A Cup of Jo (24 page)

Rebecca must have seen my eyebrows rise, because she flushed. 'I know. I was awful about my sister that morning we found her. I had this idea that JoLynne had seduced my Michael.'

She threw a smile at 'her' Michael.

He had the smarts to say, 'Sorry, ladies, I have to make a phone call,' and then to leave us before the bullshit got too deep for him to wade through.

When Michael was out of earshot, I said, 'Enough beating around the bush, Rebecca. There are a couple of things I need to know. Now.'

Rebecca seemed surprised, but just nodded.

'Number one.' I held up my index finger. 'Do you know without a doubt that JoLynne was not using or dealing?'

'Drugs?'

No, playing cards, you twit. 'Yes, drugs.'

'Absolutely,' she repeated. 'And the police told me there were no drugs – or alcohol – in her system when she died.'

Nothing like sisterly 'faith' confirmed by lab tests. 'What about Anita Hampton?'

More wary now. 'What about Anita?'

'Does she do drugs? Maybe uppers of some sort?'

'How should I know?' Rebecca asked. 'The only time I see her is at the monthly WoPro meetings.'

'You're a member of WoPro?'

Rebecca's face flushed again at my reaction. 'Why wouldn't I be? I'm a female entrepreneur, too. A mover-and-shaker.'

Shaker-and-baker came to mind. 'Did JoLynne sponsor you?'

The flush that had started to slowly recede came roaring back a third time. 'Yes, but I would have qualified for membership regardless.'

Right. Like I would have long ago, if Anita hadn't required that I apply and then sponsored me to boot.

'In fact,' Rebecca continued, 'I'm surprised being JoLynne's sister didn't work against me.'

'Are you saying she wasn't well liked? Why? Too pretty?'

Rebecca ignored the bait. 'Too straight. I thought it was an act. She didn't drink, didn't smoke, or . . .' Rebecca stopped herself. 'Listen, I don't have time for—'

My turn to interrupt. 'Spill it. Or I'll call out the drug-sniffing dogs.'

'It wasn't that.' She looked around to make sure Michael hadn't returned. 'Just things like super-energy drinks. Caffeine.'

I looked at her.

'OK, OK. Cold tablets, too,' Rebecca admitted. 'And – but only occasionally – Ritalin.'

Good God almighty. 'What do you do? Get your kid diagnosed with a sinus infection or attention deficit disorder, then pilfer from the prescriptions?'

'I don't have kids,' Rebecca protested, 'so I tried not to judge. Remember, I was new to the group.'

'But JoLynne did . . . judge?'

'Not really even that.' Rebecca squirmed. 'JoLynne would leave when talk turned to those kinds of things. In fact, she seemed more upset that Kevin was getting so many jobs from WoPro.'

'Did JoLynne feel it was a conflict of interest?' I asked, hoping for something more.

'Maybe.' The artist looked uncertain. 'But I also thought she might be jealous because a lot of the women liked Kevin. Sort of cozied up to him.'

I bet they did. 'Especially Anita Hampton?'

'Yes.' Now Rebecca's eyes narrowed. 'But how could you know that?'

I shrugged. 'Just a guess. Did your sister talk with you about it?'

'No. We . . . uh, didn't have that kind of relationship.'

Meaning, to me, that their sibling conversations had run more along the 'I hate your guts, you slut' line.

'But,' Rebecca continued, 'JoLynne had it out with Kevin in the parking lot after the WoPro meeting Tuesday night. I heard her say she was getting him back. That she was seeing Pavlik.'

Thank you, Lord! 'This is really important, Rebecca. Is that what your sister said,
exactly
?'

A blink, followed by another. 'I think so. Why?'

Why? JoLynne discovers Kevin is not only using again, but apparently dealing. And, to make matters worse, his best customers are her professional contacts at WoPro. She'd be 'seeing' Pavlik to blow the criminal whistle on her husband.

Rebecca might have misinterpreted her sister's comment, but Kevin would know just what his wife had in mind.

It was no coincidence that JoLynne died the next morning.

'Do you remember what your sister was wearing at the WoPro meeting?'

'What she . . .? Of course.'

I waited. But not for long. 'Well? Are you going to tell me?'

Rebecca shrugged. 'A pencil skirt and silk blouse, but then you already knew that.'

I did? And then I realized she was right. I did. 'You mean the same outfit we found on her corpse?'

