Spackled and Spooked (35 page)

Then there was Ricky, but I wasn’t about to mention that with him sitting across the table.

“There’s Holly’s mother,” Derek said. I nodded.

“Linda White. She lives on Becklea, so she’d know that the Murphy house was empty and would be a safe place to hide the body. Holly’s friend Denise said that Holly and her mother argued a lot. If Holly didn’t write her own good-bye note and pack her own bag, Linda had the best opportunity to do it.”

“But to kill your own child . . . !” Shannon said with a shudder. I glanced involuntarily at Ricky, whose expression was inscrutable.

“It happens,” he said.

“Yes, I know it does, but the thought . . . !” She shook her head.

Josh, who was very sharp and a lot less emotionally charged than Shannon, looked from her to Ricky for a moment. His eyes lingered on Ricky a little longer than strictly necessary before he turned his attention to his drink.

“Then there’s Denise herself,” I said. “She lives on Becklea, too, and she was Holly’s best friend. Except Brandon says they weren’t as close as Denise makes out, and Linda says that Holly and Denise had a falling out a few weeks before Holly disappeared. Over a boy.”

“Probably her husband,” Paige said. We all looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “I know Travis. He and Denise started dating in high school, and she held on to him all through college. If anyone else so much as looked at him, she’d pitch all sorts of fits. If she and Holly had a falling out because she thought Travis was interested in Holly, I could definitely see Denise killing Holly to keep him.”

Hearing this amazing statement delivered so cold bloodedly in Paige’s soft, little-girl voice, was almost surreal, and left us all speechless for a moment.

“OK, then,” Josh said after a pause. “So Denise is on the suspect list. Anyone else?”

Derek and I looked at each other. “Lionel Kenefick?” Derek suggested.

“Denise said he and Holly were friends.”

“Denise also said she and Holly were friends,” Derek reminded me. “Brandon said they weren’t.”

“That’s true. And he does live on the street. He’d know that the house was empty, and that it’d be safe to bury the body in the basement. And Venetia would probably open the door for him, just as she would for Denise or Linda. Or Brandon. Or, for that matter, for Travis. As for motive, though . . .”

“Motive’s a lot less important than means and opportunity,” Josh declared. “Especially if Holly’s death was an accident. If her killer didn’t mean to kill her but panicked and buried her and then killed Ms. Rudolph when the body was found, because he was afraid Ms. Rudolph knew who he was . . . or she, of course.”

“That’s true.”

“Are you talking about Lionel Kenefick?” Candy, the waitress, asked as she leaned over to put Derek’s and my drinks on the table. She made a point of brushing against Derek’s arm as she put his drink in front of him.

Derek smiled. “That’s right. You know him?”

“Went to school with him,” Candy said, slowly straightening up. “What’s he done?”

“What makes you think he’s done anything?” I wanted to know.

She shrugged, setting into motion a ripple effect underneath the skimpy T-shirt.

“He’s a little weird. I was in the drama society with him in high school, and he was always ogling me. Me and all the other girls.”

I exchanged a look with Derek. “Really? Did that include Holly White?”

Candy tossed her ponytail. “Especially Holly. All the guys did, except with Lionel it was a little more than that. He gave her flowers every opening night, stuff like that. Whenever she got stuck somewhere and needed a ride or something, even in the middle of the night, she’d call him to come get her.”

“And he would?”

“Sure,” Candy said, popping a pink bubble.

“Wow.” Derek and I exchanged a look.

Candy lifted a shoulder. “They were friends, you know. Grew up together. On the same street and all. And they were in drama club together.”

“I wouldn’t have thought Lionel Kenefick was the drama society type,” Derek remarked. “Or was that just because of Holly, too?”

Candy turned to him. “Oh, no. Lionel was in every show the drama society put on. He always said he was gonna be on Broadway when he grew up. Holly couldn’t really act or anything, she just got all the best parts because she was so pretty, but Lionel was good.”

“So what happened?” Big difference between Broadway and stringing electrical wiring for the Stenham brothers.

Candy shrugged. “No idea. I guess maybe he just woke up and smelled the decaf, you know?” She looked around the circle of faces. “I mean, he’s not really leading-man material. He can sing, and I guess he can act and dance, too, but . . . I mean, just look at him!” She giggled.

“So he and Holly didn’t date?” Derek said. “They were just friends?”

She nodded. “Oh, sure. Holly dated Brandon Thomas. Lionel wasn’t her type at all.” She lowered her voice. “I heard that he was fired from the police department. Brandon. It wasn’t because he killed her, was it?”

“He wasn’t fired,” Shannon said.

“And he didn’t kill anyone,” I added. “Thanks, Candy. We appreciate the information.”

Derek smiled. “Would you mind checking on those pizzas? We’re in kind of a hurry.”

“Sure,” Candy said and sashayed off. Josh and Ricky watched her go. Shannon rolled her eyes. I caught Derek’s eye, and he grinned.

“So what’s the guy going to do now?” Ricky asked. We all turned to him.

“Brandon?”

Ricky shook his head. “If the police don’t believe that Brandon’s guilty, they won’t stop looking for the real killer. So the whole thing with the bag didn’t come off. What’s the killer’s next step?”

We all exchanged glances across the table again. In the (relative) silence, Candy came back to the table, followed by her fellow coeds, and unloaded several pizzas.

“If it were me,” Josh said, reaching for a slice of pizza and dumping it on Shannon’s plate before snagging one for himself, “I’d bail.”

“Leave town?”

He nodded. “Get in my car and go. Try to get across the border to Canada, maybe, before anyone realized I was gone. Or just drive until I got far enough from here that nobody would know me, and start over. Use a fake name, all of that.”

