Blood Rubies (8 page)

Ellis riffed a little tap-tap-tap on the tabletop, thinking. “What do you know about Peter? Was that performance typical?”

“From what little I've seen, maybe. When he showed up out of the blue, Heather fled.”

“Does she have an order of protection against him? Has she ever pressed charges? Anything like that?”

“I don't know.”

“What can you tell about the snow globe, the one that might have been broken?”

I explained about Imperial Fabergé eggs and their surprises, Ana's family's narrative about how they acquired the egg, and the complexity in calculating value.

“The last appraiser attached Polaroids to his write-up,” I said. “They've faded some, but there's sufficient detail to be able to identify the design. Diamonds and rubies and emeralds, oh my.”

He soft-whistled. “No wonder it's worth so much money.” He lowered his eyes and tapped the table with his index fingers as if he were hunt-and-pecking on an old-fashioned typewriter, then looked up at me. “What else should I ask you?”

I shook my head. “I don't know.”

Ellis thanked me and clicked off the recorders. “I'll be in touch.”

The lobby was empty. Cathy was back at her computer. Two different patrolmen sat nearby. One was listening to someone on the phone, taking notes; the other one was reading from a legal pad.

Outside, wind-driven rain was blowing sideways. I ran for my car and was soaked by the time I got inside. I sat and scanned my messages, waiting for the heat to come up and take the bite off the raw chill. Wes had called again, and texted. Ty had called, too, telling me he was sorry to hear about Jason and that he was stuck in a situation in Maine and wouldn't be home until late. All in all, it was a bad night.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

The storm continued unabated, causing flash floods on low-lying roads and snapping off tree limbs. The twigs and branches that scraped against the windows kept jerking me awake. After endless hours of wearisome tossing and rolling and fretting about Ty, I finally got up and went downstairs. I made myself a pot of tea and curled up on the couch under a cable-knit afghan to read my current book, Rex Stout's
Gambit.
I was on my second cup of the tea, happily lost in the story, when the rain stopped. I looked at the mantel clock. It was three minutes after four, hours before dawn.

I walked to the window and pulled aside the drapes. A sliver of moon peeked through the clouds, stippling the lawn and street. I opened the window and breathed in the fresh, clean air. It was a beautiful night, warmer than when I'd come home. It gave me hope that my day would be better, too. Ty pulled into the driveway.
Perfect timing,
I thought.

I opened the front door and waved. He smiled.

“Why aren't you asleep?” he asked me as he climbed onto the porch.

“The storm. Are you okay?”

“Yeah … just a long day.”

“Tell me about it—on the other hand, don't. Let's talk tomorrow. I mean later. I need to go to sleep, and you must be ready to collapse.”

“Close.” He kissed me, a soft one, then stretched, reaching for the ceiling. “I need to be out of here by seven. One meeting in Boston, then I'm heading back to my place for a long nap.”

“I may join you. Have you eaten?”

“If you can call cold pizza eating. I'm too tired to tell if I'm hungry. I'll grab something before I leave. What I'm not skipping, though, is a shower.”

Ty went for his shower, and I crawled back in bed. I was asleep within seconds, and I slept like I'd been drugged, awakening to the alarm at eight, late for me. Ty was long gone.

I opened the blinds, and conical beams of bright yellow light slanted across the old oak floor.

Ty had left a note on the kitchen counter, an
xo,
followed by “To hell with being tired. Let's go dancing tonight.” I smiled, grabbed my phone, and texted, “Dancing sounds great. Burgers, too?” While I waited for his reply, I made coffee, then checked my voice mails. I had three new messages, all from Wes.

“Josie,” Wes had whined at seven this morning, his most recent message. Whining was Wes's default I'll-make-you-feel-guilty-for-ignoring-me tone. “I can't believe you haven't called me back. I've got a shockeroonie you're gonna wanna hear.”

He was right. I did want to hear what he had to say. Wes's web of contacts was both deep and wide. I called him back and agreed to meet him on our favorite sand dune at ten.