God forgive me, I was trying to hurt Rebecca. She swallowed hard, before a weak, 'Yes.'

'Did you tell the police?'

'No. I didn't think—'

'I guess you didn't,' I said, sounding exactly like my mother.

'Listen,' Rebecca said. 'I was trying to be sensitive. I thought you, of all people, would appreciate that. My sister's clothes could have dragged your sheriff into a scandal.'

'Oh, I see.' Slowly, now, Maggy. 'You figured JoLynne spent Tuesday night with Pavlik and hadn't gone home to change. But didn't you say she was railing at Kevin in the parking lot following WoPro's Tuesday meeting?'

'Of course. He picked her up. But believe me, JoLynne wouldn't have had any problem with dumping him for the evening.'

I had a feeling it was Kevin who dumped JoLynne that night.

And right into my coffee cup.

The problem with formulating theories, I thought as I thanked Rebecca and walked outside, is knowing where to take them.

My theory, that JoLynne threatened to turn Kevin and his jailhouse connection in to the authorities and had been killed for it, seemed pretty darned good. Problem was, I had no actual, physical proof. And even if I did, who would listen to me?

My only law enforcement connection was in the slammer and I'd gotten little cooperation from anyone else at Pavlik's office. I checked my phone. No return call from Bernie.

Nor any word from Pavlik himself.

I slipped the cell back into my handbag and took out the car keys. As I walked toward myEscape, I saw Christy awkwardly hefting a potted mum on to the wide railing of her deck.

As she struggled under the weight of the dirt-filled planter, I pocketed my keys and climbed her steps to help.

'Thanks,' she said as we finally positioned the first plant on a corner over its post, where the ceramic would be more stable.

'They're awfully heavy,' I said, as we picked up a second pot for the opposite corner. 'Maybe you should lift the planters up here empty,
then
fill them with soil.'

'But the dirt would fly all over,' Christy objected as we set the second one down. The index finger of her glove got stuck under the pot and she was struggling to ease it out. 'However, if I pour the top soil over my newspaper-strewn planking, I can control the mess.'

Mess? I looked at Christy's 'newspaper-strewn planking' and didn't see a speck of dirt. What had she done, drib-drabbed the soil into the pots through a funnel? The fact that on one front page rested both a soup spoon and a toothbrush, supported the spirit, if not the letter of my . . .

I picked up the toothbrush. While the bristles were pristine, the handle end was black with top soil and . . . sharpened? 'What's this?' I held the brush out to Christy.

'Oh, that?' She took the thing from me. 'It's a shiv, Maggy.'

'But do you know what a "shiv" is?' I asked, aghast. 'Prisoners take an everyday object like this and file it into a blade with a point. Then they use it to stab people. To
death
.'

But Christy seemed unconcerned. 'I know. I found a bunch of articles online, remember? A shiv can be surprisingly efficient when inserted correctly.'

'Correctly?'

'Like into the right place on the human anatomy. Only, I use mine just for making sure there are no air pockets in the soil.' She knocked dirt off the sharpened handle and slipped the shiv into her apron pocket.

I was still reeling from the 'human anatomy' comment. 'Did you make that thing?'

'Don't be silly, Maggy. Ronny gave it to me.'

Back for another adventure in Christyland.

'Wait, wait. You carried that thing out of the jail?'

'A lot easier than smuggling it
in
.' Christy began delving through her other apron pocket. 'Ronny found the shiv one day underneath his room-mate's mattress. At first, I figured Chef was probably cleaning those tiny intersections where the bars connect.' A sigh. 'It's really tough to scrape out what gets in there.'

'Let me guess. Ronny didn't embrace your reasoning?'

'Uh-unh.' Christy's apron-exploration came up with a handful of decorative stones. 'He was afraid Chef would "gut him like a pig" in his sleep, though, according to my research, gutting somebody is a pretty
in
efficient technique for—'

'Christy? Stop. Now!'

'OK. But I thought you wanted to know why Ronny gave Chef's shiv to me.'

The Chef's shiv. It even alliterated, sort of. And, of course, the whole scenario made perfect sense. At least in Christyland.

She began arranging some stones on the surfaces of soil in her pots.

'Pretty,' I said, relieved to be back on the planet Earth. Suddenly, though, I was struck by a déjà vu moment. Then, too, it had to do with rocks.

I picked up one Christy had just placed. 'What is this?'

She didn't look at me. 'Quartz.'

