Death by Pumpkin Spice (26 page)

“We may have to,” Paul said, before turning to me. “How does any of this relate to Jessica Fairweather's murder? That's why we're here, right?”

I kept my focus on Terry. “I saw you argue with Philip Carlisle at the party. It was about Elaine, wasn't it?”

He hesitated a moment before nodding. “We talked about it before. I had my concerns about him.” He gave me a smile that was very nearly a sneer. “Because of what my wife had done, and with Howard's recent death, I was concerned. Think what you want, but I don't want anything to happen to Elaine.”

Paul looked confused. “Why would you think that?”

“The costume,” I answered for Terry. “Both Jessica and Elaine were wearing the same Marilyn Monroe outfit.”

“As was Margaret Yarborough,” Paul added, as if I might have forgotten.

“I don't know why Elaine was there,” Terry said. “I swear to you, I had nothing to do with it. I was as surprised as anyone when I saw her. I thought maybe Margaret invited her because Howard had died, but when she didn't even go over to say hi to her, I began to wonder.”

I frowned. If Terry hadn't invited Elaine, then who did? I knew it had to be related to Jessica's death. There were far too many coincidences for it not to.

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. When I wanted Paul to bring me here, I'd thought we were going to be confronting the man who hired Philip Carlisle to kill Elaine. I thought Terry had invited her because he'd found out she really wasn't his daughter and had decided to have her killed. Since there was a good chance Philip didn't know what his victim looked like, he could easily have made a mistake since both women had worn the same costume.

But Terry had already known about Elaine. So what other motive would anyone have had to kill Howard Yarborough's illegitimate daughter?

“The will,” I said, breathless.

“What will?” Paul asked.

Terry nodded, slowly. He'd figured it out already. I could tell by the look on his face. I even knew why he hadn't said anything. If he would have come forward, his secret would be out, something he didn't want.

I turned to Paul, excited again. “We have to go.”

“Why?” He seemed genuinely confused.

“Terry didn't hire Mr. Carlisle to kill his daughter like I originally thought.” I glanced at the man in question, and added, “Sorry about that,” before turning back to Paul. “I can't believe I didn't see it until now!”

“Okay?” Paul frowned. “I assume you know who did then?”

I stood and started for the door. Paul could either follow or I'd walk all the way there and confront Philip's accomplice on my own. I refused to let this one get away.

“Who else?” I said as he leapt up to follow. “Margaret Yarborough!”

27

This time, I told him everything in the car.

“The Yarboroughs had no children, and as far as I know, no other family.”

Paul glanced at me for a brief moment before returning his attention back to the road. “So, how does that help us?”

“Howard died. He would have left a will.” I still couldn't believe I never saw the connections before now. It was all right there in front of me the entire time I was at the party. “In that will, Margaret would more than likely receive some of his money.” I was guessing they held separate accounts. My dad had once told me that people with money often kept their earnings separate, just in case the marriage didn't work out. And if one of them were to unexpectedly die—especially if foul play might be suspected—it prevented the other partner from inheriting until everything was cleared up.

“Okay?” Paul said, still confused. “I get that. But how does that lead to Jessica Fairweather's murder? As far as I could discern, she had nothing to do with either of the Yarboroughs. She was an acquaintance that got invited to the party because she had money.”

“The costumes!” I nearly shouted it in my excitement. When he didn't immediately get it, I went on. “Someone, more than likely Margaret Yarborough, invited Elaine Harmon, Howard's illegitimate daughter, to the party. Margaret found out what Elaine planned on wearing, probably by recommending it to her and making sure the costume ended up in her hands. Then she told Philip Carlisle to look for it, hiring him to kill her.”

“But why do it at the party, rather than somewhere that wouldn't put Margaret and Philip both at the scene?”

I shrugged. “To make the party livelier? To create a situation where there would be more suspects? I don't know for sure. She might have wanted to have it take place close to her so she could witness it firsthand.” Which made her a lot more diabolical than I would have pegged her for, but who was I to judge levels of insanity? “All I know is that Philip made a mistake. He saw someone dressed as Marilyn Monroe and killed her, thinking it was Elaine.”

“Mrs. Yarborough was wearing the same thing,” Paul said. “Why would she do that if she was going to have Mr. Carlisle kill someone wearing that specific dress?”

“It might be how Philip knew who to kill. If Margaret did indeed tell Elaine what to wear, she could have bought the same thing, telling Philip that whoever was wearing the Monroe costume was his target. Then, once the deed was done, she could change into something else, claiming she was doing it because she didn't want to wear what a murder victim had been wearing. She couldn't have known Jessica was wearing the same costume until it was too late. And then when she tried to talk to Philip before the murder, Terry Blandino interrupted.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Paul fell silent for a few seconds and then a lightbulb seemed to go on. “The will.”

