Death by Pumpkin Spice (20 page)

“What about Philip Carlisle?” I asked.

There was a moment of silence before Rita answered, sounding as if she had a personal hatred for the man. “I don't care much for him.”

“How so?” I asked.

“I'm not one to spread rumors, but that man is not to be trusted. I've heard some dark things about him. Stay away from him if you know what's good for you.”

My heart was pounding now.
Could he really be the killer?
Maybe my speculation about a relationship gone sour wasn't too far off the mark. “What sort of dark things?”

“I'm sure you know, but he was connected with Margaret Yarborough before her husband's death. An affair, if you can believe it.”

Oh, I believed it all right. His name was on the list, and Margaret had told me as much to my face.

“Well, when Howard died, some believed Margaret had killed him,” she said.

“You don't believe that.” I could hear it in her voice.

“I don't think she did it on her own.” Rita sounded grave for what was probably the first time in her life. “That Carlisle man was around at the time. There were always rumors that he was a hitman for some mafia before he moved here.”

While Philip looked the part, I had a hard time believing it. He was thirty at most. I suppose it was possible he'd gotten involved with the wrong people at a young age, but even if he did, why move to a place like Pine Hills where there wasn't much need for a hitman?

“If he's there, you obviously have your killer,” Rita said. “There is absolutely no doubt in my mind; that man is up to no good.”

My heart wasn't just pounding now; it was trying to blow out my eardrums from the inside.
Could Philip Carlisle have killed Jessica Fairweather?
If so, why?

Hadn't Margaret said she was with Philip during the murder? Had she lied? Or was I jumping to conclusions that had no basis in fact? If Margaret
did
care for Philip more than she'd let on, she might have claimed they were together to protect him.

But that didn't seem like her. Could she have been mistaken on the timing? Had he killed Jessica mere moments before heading to Margaret's bedroom?

Of course, that didn't matter now. Philip was roaming the party at this very moment. The rain had all but stopped, and the tow truck would have Buchannan's car out of the way before long, if it wasn't already out. Once the guests started leaving, the chances of figuring out who killed Jessica would diminish. And even if we did, he might be long gone by the time we found him again.

“Krissy, dear? Are you still there?”

“Thank you, Rita,” I said. “I've got to go.”

“You just have to—”

I hung up before she could finish.

My first instinct was to run into the ballroom, hunt down Mr. Carlisle, and accuse him of Jessica's murder in front of everyone. With all of those witnesses, he surely wouldn't try anything. Then again, I'd seen firsthand what a desperate person could do when cornered. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea, after all.

No, this was better handled by the police. I'd done my part. I'd learned my lesson from the last couple of times I tried to do things on my own. I didn't want someone else to get hurt, especially if that someone was me.

And now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure I wasn't the only one who suspected Philip was responsible for Jessica's death. Why else would Terry have confronted him on a night like this? I only hoped that he had solid evidence of Philip's involvement, because right now, I was working on pure speculation. It wouldn't be enough to convict him, even if Paul were to arrest him.

But for now, I needed to let Paul know what was happening, whether Philip was the real killer or not. I shoved my phone back into my sweatpants, straightened my back, and went in search of Paul before the police started to let people leave.

21

“Have you seen Officer Dalton?” I asked Buchannan, who was talking to a group of people, notebook in hand. The page was empty, telling me he wasn't getting anywhere, so I didn't mind butting in.

“What is this in regard to?” he asked, turning to me. He was in full-on professional mode, more than likely for the benefit of the men he'd been interviewing.

I hesitated before answering. How much should I tell him? Buchannan was a police officer, just like Paul, but he was also the man who was constantly hounding me, accusing me of getting involved in things I'd be better off leaving alone. He was right, I suppose, but it didn't mean I had to like him any more than I did, or trust him to do the right thing.

“I think I might have found a break in the case,” I said, figuring that lying would only make my life worse. Besides, the last time we'd parted, it hadn't been on entirely horrible terms.

Buchannan glanced back at the group of men, and said, “Thank you for your time,” before taking me by the elbow and leading me toward a more private corner of the room. There were still people nearby, but not close enough to listen in if we didn't start shouting at one another.

“What do you know?” he asked.

I pulled my arm free and made a show of rubbing my elbow as if he'd hurt me, which he hadn't; he'd made me feel like a child.

“I'd like to speak to Officer Dalton,” I said. “He's more informed about the case and suspects than you at the moment.”

Buchannan's eyes went hard. “Ms. Hancock, you best not be withholding information from me.”

“I'm not,” I said, though I guess I was. “It's just that what I have to say will mean little to you.” Of course, that wasn't quite accurate, but after he'd escorted me to the corner like I was a troublesome toddler, I didn't want to tell him anything. “Paul knows the suspect, has spoken to him.” I hoped. “He'll be able to tell me whether or not my information is important.”

