t really think he’d cheat on me, did I?
The suspicious voice admitted that I wasn’t sure. Boyd heaved the suitcase and sack into my van, then turned to me. “I don’t want you and Tom moving back in here until we catch these guys, understand? We’re putting a twenty-four- hour guard on the house, starting now.”
I sighed, but nodded. Boyd told me to call anytime if I needed help. I promised I would. I thanked him for helping with Dr. Korman and for pulling together a team to watch our place. He nodded impassively. When he walked back to the house, I saw Trudy and Jake watching him from her window. Jake’s morose face about broke my heart.
I sat in my van and tried to think. My head throbbed. I couldn’t face another historic-food discussion with Eliot Hyde just then. John Richard knew Arch was in school. His appearance at our house must have been meant to intimidate me. For a moment, I savored the memory of that astonished look on his face when confronted with two armed cops.
But what about the mystery woman who’d been sitting in the rusty station wagon? Did she know we were staying at the castle? Had she followed me there after shooting out the window?
Was she the one who’d shot Tom? Was she the one Tom didn’t love?
I glanced around at the sack of photo albums on the floor. That suspicious voice again wormed its way into
