Fly by Night (A Gracie Andersen Mystery Book 3) (22 page)

Isabelle appeared from nowhere, Chanel No. 5 announcing her presence.

“I’m so glad you got that dress. It’s absolutely perfect. And that necklace, Carla. Beautiful. They’re
you
.”

“I would never have chosen this dress without your help. Your fashion sense is perfect. Thank you, Isabelle.”

Isabelle radiated with the pride of a benevolent fashion despot. She’d been right. It was all Isabelle’s doing.

“I didn’t even remember to put on a pair of earrings,” Gracie muttered. “I’m not a big jewelry person, but the necklace is beautiful.”

Carla’s hand flew to the necklace. “It was an unexpected gift,” she said, flashing a wide smile.

“Dean has good taste,” Isabelle commented, her eyes never leaving the jewelry.

“Yes, he does.” Carla’s eyes searched across the patio to where Dean stood talking with Kevin.

“Ladies, let’s get dessert,” Isabelle said, herding them like a border collie toward the fire pit.

The string quartet was packing up. Dusk filtered over the lawn, pushing the rest of the stragglers toward the house. Carla excused herself, while Gracie followed Isabelle.

Ann Marie reached the blazing fire, holding her hands out toward the warmth. Fire was unnecessary on the warm evening, but it added just the right ambiance to the twilight seeping over the wide flagstone patio. Isabelle appeared with a tray of steaming coffee mugs. She set it down on a low, mosaic tile table near the fire.

The caterer, whom Gracie recognized as Kate, brought another tray out behind her. A huge bread bowl holding some sort of dip was carefully arranged in the middle of chunks of bread and fresh vegetables. Gracie planned on checking out the dip and then saying her goodbyes. A tray of small squares of cheesecake and brownies was on another table. The goodbyes might be put off a little longer, she decided, when she saw the tiny confections. Ann Marie teetered a little, and Kevin grabbed her elbow, steadying the woman, while directing her to a chair.

“Thanks, Kevin. Someone has to stand in for my husband,” she said petulantly, eyeing Cynthia and Mitch as they reached the fire.

Gracie decided on a square of cheesecake topped with a perfect raspberry and a brownie drizzled with hot fudge. Cynthia took a mug of coffee and handed another to Mitch. Gracie noticed that Mitch’s fingers lingered on hers. Apparently, Ann Marie noticed too. She rose out of the chair like a summer thunderstorm and knocked the mug from Mitch’s hand. It shattered on the flagstone.

“Get away from my husband, you Washington whore. I know what you’ve been doing behind my back, and now you’re stupid enough to do it in
front
of me.”

Horrified, Mitch backed away from the two women, stammering, “Aaaah … Ann … Ann Marie. Stop it.”

“Stop it?
You
stop it. You’ve gone through my money, and now you’re screwing her to get more.”

Ann Marie’s face was bordering on apoplectic. Cynthia shot back daggers of hate at Ann Marie.

“You stupid drunk. I’ve gone to every green energy promotion and political function to keep your husband’s business afloat. You can’t even stay sober long enough to make it through a dinner. How dare you accuse me of even looking twice at
him
!”

The “him” was said with such contempt that Gracie could hardly breathe. The color drained from Mitch’s face. It was as if time had suddenly stopped. No one moved. Isabelle coolly stepped in.

“Ladies, please. I’m sure we can …”

Before Isabelle could finish, Ann Marie had taken a handful of dip from the large bread bowl and thrown it at Cynthia, who neatly sidestepped it. The plop of sour cream and spinach hit Isabelle squarely in the well-pushed up cleavage she’d showcased for the evening. It immediately spread down the front of her dress, and Gracie was sure, it was oozing down inside too. Isabelle screamed, looking down at the damage, too shocked to move. Cynthia picked up the dessert tray and whipped it at Ann Marie, who batted it away, cheesecake and brownies flying everywhere. Gracie felt one fall into her hair. She backed further away from the fray, picking brownie pieces from her hair. Isabelle regained her wits, and with a look that would turn a pack of hungry wolves away, grabbed the bread bowl and promptly dumped the contents on Ann Marie. The woman shrieked a string of profanities and stumbled toward the driveway, calling for her husband. Mitch, reminiscent of a frog about to be swallowed by a snake, ran after his wife. Cynthia smiled enigmatically at the stunned audience and stalked off behind them.

