Deep Waters (37 page)

“She said that Rick Swinton once told her that he always got even,” Charity said. “That no one ever got away with screwing him over. We've got a lot of evidence that she's right. The vandalism of my kitchen and the two thugs he sent to beat you up, for example.”

“What about Arlene Fenton? She told him to get lost.”

“He was more angry at you for interrupting him the night he tried to force himself on her,” Charity said. “In any event, he probably figured he'd already gotten even with Arlene because he and Gwen had stolen her money.”

“Good point.” Elias thought about it. “And he was the one who left the blackmail pictures under your door hoping you'd use them against Phyllis.”

“Right. He definitely had a policy of getting even. The other thing Phyllis said that interested me was
that Swinton took someone else besides her to the old Rossiter place.”

“The Rossiter place?” Elias watched as Hank stopped in front of Pitt Realty. “Didn't you once tell me that was where Jennifer and Leighton Pitt used to meet before the Pitt divorce?”

Hank Tybern hesitated briefly and then appeared to gather himself, as if anticipating something unpleasant. He opened the door and went inside.

“Yes,” Charity said. “The old, rundown cottage on the bluff. Anyhow, as I was saying, it got me thinking. If Tybern's right in assuming that we've only got one murderer around here, then he's looking for a killer with some connection to both Gwen Pitt and Rick Swinton. Someone who would have had cause to hate both of them. When you think about it, that narrows the list.”

Elias saw the door of Pitt Realty open again. “You can save yourself the effort of drawing up a list. I think Tybern has just arrested the number-one suspect.”

“What?” Charity suddenly seemed to realize that his attention was on something going on behind her. She spun around. “Oh, my God. Leighton Pitt. Hank is arresting Leighton Pitt.”

Elias watched as Hank put the dejected-looking Pitt into the car. The handcuffs on Leighton's wrists glinted briefly just before the door closed.

“Looks that way,” Elias said. “You've got to admit, it's logical. Pitt had plenty of reason to be angry with both his ex-wife and Rick Swinton. Together they ruined him.”

“Yes.” Charity watched Hank get behind the wheel of the patrol car.

“Well, that's that.” Elias felt a twinge of deep regret. “I suppose this means that I won't get to watch
you go into your Amazon routine in order to defend me from Hank Tybern anymore.”

“I'm not so sure you're in the clear, yet, Elias.” She sounded serious.

“Why not?”

“Because I don't think that Leighton Pitt killed his ex-wife or Swinton.”

Shortly before eight o'clock that night, Elias sat cross-legged on the cushion in front of the low table and watched Charity polish off the last of his carefully prepared pasta. She had eaten every bite, he noticed, but she had not made a single comment on the food. Her attention was riveted on the subject of Leighton Pitt's arrest.

So much for getting back to basics. Elias was feeling morose and irritable. Things were not going according to plan tonight.

“Ted told me this afternoon that Tybern found Leighton Pitt's gun in the trunk of his car. It's a twenty-eight-caliber. The same kind that was used to kill both Gwen and Rick Swinton.” Charity put down her fork and regarded Elias with an expectant look. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, don't you think it's a little odd that Leighton kept the murder weapon in the trunk of his car? I mean, it doesn't make sense.”

“Murder rarely makes sense. People who kill are not usually thinking clearly.”

“Yes, I know, but Leighton's not stupid. He must have known that he was a possible suspect. Why would he keep the gun?”

“Maybe he had plans to use it again.”

Charity looked horrified for a split second. “I hadn't thought of that.” Her expression switched instantly to
a thoughtful frown. “No, that wouldn't make sense, either. Gwen and Swinton were the only ones he could logically blame for the bankruptcy.”

“You're wasting your time trying to figure this out, Charity. It's Tybern's job to make the case.”

“Know what I think?”

He groaned. “No, but I have a hunch you're about to tell me.”

She leaned forward over the low table and fixed him with a steely-eyed look. “I think someone set Leighton up to take the fall.”