Ricky’s face twitched, but he didn’t speak.

“Not everyone thinks like you, Josh,” Shannon said, nibbling around the edges of her pizza. “Not everyone is willing to go halfway across the country, away from everyone and everything they know, and start over. It takes confidence. Not everyone has it.”

“So if you weren’t going to bail,” Derek wanted to know, “what would you do?”

Shannon shrugged. “Find someone else to throw suspicion on?” she suggested.

“Or just sit tight and hope for the best,” Josh added. He reached for another slice of pizza, having devoured the first in a couple of bites. Derek did the same.

“Try to get, or make up, some proof that I couldn’t have done it,” was Paige’s contribution. “In case the police decided to take a closer look at me.”

“What about you, Ricky?” I turned to the young man. He glanced up, bright blue eyes meeting mine. I continued, “Would you run away? Tough it out? Try to prove why you couldn’t have done it? Or find someone else to throw suspicion on, since implicating Brandon didn’t work out?”

“Keep doing what I’ve been doing,” Ricky said. I must have looked confused, because he added, “Throw more evidence at Brandon. If I keep implicating him, sooner or later something will stick. Or the sheer accumulation will make him look guilty. If he could have proven he didn’t commit the murders, he would have, so he can’t. And even if the police can’t ever prove he did it, even if they catch me—that is, the real killer—there’ll be enough evidence against Brandon to provide more than reasonable doubt if the case ever goes to trial.”

He took another bite of pizza.

“That’s scary,” I said after a minute. Several of the others nodded.

“You should write thrillers,” Derek said, with a wink at me. I rolled my eyes. Once upon a time, I had told him the same thing, accusing him of having too vivid of an imagination. As it turned out, his suspicions had been spot-on.

“I’m researching a true crime story,” Ricky answered blandly, but with just a brief glance in my direction. I looked down.

21

It was full dark by the time we got back to the house on Becklea. A plastic-lined paper bag on the floor of the car leaked the mouthwatering smell of mozzarella, tomatoes, and pepperoni, and if I hadn’t already been stuffed to the gills with pizza, I’d have been tempted to dive in. As it was, I’d eaten enough for two people, or at least someone a lot bigger than myself, and Brandon was welcome to the calzone.

Everything looked just as it had when we left earlier, except that more lights were on in the houses we passed. I saw the blue flickering of TVs from behind curtains up and down the street, including in Lionel Kenefick’s house. Arthur Mattson and Stella the shih tzu were just coming home from their evening constitutional, letting themselves in through their front door as we passed, and in Irina’s house, I saw her shadow walk past the brightly lit front window, arm crooked at the elbow as if she were holding a telephone to her ear.

Venetia’s house was, as expected, dark and deserted. More surprisingly, so was ours.

“That’s weird,” Derek said. “Brandon ought to have turned on some lights by now.”

I nodded. “Maybe he fell asleep. It’s been a stressful day.”

Derek rolled his eyes as he withdrew the key from the ignition. “He’s not a toddler, Avery. I’m sure he doesn’t take naps anymore. And what’s there to lie on, anyway? We ripped up the carpets, remember? All there is, is unfinished floors. There’s not even a bathtub he could curl up in.”

“You’re right. That
is
weird.”

I let him help me out of the car, and we walked up to the front door side by side.

“Maybe he’s gone somewhere,” Derek said.

“Or maybe he’s investigating.”

He glanced at me. “In the dark?”

“On TV, they’re always investigating in the dark. Haven’t you noticed? It’s always nighttime, and they never turn on the lights; they’re always waving flashlights around instead. Maybe it’s easier to detect things that way.”

“That’s for entertainment purposes,” Derek answered. “When you watch one of the medical shows, it’s the same thing. They twist stuff around to make it more exciting. Most people don’t have weird, undetectable diseases with bizarre symptoms, and believe me, interns do not have sex on examining tables between patients.”

“Really? You and Melissa never . . . ?”

He turned to me, eyebrow quirked.

“Never mind,” I said. He chuckled, but then his expression turned serious.

“Melissa and I have been divorced for over five years, Avery. Longer than we were married. She’s in the past.”

“She’s still around,” I said, as we started climbing the steps to the front door. “I see her often enough. And she’s always telling me how happy she is that we’re together.”

“So?” He tried the door, and when he found it locked, knocked on it.

“So, she doesn’t mean it.”

“How do you know she doesn’t mean it? She’s shacked up with Ray Stenham. She’s got what she wanted. Why wouldn’t she be happy that we’re together?” He knocked again, a little harder this time.

“She would rather you be single and pining for her,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

He laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Melissa doesn’t care what I do anymore. And I never pined. Dammit, why isn’t he coming?” He fumbled in the pocket of his jeans.

“You don’t think anything happened to him, do you?” I stepped aside, to give him as much light as possible when he tried to insert the key into the lock in the dark.

“He’s guilty after all, and now he’s hung himself from the beams in the den? I hope not.”

He turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Brandon?”

There was no answer. “I don’t like this,” I whispered.

“Just stay close,” Derek answered, his voice low. His hand fumbled in the dark and found mine. We moved forward side by side.

The lights in the rest of the house seemed to work just fine; it was just the porch light that didn’t. As usual. Derek flipped the rest of the lights on as we went: through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, through the nook to the den, down the hallway to the bedrooms. Detour into the bath to turn on the light there and into what had been Patrick’s room, ditto. There was no sign of Brandon anywhere. Everything was—pardon the pun—deathly quiet, and the closer we got to the back of the house and the master bedroom, the harder my heart beat.