Bob and Theresa Clark, comfortably seated on the small wicker sofa on the patio, enjoyed the retelling of Gracie’s party adventure.

“Unbelievable! Isabelle must be mortified. I can’t wait to hear her version of this fiasco tomorrow.” Theresa laughed. “I won’t be able to stop myself from dropping by to ask her how the party went.”

“I think you should pass on some of the other information to that investigator,” Gracie’s father admonished. “If you heard these people correctly, it might mean one of them killed D. B.”

Gracie nodded unenthusiastically. “I know. I’m just not absolutely sure what they were talking about.”

“Just tell the police and let them handle it. I keep telling you this, but you don’t listen, her mother advised. She stood and turned to her husband. “Come on, dear. Let’s go home.”

Gracie watched the taillights of her parents’ car disappear down the road. A text notification from her iPhone chimed. She grabbed it from the round side table on her patio. It was from Jim: 
r gone … called cops ... looking 4 him

She called him and got voicemail the first time. She hit his speed dial number again. He answered, but it was obvious he was running. He told her he’d call her back. The house phone rang. Gracie grumbled about getting up to answer it to a snoring Haley. Jim must have dialed it by mistake. Without looking at the caller ID, she answered, “You called the house phone.”

“Hello? Is this Gracie?” The male voice was familiar, but she’d expected Jim, and she was at a loss.

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I was… Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Dean. Uh, Carla asked me to call you about the plans.”

“The plans. Right. I forgot to take them when the food fight broke out.”

“Yeah. That was quite the scene. I guess I would’ve shown up sooner if I’d known the entertainment was so good.” He chuckled. “Anyway, she wants to drop them off tomorrow.”

“Sure. I’ll be home all day. Not a problem. Say, you’ve got good taste in jewelry. That’s a nice necklace you got for Carla.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Well, I’ve got to check on some things at the barn. Goodnight then.”

Her cell phone buzzed. She grabbed it from the breakfast bar.

Jim’s voice was strained as he brought her up to date. Both the state troopers and sheriff’s department were combing Greerson’s Meadow and Richter’s property above it. They’d found the Geo in the Meadow—doors open, key in the ignition, but no sign of Roscoe. His laptop was smashed and his camera go
n
e
.
Gracie raised her eyebrows when Jim told her that Allie had called the police and him when Roscoe hadn’t shown up to take her to the drive-in.

“I had no idea,” she said incredulously. “Allie, huh?”

“That’s right. Allie. Sorta out of his league, but, hey … Good for him. She said he had a meeting with Richter up here, but she wasn’t sure where. Anyway, Toby and I are going up with the cops. Who knows what he might’ve gotten himself into? They’re trying to find Richter right now too. He seems to have taken off.”

“I just hope Roscoe’s all right. And they’d better find that rat, Richter.”

“Agreed. I’ll let you know.”

She sat down on a stool, stomach churning. She’d consumed way too much rich food. She felt a tad nauseous. Roscoe was missing again, and it seemed as if all her suspects were on the loose tonight. It was like the kids’ game “Fruit Basket Upset.” Quite similar to how her stomach felt. She groaned and stretched her legs out, rubbing sore calves. Wearing heels always did her in.

She looked at the kitchen clock. It was 9:30. If everyone was out hunting for Roscoe and Richter, Investigator Hotchkiss wouldn’t be interested in hearing from her until tomorrow. She decided to make a list of her suspects, which might clear things up. She sat down at the breakfast bar, grabbed a pencil from the container by the phone, and dug through her bag to find the notebook.