He considered that briefly. “Not likely, but possible.”

“Very possible, if you ask me. Leighton Pitt was not in a murderous mood. He was looking to find a way to salvage his financial situation, not plotting revenge.”

“You could tell?” Elias asked dryly.

“Call it a hunch.”

“That's about all you can call it. Charity, what are you leading up to here?”

She straightened her shoulders. “You are still vulnerable. And it makes me nervous.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If it turns out that Leighton has been framed, the finger of blame is going to be pointed right back at you again. I don't like it.”

“It's not my favorite finger, either,” he conceded, “but I doubt that it will be pointed in my direction.”

“You're not in the clear, yet, Elias. I've been thinking about this all day. I've come to the conclusion that we should take proactive measures to make sure that no one tries to implicate you in this mess.”

Elias was suddenly very wary. “Proactive measures?”

“Right.” She got to her feet and scooped the dishes
off the table in a single move. “We need to look into the facts ourselves. See if we can turn up a few clues.”

“Clues?” Wariness turned to outright alarm. “Are you nuts? This thing is over. Tybern's a good cop. He wouldn't have arrested Pitt unless he had solid grounds.”

She turned in the kitchen and looked at him over the top of the counter. Her eyes were shadowed with concern. “I don't care what kind of evidence they found in the trunk of Leighton's car. I don't think he killed Gwen and Rick. That means that there's still a killer running around loose. And as long as that's true, you're at risk. Because if Leighton Pitt can prove his innocence, you're the next most likely suspect.”

“The hell I am.”

“It's true, Elias. We have to do something to protect you. We need more information. If Swinton was blackmailing Phyllis, he may have been blackmailing others. It's a reasonable assumption, isn't it?”

She was doing this for him, Elias reminded himself. He took consolation from that knowledge.

“Just where do you suggest we start?” he asked cautiously.

“The old Rossiter place.” She dumped the dishes in the sink. “I would feel better if we could find someone else who was involved with Swinton. Someone who may have had something to hide. It will be dark soon. I want to take a quick look around Rick Swinton's little love nest.”

The old Rossiter house was more than a quarter mile from the main road. It was hunkered down in the heavy shadows of a thick stand of fir. The rising slope of a hillside loomed over it, concealing the dilapidated structure from casual view.

It was a miserable-looking little cabin, Elias
thought. Even at night it was plain that no one had done any repairs in years. The eaves drooped precariously over a back porch that looked as though it was on the verge of total collapse.

“So much for worrying about someone seeing our flashlights,” Charity said cheerfully as she walked around the hood of the Jeep to stand beside Elias. “You see? I told you this would be a piece of cake.”

He looked at her. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark sweater. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. There was an air of anticipation and enthusiasm about her that made him distinctly uneasy. “For the record, I want to go down as saying that, while I appreciate your motives here, I'm not real happy with this plan of yours.”

“Did I carp and complain when you searched Swinton's motor home?”

“Yes, you did. Endlessly.”

“Well, that was different. That night we had half the town parked nearby. Here we're all alone.”

“Charity, this is not necessary. The odds of finding anything here are slim to nothing.”

“You never know. It's a place to start. Come on, let's go inside.” She walked determinedly toward the sloping back porch.

Elias thought wistfully of his original plans for the evening. Food and sex. Nice, basic, elemental things. By now he and Charity should have been in bed. But he could tell that there was no dissuading her from her goal.

Reluctantly, he followed her to the porch steps. Charity was already at a window. She trained the flashlight at the bottom of the sill.

“Do you know how to pry open a window?” she asked, fiddling with the latch.

“Why don't you try the door, first?” Elias crossed
the porch to the back door. “I doubt if anyone would bother to lock this place.”

He gripped the knob and twisted firmly. The door opened with a loud groan.

“Good thinking,” Charity said.

“Thank you. A man likes to feel useful around the place.” Elias led the way into the small cottage.