“Exactly!” I wanted to hug him, but since he was driving, held off. “Howard knew about Elaine, had probably provided for her in some way. Margaret didn't approve, so whatever he was doing had to be kept quiet. If he made it public that Elaine was his daughter, it would cause a scandal. Even Terry, who knew about the affair and knew his daughter wasn't really his daughter, didn't want that.”

We were already racing toward the Yarborough mansion faster than was safe, yet Paul managed to put on more speed.

“What if Margaret realized Howard was going to leave a substantial amount of his fortune to his illegitimate daughter? She might have snuck a peek at the will—which she said hadn't been processed yet—or had their lawyer tell her. From what I understand, she was pretty tight with him. Since she didn't want anyone to know about Elaine, and she wouldn't want to have so much money go to a girl she'd never raised, never cared to get to know. She couldn't have been happy.”

“So she had her killed.”

I nodded. “She hired Philip Carlisle, a man rumored to have killed for hire, who very well might have had a hand in Howard Yarborough's death, if the rumors are to be believed. She had him kill a girl who was about to take a rather large piece of the pie Margaret thought belonged solely to her. When she talked about the women who'd come asking for money, it was obvious she viewed them with scorn.”

“And Elaine had a legitimate claim on the money where these other women didn't.”

“Exactly. So, in comes Philip.”

“Who killed the girl,” Paul said, sounding sad. “Jessica Fairweather died for no reason. It was all a mistake.”

“And Elaine could still be in danger,” I said, realizing it for the first time. “Just because Philip failed, doesn't mean Margaret won't try again some other way.”

Paul didn't hesitate. He snatched up his phone and pressed a button without looking. He slammed it to his ear hard enough, it had to hurt.

“Buchannan,” he said when he picked up. “Get someone over to Ms. Elaine Harmon's place as soon as possible. If she's at work, find her there. She could be in danger.” A pause while Buchannan spoke. “No, now.” He clicked the phone off.

“Will he do it?” I asked, knowing how stubborn Buchannan can be.

“He will. John can be difficult sometimes, but he's good at his job. He won't let his personal feelings about me cloud his judgment.”

I wasn't so sure about that when it came to me, but I let it go. Buchannan seemed to be trying, and I owed it to everyone to do the same.

“How did you figure it out?” Paul asked. We were almost to the Yarborough mansion, so I had to talk fast if I wanted to get it all out before we confronted Margaret.

“I saw a photograph of Howard in the bedroom,” I said. “He has a very distinctive nose. His daughter does as well. When I saw it, I didn't put it together right away, but it hit me today. I figured they had to be related.”

“Which Terry confirmed.”

“And while I was asking questions at the party, I'd heard all sorts of things about the Yarboroughs. They had no kids, which called into question about who would inherit once Margaret was gone. No one was asking about who would get
Howard's
money, which I bet Margaret was counting on. And then when I learned that Philip might have killed Howard, how he might have once been a hitman, it all sort of tumbled together.”

“Good work,” Paul said, sounding impressed.

“I should have seen it before now,” I said. I was thrilled by the compliment, but it wouldn't mean anything if Margaret were to get away, or worse, Elaine ended up dead.

We reached the driveway, which was still a muddy mess, but at least now there was enough gravel we were able to get up it with little trouble. Paul parked right outside the house and was out of the car nearly before he'd put it in park. He muttered, “Stay here,” but I think we both knew I wasn't going to listen. I had my door open and was coming around the front end almost before he finished speaking.

He gave me a resigned sigh as we approached the front door. He knocked, and when no one answered right away, he started pounding harder. “Mrs. Yarborough! Open up. It's Officer Paul Dalton with the Pine Hills Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

It took a few more seconds before the door opened and a man I didn't recognize right away peered out. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt—not something you'd expect to see someone wearing in a mansion like the Yarborough place.

“Officer Dalton?” the man asked. “How can I help you?”

I blinked at him. I finally recognized him by his voice, and yet still couldn't see it in his face. He had cleaned off the makeup and wasn't wearing his costume, but it was Vince, Margaret's butler, the man I'd known as Igor.

“I need to speak to Mrs. Yarborough,” Paul said, not thrown off by the change in the slightest. “Can we come in?”

“You can,” Vince said. “But Madam Yarborough isn't here, and I don't think she's coming back.” He looked down at his tennis shoes and sighed. “She let the staff go this morning and left with many of her bags packed.”

Paul gave me an alarmed look before turning back to Vince. “Do you know where she's gone?”