Buchannan ground his teeth together. He looked like he was debating on whether or not to lock me up somewhere. Really, I didn't blame him. I was being difficult, and I knew it. Maybe if I cut him a little slack sometime, he might not be so mean to me.

“Please,” I said as sweetly as I could. “Tell me where he is. I'm sure he'll fill you in afterward. If I thought you could help, I'd tell you.”

He continued to grind his teeth for another few seconds, eyeing me as if he suspected some sort of trick, before he sighed. “Fine,” he said. “He's talking to a suspect at the moment.”

I didn't have to ask him where. “Thank you.”

Buchannan grunted in response.

I hurried for the hall that led to the makeshift interrogation room, eyes scanning the faces around me in search of Philip and his fedora. Had he slipped out while I'd been on the phone? Was he roaming the halls, searching for another victim? Or could fortune be with me and Paul was already interrogating him, getting the man to admit his role in the murder.

If, indeed, he was our killer.

I was running by the time I reached the door to the interrogation room. I forced my way inside without knocking, out of breath and excited.

Paul was seated at the table. Isabella, the woman who'd discovered the body, sat across from him. She looked just as frazzled as before, as if she had yet to recover from her ordeal. They both looked up at me in surprise at the exact same moment.

“I need to talk to you,” I told Paul, paying Isabella only a cursory glance.

“I'm in the middle of something,” he said, but stood anyway.

“It's important.” I tried to give him a meaningful look that wouldn't tell Isabella anything. I think I only managed to look half-crazed.

“Could you excuse us a moment?” Paul said to the other woman before walking over to where I stood. “In the hall,” he told me.

As soon as we were outside and the door was closed, I launched in. “I think I know who killed Jessica.”

Paul, who had been about to speak before I cut him off, went suddenly alert. “How?”

“I was talking to some people,” I said carefully. I didn't want to tell him I'd gotten my information from Rita, nor did I want him thinking I was roaming the ballroom, questioning everyone I saw. “I learned a few interesting tidbits about some of our guests.”

“Such as?” The impatience was clear in his voice.

“One of the men here is rumored to be a hitman, or at least, was when he was younger.”

“Krissy . . .” He sounded disappointed with not just the information, but with me. “You can't believe every rumor you hear.”

I kept my flare of anger in check. He was only being reasonable. How often were rumors completely blown out of proportion, to the point of being flat-out lies?

But I knew there was more to it than simple rumor. There was definitely something off about Philip Carlisle, something that I'd felt the moment I'd laid eyes on him. If anyone could be a natural-born killer, it was him.

“There's more to it than just rumor,” I said, managing to sound only mildly defensive. “I saw this man arguing with more than one person tonight. Heated arguments.”

A frown crept over Paul's features. “Who did he argue with?”

“I overheard him arguing with Mrs. Yarborough about where their relationship was heading. He believes they should run away together. She doesn't.”

“That doesn't seem relevant.”

“Later, I saw him arguing with another man, Terry Blandino. Twice. I think Terry was accusing him of the murder.”

“Did you hear him come out and say it?” Paul asked. “Did this man admit to killing Mrs. Fairweather?”

“Well, not exactly,” I said. “But I'm sure that's what I saw.”

Paul didn't look convinced, so I began ticking points off on my fingers.

“This man has been seen arguing with multiple people. He seems out of place and keeps to himself. I don't think I've seen him mingle once. He is antagonistic and didn't take too well to me talking to him earlier. Currently, he is nowhere to be seen. And he is rumored to be a hitman, possibly in connection to Howard Yarborough's death.”

Paul frowned. “He wasn't murdered as far as I am aware.”

“No, and I have no proof of it. But this man was on the list Margaret gave me. She'd slept with him, which meant they'd have time to plan Howard's murder together. Some people believe Margaret had a hand in her husband's death. What if she didn't do it on her own? What if this man did? They had ample opportunity and time to discuss it. And then after the deed was done, I catch them arguing here of all places. What if he killed Jessica to get at Margaret some way, to show how far he would go for her?”

Paul was silent a long moment before he spoke. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt to talk to this man. What is his name?”

“Philip Carlisle. He's wearing—”

“A fedora, long coat, and glasses,” Paul finished for me. “I talked to him a little while ago. He claims he was with Mrs. Yarborough at the time of Jessica's death.”

Which was the same story Margaret had given me. “He could have lied.” Which meant Mrs. Yarborough had done the same.

“There was something peculiar about him,” Paul went on. His eyes met mine and all uncertainty seemed to have fled. “I felt he was lying to me the entire time we talked.”

My excitement grew. “He has to be the one. I don't know why he killed Jessica Fairweather—it's all speculation on my part so far—but I'm positive he had a hand in it. It fits too much for him not to be involved.”

“The boyfriend maybe,” Paul said. I could see his mind working a million miles a minute. “If he knew about Mr. Carlisle's supposed past, he might have gone to him after his girlfriend rejected him.” He started striding forward, still talking. Isabella was apparently forgotten. I followed after him, not wanting to be left behind. “We'll need to talk to them both again, see if we can get one of them to break and give the other up.”