Richter was the prime suspect as far as she was concerned. If he’d hurt Roscoe or worse…. She blocked the possibilities from her mind. He and D. B. had certainly produced enough ill will between the two of them. Maybe D. B. had pushed Richter a little too far, which wasn’t a stretch. But the erstwhile environmentalist had his beady eyes on the Meadow property. He’d also threatened just about everyone. And it looked like the group was skipping town. His alibi didn’t add up either. He couldn’t prove he was at dinner anywhere, but Cheryl had seen his vehicle along with Cynthia Harkness at the Renew Earth office. He would have had time to shoot D. B. and meet up with the sniper.

And that led her on to Ms. Harkness. She was supposed to be at a meeting with Kevin and D. B., but instead she’d been at the Renew Earth office. The timeframe still worked for her to shoot D. B., and she was an expert shot. Of course, you didn’t need to be an expert to use a shotgun. And if D. B. was having an affair with the woman, it could have been a crime of passion. Ms. Harkness had to be up to something else that wasn’t apparent yet. She’d lost her job with the congressman tonight. What was that all about? Had D. B. known something about her that was dangerous?

Gracie jotted down three question marks after “Harkness” and nibbled at the end of the pencil eraser. All roads still led to the Meadow property. Cynthia wanted it for the wind farm. But would she kill for it? Why did she want it so badly? How could she be sure that killing D. B. would get her the property? It could have been a lover’s quarrel. Mitch Allen had designs on Cynthia. That was completely obvious tonight. Maybe he and D. B. got into a fight over Ms. Harkness. But Mr. Allen seemed like a weak man to her. On second thought, that characteristic might make him more dangerous. His alibi was pretty solid though. He’d been at Isabelle’s right on time for the meeting. She scratched his name out.

Shifting to a more comfortable position on the stool, she scribbled “Dean” next on the list. He had entered her mind in the last couple of days. He was in an all-fired hurry to get the farm into his name and kick Kim out the door. It was out of character, but maybe he was over the edge. He’d have to be if he’d killed D. B. His alibi was nice and tidy though, just like Mitch Allen’s. Then again, a spouse vouching for a spouse might not be the best either. That warranted some further research. There was something else she couldn’t put her finger on that nagged at her about Dean. She’d come up with some questions for Carla tomorrow. The ringing house phone jarred her from her detective reverie.

Kim had an alibi—finally. Gracie was almost dancing around the kitchen listening to the unbelievable news.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, but at least I’ve figured it out now,” Kim bubbled.

“Wow! What a relief! Have you called Nolan yet?”

“Not yet. I wanted to call you before I called him. It was so simple all the time.”

“Thank the good Lord for online shopping,” Gracie laughed.

The upshot was that Kim had been logged into a home decorating site, ordering new accessories for the living room re-do. She’d been logged in and active for 45 minutes total, from 8:11 p.m. to 8:56 p.m. The true beauty of it was the auto logout feature, which activated if the user wasn’t active on the site for 10 consecutive minutes. It had been a continuously active session. The reason it had all come back to Kim was the delivery of the backordered pillows, candlesticks, and a shelving system today. The order date on the packing slip had jogged the crucial memory.

“I may be able to get some sleep now that they can focus on D. B.’s real murderer. I’m so grateful you believed me from the beginning. Everyone has looked sideways at me since the police started questioning me. What a relief!”

“I’ll say. Make sure you call Nolan tonight.”

“I will. Just as soon as I have … Hello?”

Gracie looked at the phone receiver and answered, “I’m still here, Kim.”

The phone went dead.

Gracie turned into the long driveway. The porch light wasn’t on, and she couldn’t tell if there were any lights on inside. The curtains must all be closed. She could only hope she was overreacting. The phone line had been constantly busy when she’d tried calling Kim back. Maybe she was on the phone with Nolan, but that wasn’t her first guess. Kim’s car was parked outside of the garage. She jammed the SUV to a stop behind it. There were no other vehicles around, except for an ATV on the lawn.

