Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (27 page)

    
“What’s he look like?” I caught the guy’s suspicious glance. “We met in an internet chat room.”

    
“Bald guy. Can’t miss him.”

    
Mom had one more question. “Has a another woman been here to see Sid yet?  Red-hair. About so tall?” There wasn’t a lot more to say when describing Angela Jannings.

    
I beat the man to the retort he was obviously going to make. “Mom, he ain’t no dating service. Come on.”

    
Everyone in the room was experiencing some degree of hair loss, your basic white-collar criminals in need of visits to their stylists, their gyms and their tailors.

    
We stood uncomfortably in the doorway, ignoring the stares we were attracting from the roomful of men, who apparently had not been enjoying conjugal visits as part of their work release freedom. Picture two fluffy pink bunnies dropped into a cage of hungry Rottweilers.

    
Ok, that’s an exaggeration.

    
Far from looking threatening or dangerous, these were the nerds of the criminal world - your basic tax evaders, insurance frauds and company embezzlers. The currency in this place was probably stock tips rather than the cigarettes and sexual favors traded in real jails. Trianos would’ve had a good laugh at their expense.

    “Sid Weinstein?” I asked the man closest to me - a tall, trim gentleman who looked harmless enough, unless the red and green snowman sweater he wore was evidence of mental illness rather than alarmingly bad taste.

    
“He’ll be down in a minute. Are you ladies friends of his?” Like the rest, he wore faded jeans, the collar and cuffs of a chambray work shirt peeking from under his sweater, but he held himself in a manner so stiff and correct, you would’ve thought he had on a silk smoking jacket and ascot.

    
“Friends of a friend,” Mom enlightened him. “The writer, Saul Taylor.”

    
She got a nibble on the first cast.

    
“Ah, Saul. Tragic, that. Though I daresay the old chap had a way of making enemies. I’m Jeremy Longtham, by the way.” His tone was courtly and British, but I detected an unmistakable trace of a Southern accent. Country Southern.

    
“Wait a minute,” I said, light dawning, “Jeremy Longtham? Mr. Lonely Hearts?”

    Jeremy blushed modestly. “My reputation precedes me.”

    “A reputation for swindling rich elderly women,” I said.

    “A tragic series of misunderstandings, I assure you.”

    “You said Saul had a way of making enemies,” Mom prompted, seeing an opportunity.

    
“Well, he wasn’t very savvy, was he? Seeking out a bore like Sid, when there are much more colorful stories to be told.”

    
“Like yours?” I asked, pointedly.

    
“I daresay my life would make an interesting read, but I’d want complete creative control. Mr. Taylor and I never saw eye to eye on that.”

    
“Did other people come to see Sid in reference to Saul’s book?” Mom steered us back to our quest.

    
“Now that you mention it, there was someone else.”

    
“Red head, about so tall?” Mom asked.

    
“No. Blond guy, very pulled together.”

    
Mom’s eyes met mine. It could only be Jack Lassiter, but we had no idea what their meeting meant.

    
Longtham couldn’t tell us much other than the fact that their conversation had been heated. Once we assured him we weren’t in the market for a suitor or interested in helping with his rehabilitation, he started to move away.

    
“Wait a minute,” I called him back.

    
Longtham turned hopefully.

    
“Why does everyone call him Sid the Shiv?”

    
“A joke, my dear, only as a joke.  Harmless little man, really. Worked at an accounting firm and was convinced no one appreciated his genius. One day he pulled a silver-plated letter opener on his boss when she told him he wasn’t getting a raise. Unfortunately for Sid, she takes kickboxing classes at her gym and disarmed him handily. Still pretty bitter about it.” He nodded significantly toward a chubby guy who had just entered the room, newspaper in hand.

    
The man took a chair by the window and scanned the front page as we approached.

    
“Sid?” Mom asked. “Mr…Shiv?”

    
“Who wants to know?” The bald man looked us up and down. Did I say Rottweiler? This guy was pure basset hound.

    
Mom made introductions and explained the purpose of our visit. We pulled two wicker chairs toward his seat.

    
“Nice sweater,” I said, eyeing its reindeer appliqué complete with googly eyes and a little red light bulb nose.

    
“My kids sent it. Heard about what happened to Taylor. I’m not real broken up about it.”

    
“You didn’t like him?” I asked.

    
“Mr. Got-Rocks thought he was better’n the people here. Like he was too good to set foot in this joint.”

    
Sid was obviously affecting the persona of a street hustler, an image completely at odds with his fat fingers, weak chin and droopy eyes.

    
“He was pretentious, wasn’t he?” Mom commiserated.

    
Weinstein shrugged. “If he had helped me get even with that S.O.B. Browley, I coulda put up with a little condescension, know what I mean?”

    
“And how was he doing that?” I asked.

    
“He was going to expose some irregularities with my case, namely the fact that I was innocent.” The reindeer sweater fixed us with a lazy-eyed stare and dared us to disagree.

    
“I bet everyone in here would say that they’re innocent,” I pointed out.

    
“Not Nathan.” Sid nodded toward a bearded man working a Sudoku puzzle.  He got even with his company by hacking onto their server and sending porn to their customers instead of the weekly newsletter. He says he’d do it again, the way they treated him.”

    
I smiled. “With the exception of Nathan and one or two victims of the system, I’m sure a lot of guys here would cry foul.”

    
“Yeah, maybe.”