Vince grinned as he leaned forward and lowered his voice, though I don't think there was anyone in the house who could have overheard him even if he'd shouted. “I heard her speaking on the phone early this morning when she thought no one was around. She said she needed to stop at the bank and then would meet someone at his office afterward. I believe she was talking to her lawyer, Christian Tellitocci.” He glanced at his watch. “She left ten minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” Paul said to Vince, before turning to the car. “Let's go.” That to me.

“I hope you get her,” Vince said. He sounded so sincere, I think he actually meant it. My observation at the party that the help didn't seem to enjoy working for Mrs. Yarborough seemed pretty accurate now.

Paul was on the phone when I slid into the car next to him. He backed out, cursed, and then tossed the phone down. He turned the car around in the parking lot at the side of the house and then sped down the driveway, slipping and sliding everywhere. I held on for dear life, certain we'd end up off the road and stuck in the mud, but we somehow made it down without crashing.

If there were any doubts that I'd gotten it right, they'd fled right along with Margaret Yarborough. Why else would she be on the run if she didn't have anything to do with Jessica Fairweather's murder? Chances were good she was afraid Philip would cave and turn her in, so she was getting out while she still had time.

Of course, that brought up the question as to why he
hadn't
given her up. Love? Stubbornness? Some sort of killer's code that prevented him?

“Look up Christian Tellitocci for me,” Paul said, gesturing toward his phone. “I think I know where his office is, but I want to make sure.”

I grabbed his phone and brought up Chrome. A quick Google search and I knew where we were going. I told Paul the address, which earned me a nod, but little else. I could tell his mind was elsewhere, probably running through all of the facts, or prepping himself for what was inevitably going to be a confrontation.

I was too excited to make much in the way of conversation, anyway. Paul looked intense and I didn't want to shatter his focus, either. I wished we would have taken his cruiser so he could turn on the siren and lights. We were forced to slow down a few times because cars didn't get out of the way, something that would have happened if we'd been in the correct vehicle. And there was no radio in here he could get in touch with the station, on Paul or in his car. I think he'd taken that stuff off before leaving the station, and I assume his failed call was him trying to get in touch with someone at the station, meaning we were on our own.

Again.

“When we get there, I need you to stay in the car,” he said. We were on Rosebud Avenue, a stretch of road on the far side of the downtown area where most of the buildings were filled with lawyers, tax consultants, and other niche jobs. There were no coffee shops or candy stores here. Everything was brown, and rather boring, which was sad in a way. Much of Pine Hills was so rich and vibrant, and here, there weren't even any clever names. I was surprised to find I missed the strange business names of the main stretch.

“I will,” I promised him, not wanting him to lock me in the car or handcuff me to the door. While a part of me wanted to be in the middle of the action, I knew where that would get me. Although a trip to the local doctor's offices wouldn't be such a bad thing if Will was around.

A blush came unbidden to my cheeks, but thankfully, Paul was too busy parking to take notice.

A Lexus sat idling two cars ahead. No one was inside, but since it was running, I doubted that would last long. Paul shut off the engine and got out of the car, hand already near his gun. He jogged toward the front of a building with
TELLITOCCI AND SONS
written in white on the glass window. He reached for the door just as it burst open and a rather large man came barreling out, slamming into Paul, taking them both to the ground.

Paul rose to one knee, his gun in hand, and aimed at the big man on the ground—Christian Tellitocci if I didn't miss my guess—who was holding both his hands above his head in surrender. He was babbling nonstop, as if he could talk his way out of an arrest. I hoped he was confessing and giving up Margaret Yarborough, but knew it was unlikely.

Paul lowered his gun as the man continued to talk. He grabbed zip strips from his pocket and moved to secure the lawyer.

Movement near the corner of the building caught my eye. Paul missed it because he was distracted with the lawyer and his steady stream of words. While Christian might have given himself up, he wasn't making it easy, moving his hands and wrists so Paul couldn't get a grip on them.

Margaret Yarborough stepped out onto the sidewalk, back slightly hunched as if she thought that if she crouched down, no one would notice her. Her eyes were locked on Paul. She didn't see me, thankfully. She was making for the Lexus, a briefcase in hand. I was pretty sure it was filled with a large portion of Howard's money.

Paul had said to stay in the car, but he hadn't anticipated this. I threw open the car door and grabbed the only thing I saw in the immediate vicinity I could use as a weapon. I darted toward the fleeing woman and held it up like a gun as I shouted, “Margaret! Stop!”

She froze less than a yard away from the front of the car. She glanced at me, then to the Lexus, before finally looking past me to Paul, who cursed loudly just as Christian started screaming, “Run, Margie, run!”

From the scuffling sounds that followed, I knew I was on my own.