*   *   *

I got to the dune, a mile south of the police station, first. The still-wet sand was hard to navigate, but the view from the top was worth the effort. Standing on the shifting sand, I had an unobstructed view of the ocean. The sun cast golden starbursts across the dark blue expanse. Waves rolled gently into shore, then ebbed away. Watching the steady, rhythmic motion was hypnotic.

A car's engine cut off, and I looked down at the street. Wes was stepping out of a red Ford Focus.
A loaner,
I thought. Wes's car was a dingy, rusted-out maroon Dodge that had needed a new muffler five years earlier, and no doubt still did. Maybe he'd finally taken it in for service and the shop gave him the Focus for the day. He looked different, too. I hadn't seen him in several months, but even so, the change in his appearance was startling. He'd lost about thirty pounds. His normally pasty-white skin looked ruddier, healthier. He was wearing slacks with a collared shirt and tie and lace-up shoes, not a ripped T-shirt, jeans, and dirty sneakers.

“What happened to your car?” I called down.

“I got a new one. New to me, I mean.”

It was shiny. “It looks good.”

“Thanks.”

“You look good, too.”

He grinned and fingered his tie as he started up the sandy mound. “A new image. If I want to be taken seriously, I have to dress like a grown-up.”

“You got that from a self-help book.”

“No, I got it from my girlfriend.”

I grinned. “You've got a girlfriend.”

He blushed a little. “Six months now.”

“I had no idea. I'm thrilled for you, Wes. Who is she?”

“Her name is Maggie. Margaret Campbell. She's assistant manager of Rocky Point Community Bank.”

“That's my bank. Wait! Is she the one who sits at the first desk on the right? Brown hair cut short and freckles?”

“That's her.”

“I've talked to her. She was both knowledgeable and quick, a great combination.”

“She is all of that. Ambitious, too, a real go-getter.”

“Sort of like you, Wes.”

“You think?”

“Yes. How did you meet?”

“I got talking to her about a customer.”

I stared at him, appalled to think that my banker would gossip with a reporter. “She's one of your sources.”

“No. I tried hard, but she refused to tell me anything,” he said as he reached the top of the dune.

I laughed, reassured. “You're something like nothing I've ever seen, Wes.”

“Thanks.” His cheeks reddened again, and he cleared his throat. “So tell me what you know about Jason's murder.”

“Murder?” I asked, thinking that I was right, that I'd known it as soon as I'd touched the gaping hole in Jason's skull. “I thought it was a trip-and-fall accident.”

“That's ruled out. That's my shockeroonie. According to the ME's preliminary report, Jason died from blunt force trauma consistent with hitting his head on the fieldstone rock hearth, but here's the kicker. They're keeping it all hush-hush, but the ME used an imaging gizmo to prove there were multiple blows.”

I tried to push away the gruesome memory of my fingers prodding the wound, but couldn't. I could feel Wes waiting for my reaction.

“You're not surprised,” he said. “How come?”

I swallowed hard. “I felt the back of Jason's head to assess the wound, you know, to see if I could do something to stop the bleeding. Oh, God, Wes. I couldn't do a thing.” I gulped and choked and coughed as a wave of nausea washed over me. “There was a dent in his skull, closer to a gully, actually. It was horrific—really, really awful.”

He pulled a small spiral-bound notebook from his pants pocket and used his index finger to push out a pen he'd stuffed through the wires. Before Maggie, he carried a single ratty piece of paper and a pencil stub. He jotted a note. “Gully … good one, Joz!”

“God, Wes! You're incredible—not in a good way. Don't even think about quoting me.”

His eyes opened wide. “What are you talking about? ‘Gully' is a great word.”

“Feel free to use it. Just don't attribute it to me. Same deal as always, Wes.”

He sighed, Wesian for disappointed. I kept my eyes on the horizon and waited for him to speak.

“All right,” he said, drawing out the words petulantly, as if he were making a huge concession.

“How about Ana's neighbors?” I asked. “Did anyone see anything?”