    
“So what’s the story?” I didn’t show my impatience. “People saw you pull the letter opener. Heard you make threats. Yet your conscience is clear?” I was ad-libbing, and he was quick to contradict me.

    
“No one saw anything but her manhandling me. It was my word against hers. I shoulda filed assault charges on the bitch.”

    
“What about the letter opener?” Mom asked. “What about fingerprints?”

    
“Weren’t any,” Sid said, smugly. “I’d wiped ‘em off with my tie, while she was calling security. ‘Cept the joke was on me ‘cause the police report said otherwise.”

    
“Maybe you weren’t as careful as you thought,” I suggested.

    
“Maybe. But nobody said nothing about prints until they found out I did a little freelance bookkeeping for Tony Trianos. Suddenly, Oscar Browley hot shit DA is taking a personal interest in my case. Suddenly, there are prints where there weren’t prints, and this guy’s telling me he can make my case go away if I tell him what he wants to hear.”

    
“About Trianos.” Mom remarked.

    
“About Trianos. That kind of trouble, I don’t need.” He glanced around the room at the guys playing cards, working puzzles and listening to their iPods.  “This is a good use of my time if it keeps me off Trianos’ radar.”

    
We sat in silence, wondering how it all fit. Was this the reason Saul had been killed?

    
It gave Oscar the strongest motive yet, but it still left too many nagging questions. Like how was Saul killed? And why was Oscar killed and by whom? And who left that damn hand on the doorstep?

    
“What did Jack Lassiter want?” Mom asked.

    
Another good question. And how did Jack even know about Sid? From Angela? Or more likely, Robin, if they were as cozy as they appeared to be on that DVD Megan Taylor had given us.

    
“Him? He wanted to know what Saul wanted. Like I’d tell him, the dumb bastard. I wasn’t looking to the DA’s office for justice this time around. Saul and me was going to get it real public like, making for a good book and an even better lawsuit.”

    
I didn’t point out that, in a twisted way, justice had already been served. After all, he had committed the crime. I didn’t care for Oscar’s methods, but I didn’t have much sympathy for Sid Weinstein either.

    
“Was Jack here before Saul’s death or after?” Mom asked.

    
“Day or two before.”

    
“And did Saul know any other stories similar to yours?” I asked.

    
“He had a few. He didn’t share the details with me, but then, I wasn’t interested in any case but my own.”

    
It was all too incredible. Saul and Oscar were pals, had been for years. I remembered them at the party, backslapping and joking around. Yet all the while, Saul was gathering evidence that would ruin his friend and send him to prison. Not to mention emotionally blackmailing Oscar’s wife. I couldn’t believe my family had socialized, even casually, with such whack jobs.

    
I was worn out by the time we got back to my parents’ house. Mom invited me in for an iced tea, feeling as drained as I was.

    
She tossed the mail on the center island and went to fix our glasses.

    
“You think Saul would’ve published a book about Oscar?” I wondered. “It would’ve completely discredited all his other books, at least the ones that used Oscar as a source.”

    
Ice tinkled into the glasses as Mom answered, “I don’t think he could resist such a huge story. We’re talking national. Saul would’ve loved the publicity and drama of it all.”

    
“You think Angela will call?” Tony Trianos had been reluctant to tell us exactly where Angela was, but had agreed to pass along our urgent plea to get in touch.

    
“Not likely.” But as Mom passed the phone, she hit the playback button on the answering machine.

    
Bunny Beaumont’s voice filled the kitchen.

    
“Amanda, honey, word on the street has it that you were seen leaving a halfway house for convicts. One minute you’re going to bars, the next you’re hanging out with men behind them. Do tell. It’s a little late for a midlife crisis but don’t worry, doll, your secret’s safe with me.” She gasped. “Unless Alex picks up this message first. Oops, hope I didn’t let the cat out of the bag. Alex, if you’re listening, hey you sweet thing. What are we going to do with that naughty wife of yours? Anyway, whoever gets this message, call me. Inquiring minds want to know!”

    
Mom hit the delete button, pushing it far harder than necessary. “That woman’s as subtle as a goiter.”

    
I poured tea and offered her a slice of lemon. “Dad will flip when he hears about Oscar. I can’t wait to see what he has to say.”

    
“You’re going to have to. He’s in Montgomery taking a deposition and won’t be in till late.” She pulled a small manila envelope out of the stack of letters she had brought in. “A present already?”

    
“From whom?”

    
“No return address. No postmark either. Someone must’ve put it in the box.”

    
“Letter bomb.” I backed up. “Candy from strangers.”

    
“Don’t be silly.” But she opened the envelope gingerly and away from her face.

    
No sparks, no suspicious powders. Just six discs neatly labeled in Saul’s familiar script.

CHAPTER 32

    
Mom was putting a batch of homemade orange sablé cookie dough in the freezer when I called from the gym.

    
“Are you going to tell Dad?” I asked.

    
“Eventually.”

    
Dad would insist we turn the discs over to McGowan. Immediately. But we hadn’t even looked at them yet because they were password protected.

    
The plan was to find Angela tomorrow no matter what it took. With the discs as bait, she was sure to come out of the woodwork. Failing that, we would be spending quality time with a computer trying to crack the pass code. But none of that would happen if Mom suddenly got a conscience.

    
I needn’t have worried. “We’ll turn them over as soon as we look at them,” she said.