We entered the ballroom, stopping just inside. Paul scanned the crowed, face serious. I joined him, though I had to stand on my tiptoes to see over most of the heads. Being short sucked sometimes.

“He's not here,” I said, having already looked for him. “He might be on the run!” Igor was still standing by the door, but I was pretty sure that wasn't the only exit in the mansion.

“Buchannan!” Paul barked, drawing nearly every eye. “Over here.”

Buchannan flipped his notebook closed and strode across the room. He stopped in front of us. “Yes,
Officer
Dalton.” It was clear he didn't appreciate being called over so rudely.

“Have you seen a man in a hat and glasses, wearing a long coat? He goes by the name Philip Carlisle.”

Buchannan glanced at me. I could read the question in his eye:
Is this what you wanted me for?
I held his gaze for a long couple of seconds before he answered.

“I think I saw someone of that description leave a few minutes ago with Mar . . . Mrs. Yarborough.” He nodded toward the opposite exit, flushing as if embarrassed by nearly saying her name. “She didn't seem too happy about it, but went along willingly enough.”

Instant panic. Could Philip be plotting his next murder? Could he have accidentally killed Jessica when he'd meant to kill Margaret all along? Or could it have indeed been a warning shot, meant to make her realize he was serious about running away together and he wouldn't take no for an answer? Perhaps she lied for him because he'd threatened her. But what if that wasn't enough for him?

Could he be killing her even now?

Paul and I glanced at one another. I could see the same questions running through his mind.

“Buchannan,” he said, all business. “Secure the room. Keep an eye out for both Margaret Yarborough and Philip Carlisle. The moment you see him, take him into custody.”

Buchannan gave a sharp nod and strode into the room. For the first time since I'd met the man, I felt as if he was a
real
cop. His entire demeanor had changed, telling me that when he wasn't blaming me for something I didn't do, he could actually perform his job exceptionally well. Huh. Go figure.

Paul turned to me. I straightened, ready to receive my orders. I was excited. Another killer might end up behind bars thanks to me.

“Stay here,” he said, before turning and loping off toward the hall where Margaret was last seen.

I gaped after him. I'd just solved the case, or at least, thought I did. Without me, he wouldn't have gotten this lead, at least not before we'd left for the night. I looked toward where Buchannan had gone, but he was no help. Even if I begged him for something to do, he'd simply shoo me away.

Paul vanished down the hall. I had a decision to make.

I snorted. This was me we were talking about. There was only one decision I
could
make.

I took off at a run, ignoring the stares. I had to look a sight in my borrowed clothes and wild eyes. My cheeks were flushed with excitement, and maybe with a little exhaustion. I wasn't a fan of running anywhere, and I'd been doing a lot of rushing around lately. My legs were going to hate me in the morning.

Paul hadn't gotten far. He stood only a short ways down the hall, looking indecisive. I hurried up to him and then past him so he wouldn't grab me and stop me. I knew where those stairs led. “Her bedroom,” I said, nodding toward the stairs even as I made toward them.

I heard him follow after.

I was panting by the time I reached Margaret's bedroom. The door was closed, and I could hear voices inside. Paul was right behind me and he wasn't even slightly out of breath. I really needed to start working out if I was going to keep doing this. Or maybe cut back on the cookies and ice cream.

“No!”

The shout came from the other side of the door. I recognized it instantly as belonging to Margaret Yarborough.

Paul didn't hesitate. He pushed past me and tried the door, which, of course, was locked. “Margaret!” he shouted, rattling the doorknob. When she didn't answer right away, he lowered his shoulder and opened the door by sheer brute force. I heard something snap in the lock and found myself out of breath for another reason entirely. I mean, he hadn't even backed up before using his shoulder to force open a locked door that had looked pretty darn sturdy to me.

His momentum carried him inside the room. I followed quickly after, not wanting to miss the confrontation.

Philip had Margaret by one wrist. His hat was lying on the bed, and his glasses were askew on his face as if he'd been slapped. He was red-faced, one cheek brighter than the other. Margaret's eyes were wide with shock.

“Let her go,” Paul demanded. “Now.”

Philip did as he was told. Margaret jerked her hand back and took two quick steps away from him. Tears burst from her eyes as she began rubbing at her wrist.

“I can explain,” Philip said, his ever-present sneer in place. “We were just talking.”

“It looked like a lot more than talking to me,” I said.

“Krissy.” Paul's tone was a warning to stay out of it. He kept his eyes on Philip and directed his next comment toward him. “Calmly move to this side of the bed, away from Mrs. Yarborough.”

Philip raised both of his hands, pausing long enough to fix his glasses. He glanced down at his hat, which was lying on the bed, as if he was considering picking it up and putting it on. I noted the cats were missing, and hoped they'd found a safe hiding place and hadn't been hurt when Philip had attacked their owner.