Running to the door, she pressed the doorbell twice. No lights switched on.

She began pounding on the leaded glass sidelight. “Kim! It’s me, Gracie. Kim, please open up!”

Unable to budge the locked door, she ran to the back of the house, crossing her fingers that she could get into the farm office.

Fortunately, the door was unlocked. A banker’s lamp burned steadily on D. B.’s desk. Drapery rods leaned against the filing cabinet. The top desk drawer was open. Papers were scattered across the floor. The door from the farm office to the main house was unlocked. Gracie breathed a sigh of relief when she found herself in the dark kitchen.

Moonlight glowed through the windows and gave enough light to find the way into the dining room and foyer. She waited for a moment by the coat rack next to the front door to formulate a plan. She had none. She wasn’t even sure what faced her or where to look. A flash of recollection brought a very bad feeling, and a wave of nausea surged in her stomach. Steeling herself, she started for the stairway. A thin glimmer of light caught her eye at the top of the stairs. It was the small lamp on the console table on the landing.

Before she went any further, she should probably call for backup. She crept into the darkened living room to make the call. Yanking the phone from her shorts, she punched in 9-1-1. The crash of glass from upstairs stopped her hurried explanation to the dispatcher.

“Please send help to the Jackson Farm,” she hissed and pressed the “End” button before the 9-1-1 operator could ask any questions.

She couldn’t wait for the deputies to show up. She’d have to do this on her own. She looked around for any sort of weapon. Nothing. She’d have to hope for the best.

Turning the corner to face the grand staircase, she tentatively called out, “Kim? Are you here?”

Her ears strained to hear the slightest sound, but silence prevailed. She tiptoed up the winding stairs, still calling for her friend. As she reached the landing, a muffled cry broke the stillness; a dull thump sounded. Gracie saw light filtering from Kim’s doorway at the end of the hall. She called again, frozen in place. The door sprang wide open, and a disheveled Kim stood, wrapped in a white cotton robe, trembling in the doorway.

“Gracie! What are you doing here?”

Kim’s tear-streaked face was caricature-like in the odd shadows that played off the walls. She gripped the doorknob with one hand. The other clutched the robe around her throat.

“I … I couldn’t get you on the phone. I was worried.”

“You shouldn’t be here. Go home, please … please go home.” Her voice caught in a wrenching sob, her eyes full of terror.

“You’re
not
fine, and I’m not going anywhere. Who’s with you?” Gracie demanded, suddenly feeling brave.

She was halfway down the hallway when the muzzle of a Glock 9mm loomed larger than life behind Kim’s head.

“Don’t come any closer,” Carla snarled, stepping out from behind the door. Her face was flushed, her eyes glinting with rage. “Stay where you are.”

Gracie’s heart pounded like a bass drum in her ears. She felt as if she were drowning.

“Carla, what are you doing? Tell me what’s going on here. I want to help.”

She backed toward the railing on the landing, grasping it with both hands behind her back.

Carla pushed Kim forward with the pistol. Kim stumbled, then ran toward Gracie. Carla scrambled forward, screaming at her to stop. The gun blast made Gracie’s knees give way. Kim cried out, sprawling face first in front of Gracie, the right sleeve of her robe soaked with a widening stain of crimson. Carla pitched forward like a football tackle, the black handgun raised to strike. Kim rolled to her left, struggling to stand, effectively knocking Carla off balance. Gracie rose from her knees, and threw herself toward Carla to ram the teetering madwoman down the stairs. The pistol flew from Carla’s hand, hit the railing, and clattered to the hardwood floor below. She screeched, blood trickling from her nose, struggling desperately to regain her balance. The gangly woman missed the railing by inches and then tumbled down the winding stairs, while Gracie tried unsuccessfully not to be sick on the carpet.