Charity followed quickly. The scent of mildew was strong.

“Whew.” Charity made a half-choking sound. “It smells terrible in here. Not exactly a perfumed love bower, is it?”

“No.” There was a feeling of unending dampness inside the house, as if it had not been aired out for years. “Maybe Rick's partners liked the sleazy ambience.”

The flashlights picked up grimy gray covers draped over heavy furniture that was probably rotting quietly into the floor. The inside of the brick fireplace was blackened, but there was no sign that anyone had used it recently.

“Must have been a little chilly for Rick and his friends,” Elias said.

“I suppose they generated their own heat.” The floorboards groaned as Charity walked to a doorway and peered around the corner. “One small bedroom and a bath. That's it.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I don't know. Let's start with the bedroom. I gather that's where most of the action took place.”

Without waiting for a response, she disappeared around the corner. A couple of seconds later Elias heard a startled gasp.

“What's wrong?” He went to stand in the doorway. He took in the scene revealed by his flashlight and grinned in spite of his mood.

Charity was in the bedroom, her light aimed at the sagging carcass of an ancient iron bedstead. A bare, badly stained mattress sat on the drooping springs. A pair of padded leather handcuffs dangled from one post.

“I can't imagine ever wanting to be chained to a bedpost,” Charity whispered.

“Those handcuffs aren't real. They're the quick-release gag type. Twist them a certain way, and you're free.”

“How do you know?”

“A good shopkeeper knows his merchandise,” Elias said. “I've got some just like those for sale in Charms & Virtues.”

“Amazing.” She glanced at him and scowled. “Don't just stand there. Help me look around.”

“Right. Clues. We need clues to save my hide in case Tybern comes gunning for me.” Elias started to stroll around the tiny bedroom. “What about the handcuffs? Think they might be a useful clue?”

“You're not taking this very seriously, are you?” She was on her knees, bent low to look under the bed. “I'm telling you, Elias, you're in a tricky position here.”

He aimed the beam of his flashlight at the enticing curve of her buttocks. Her jeans were stretched taut across her derriere. “You don't have to tell me that. I'm well aware of it.”

“Go check out the bathroom.”

“To hear is to obey.” With a small sigh of regret, he turned away from the engaging sight of her up-thrust bottom. “But I have to tell you, I still don't like this one damn bit. We're not going to find anything useful, and even if we do, we won't need it because Tybern has his suspect in custody.”

“Just in case,” Charity said. “I'll feel a whole lot
better if we can find something, anything, that points to someone else who might have had a reason to kill Swinton.”

“That still leaves the problem of finding someone other than Pitt who had a motive to murder Gwen.”

“There must be some other suspect. After all, Pitt himself told us about his financial problems after Gwen's death. Why would he have done that? It was tantamount to telling us that he had a motive. A guilty man would never have done such a thing.”

“An interesting point,” Elias conceded. He wandered into the seedy-looking bathroom and flashed the light around the cracked and chipped porcelain fixtures. “Charity, there's something I'd like to ask you.”

“What's that?” Her voice was muffled.

“Are you doing this because I've become one of your salvage projects?”

“Salvage projects?”

“Like pulling Otis out of his depression or saving the landing.”

“I can't hear you,” she called from the other room.

He went to the door of the bath. “I said, are you going to all this trouble because you've decided that you have some kind of responsibility toward me? Because, if that's the case, I'd like to make it clear, I'm not just another pier shopkeeper or a depressed parrot who needs saving.”

“Elias, look at this.”

He walked out into the short hall and saw her standing in the bedroom doorway. He aimed the flashlight first at her excited face and then he switched the beam to the tiny object she held between her thumb and forefinger.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I can't be sure, but I think it's a piece of a chipped acrylic nail.”

“So? A lot of women wear those claws.”

“Yes,” Charity said with great satisfaction. “And if you're from Whispering Waters Cove, chances are good that you have them done at Nails by Radiance.”