“Not from the initial canvass,” he said, back to normal. “Lots of the cottages on that stretch of ocean are summer homes, and those folks aren't here yet. All the natives were at work or shopping or whatever.”

“What happened to the check Jason was bringing Ana?”

“The police found it in his shirt pocket. My source says you're going to look at the shattered thing, whatever it is, as soon as the forensic team is done with it. Take photos for me.”

“If I can.”

“Josie! I need a little quid for my pro quo, if you get my drift.”

I patted his arm. “You know I always tell you everything as soon as I can.”

“I know you
say
you do.”

“Wes!”

“Give me something, Josie. I need
something.
I'm on deadline.”

“I already did—the word ‘gully.' What else do you have?”

“Nothing yet. There's a boatload of people in town for the wedding. The police are checking whether any of them had an issue with Jason. So far, nothing has come to light.”

“Not even with Peter?”

“Who's he?”

I explained his relationship to Jason and described Peter's outburst at the police station.

“This might be something.” He wrote in his notebook for a few seconds. “I'll check him out. Who else?”

“No one. Jason's death screws up the TV pilot. How can they use a tape of wedding plans when the groom is killed only days before the ceremony? That means no one with a vested interest in the show has a motive. Like Ana.”

“Unless her motive is unrelated to the show.”

“True, but it would take a heck of a motive to risk losing an opportunity like this—her own TV show. What about Heather? Is there anything there?”

“
Cherchez la femme
—good one, Joz! Why would she want him dead?”

“I can't imagine. She was about to marry him.”

“Did you ever see them together?”

Jason's preoccupation with business and his gratuitous talk about choosing a honeymoon site based on its perceived prestige wouldn't endear him to me, yet I had no reason to think it bothered her, at least not enough to break up with him, let alone kill him. My dad once told me that if I married a man for his money, I'd earn every penny. I wondered if Heather was named in Jason's will, thinking maybe she'd taken a shortcut.

“No one knows the truth behind other people's relationships. They seemed happy together.”

“There's a ‘but' there.”

“You're right. From what I saw, he was into business and she was into him. Still, there's no reason to think they weren't truly in love. It only makes sense, though, to check out his will.”

“In the works. Did you meet anyone else here for the wedding?”

“Ana's dad, Stefan. The families are friends.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He seemed kind, concerned about Ana, willing to step up to protect Peter.” My throat tightened at a memory of my father, his devotion and love. I turned toward the ocean. A sailboat was skimming north, running parallel to the shore, its sails billowing. About a week after my mom's funeral, I'd come down with a miserable case of the flu, and Dad, who couldn't work a can opener before her death, had used her cookbook—the one she'd handwritten and illustrated for me as she lay dying—to make her scratch chicken soup. Love equals effort exerted. Stefan loved Peter, of that I was certain. I turned back to face Wes. “He reminded me a little of my dad. A good guy.” I felt my brow furrow as a new thought came to me.

Wes, as observant as ever, asked, “What?”

“Ana mentioned a breach between them—between her and her dad—but I didn't see anything like that.” I held up a hand. “Keep in mind, I saw him for a total of about two minutes, which includes about no more than thirty seconds with Ana, so what do I know? Maybe they were faking getting along.”

“How can I check?”

A man far down the beach tossed a stick for his dog, a little mutt. The dog ran like his life depended on retrieving it. Once he did, he half carried, half dragged it back and was rewarded with a big, ruffling pat. He darted a few steps away, then scurried back, challenging his owner to do it again, do it again, do it again. The man did, and again the little fellow took off like a bullet.

I turned toward Wes. “How about talking to Heather's family? Maybe the breach occurred when Ana was younger. That wouldn't be unusual, would it? To have a fight with your dad when you're a teenager? If so, someone in Heather's family might be aware of it. The two families have been friends for years.”

“You rock, Josie!” Wes made a note.

The little dog barked, and Wes and I both looked up. The dog was playing tug-of-war, unwilling to relinquish his stick. His tail was wagging wildly. His owner was laughing, having a blast.

“Who else?” he asked.