I worked the stone around in my palm and picked up a smaller, pink one. 'Where'd you get these?'

'Nowhere.' Christy had moved away, her back now to me.

'Christy?' The same 'mom' tone I'd used on Frank. Happily our piano teacher was more easily snowed than the sheepdog.

'All right.' She turned, face bright red. 'I admit it. I stole them.'

'From the bowls that anchored the balloons.' It wasn't a question. 'The ones you said you brought in from the rain for Kevin so they wouldn't be ruined.'

But why would bowls and the rocks in them be 'ruined' by rain? And, as we've already established, Mylar balloons will likely outlive cockroaches.

There was only one thing that made sense. Christy had coveted her neighbor's rocks.

'Maggy, I just kept ten or twelve.' I thought she was going to cry.

'Ten or twelve?' I turned over the two in my palm. 'What did you do with the rest of them? The ones you didn't keep?'

'I returned them in the bowls, of course. But these were so different – I didn't think anyone would miss a stone or two.

I was developing a bad feeling about this. 'Christy, who did you give the bowls and . . . um, their contents to?'

'Me,' a voice behind us said.

I turned.

Chapter Twenty

Kevin Williams stood at the bottom of the deck stairs, right hand in his jacket pocket.

'Hi, Kevin.' I decided to play stupid since, as Sarah Kingston has often told me, I'm really good at it. 'Poor Christy is feeling so awful about some rocks she took from your pots.'

I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming way and held out the two I had. 'I told her that was silly, but you'd better take them so she can sleep at night.'

And, preferably not with the fishes.

Kevin returned my smile, but his hand stayed in its pocket. He did have the nicest, backlit brown eyes.

'Let's go inside.' The hand in his pocket gesturing accordingly.

'Inside?' Christy chirped. 'But everything's such a mess.'

'I'm sure not,' Kevin said, gallantly. 'Now you two gather up the . . . rocks from those pots.'

We did and preceded Kevin into Christy's house. The front room was – where do I register my surprise – immaculate. An ebony piano gleamed in one corner, in contrast to the spare, matte-flat mission furniture.

'Put them there.' Kevin gestured to a square table in front of the couch.

Christy quailed. 'But they're dirty, from the—'

'Do it,' Kevin ordered, less gallantly now.

'No.'

Great. Our neighborhood neat-freak was going to get herself – and, far worse,
me
– killed. I dumped my load on the table, but Christy still hesitated.

'Maggy –' Kevin's free hand pointing at me – 'already got your table dirty. Now, you do it, too.'

With a final anguished look, Christy complied.

A quick scan of the stones.

'Where's the rest of our ice?'

'I think that's all there is.' I turned to the piano teacher, who was sniffling. 'Right, Christy?'

'I don't understand,' she said. 'It's not ice. They're just . . . rocks.'

Kevin laughed, but this time there was no light behind the brown eyes. They might as well have been two olive pits.

Then he turned toward me, and I realized I wasn't fooling him. Kevin knew that I knew.

'"Ice" is actually right, Christy,' I said. 'A nickname for crystal meth. Tell us, Kevin, did you kill JoLynne over it?'

A gasp from my fellow hostage.

Kevin ignored her. 'I didn't kill Jo. Just ask your sheriff friend in his jail cell. Or that kid with the camera. Hell, ask anybody who was there that morning. They all saw I wasn't alone for a minute. I did not kill my wife.'

'Nice collective alibi.' As moving as Kevin's speech was, it was secondary to Christy and me getting out of her 'living' room still doing so. Living, I mean. First, I needed to find out whether Kevin really had a gun.

'I was thinking, though,' I continued. 'When JoLynne's body was found, her clothes were identical to the ones she'd worn the night before. Not very fashion-conscious of her. So, maybe you killed your wife that night, and brought her to the depot early Wednesday morning, wrapped up in the un-inflated cup.'

A flicker and then: 'That's crazy. Why would anyone in their right mind kill somebody in private and then dump the body in the middle of a public train dedication?'

'It does seem a little far-fetched, Maggy,' Christy offered in a hushed tone.

Couldn't expect much help from her corner, though maybe she was trying to keep Kevin calm. Cross-purposes: I wanted to fire him up, but without our getting fired
upon
.

'Maybe, maybe . . .' Roadblocks became real problems when you were making things up on the fly. 'Maybe you wanted JoLynne's body discovered with plenty of witnesses around. Because you knew there was evidence on the balloon that would point to you.'