Unlucky Charms (11 page)

We soon finished eating, and so did our dogs. With Justin's okay, I'd given Pluckie some of Killer's food, since it was good and lucky stuff he had bought at the Lucky Dog.

We took the dogs for a walk and once again I looked around, but no neighbor was obviously watching us. Subtly watching? I didn't know, and neither did I ask.

The more I thought about it, the more I admired Justin and how he was handling this. Realistically, he could remain with me, even question me about any evidence I found, or whether I'd taken more of a role in this case than I would admit to. Which of course wasn't the situation, but he could keep his associates informed about what he was learning from me—to a point, of course; nothing personal.

Back in the house, we kissed again. Then Justin led me to his bedroom—not the first time I'd joined him here.

And I hoped it wouldn't be the last, especially if what wound up keeping me away was that one of his underlings would decide there was enough evidence and arrest me.

Whether it was fear, frustration, or simply the lust that had continued to build between us, we had a wonderful time. At least I did. And I'd every reason to believe that Justin enjoyed himself, too.

“So is this supposed to be when I confess all,” I said as we lay in his bed afterward.

He grinned at me. “Sure, if you've anything to confess.”

“I do,” I said. “Even though you don't like it, I really am trying to solve your damned case—to protect myself.”

“Surprise, surprise,” he said and kissed me again.

Later, he walked Pluckie and me to my car. Neighbors or not, I couldn't stay here all night. One way or another it would be bad luck, mostly for Justin, I feared.

But I knew I'd have to hatch a plot tomorrow to get this situation resolved as fast as possible—and catch the murderer to clear myself.

I let my mind wander on our drive back home.

What was I going to do next? Continue to investigate the murder?

Absolutely, but how?

I came up with an idea.

Seventeen

I recognized what a
bad idea it might actually be, even as I started putting it into effect the next day.

Since I didn't have any idea who the killer was, talking to people at random to conduct research could wind up being dangerous, especially if I happened to interrogate the right person in the wrong way.

Which meant I needed to be extra cautious.

I'd told Martha, who was in charge at the Lucky Dog that morning, where I was going, but I'd lied about why.

After all, it had been a while since we'd run an ad in the
Destiny Star
. So why not do so now, to let townsfolk and tourists know we were going strong … notwithstanding the fact that locals might be aware that the shop's manager—me—might have some terrible things happening to her, like being a murder suspect?

Even worse, they might think I could actually be the killer.

But running a cheerful, come-see-our-shop kind of ad wasn't the whole reason Pluckie and I were heading for the local paper's offices several blocks east on Destiny Boulevard.

I continued to ponder the pros and cons. For one thing, maybe I should attempt to enlist Arlen as an ally. He surely wasn't the killer, and he heard things as a tour guide, rumors and more. Maybe he could make suggestions as well as relay anything interesting he heard to me.

It didn't take Pluckie and me long to get to the newspaper office. I glanced through the glass windows facing the street but couldn't tell who was inside. I opened the door and entered.

A long counter ran the length of the room, and beyond it was the large, open office area, which contained several desks where computer screens dominated everything else.

Celia Vardox sat at one. Her brother Derek sat at another. There were no other people present. I didn't recall seeing additional employees at the
Star
the few times I'd visited previously—assuming there even were any.

Did I want to talk to both Vardoxes? I'd originally thought of only Celia, but she'd certainly tell her brother what I suggested, whether or not she agreed to do it.

Maybe, by speaking with them both, I'd get a better sense about whether my bad idea might, in fact, work, or whether I should retract it immediately.

“Hi, Rory,” Celia called. Her metal desk was closest to the entry. Yes, metal. This place was all business and didn't pretend to have the antique, Gold Rush ambiance of the rest of Destiny.

“Hi.” I maneuvered my way down the counter so I could look at them without peering over one of the several stacks of the latest edition of the
Destiny Star
. The paper generally came out weekly, and I noticed that this one was a few days old. It therefore wouldn't contain anything about Flora's murder. They updated their website daily, though. Maybe hourly, or minute by minute. So even if one or both of them was still working on the print story about the murder, they had surely, immediately after the event, splashed the basic information about it across their website, sharing it with the whole world.

I knew that. I'd seen it.

“What brings you here?” Surprisingly, Derek was the first to face me across the counter. He had sandy-colored hair on top of his head, and some on his cheeks in a bit of beard stubble. His shirt was checkered blue and white, over jeans. Not a bad-looking guy, yet the combined amusement and curiosity in his brown eyes bothered me.

But he was a reporter, so I should have expected it.

“Well, I want to buy a small ad for the Lucky Dog, for one thing.”

“So people in the know will be aware the shop will continue, despite some possible glitches like theft and vandalism that we may still not be allowed to talk about without incurring bad luck,” Celia said. She had joined us and didn't make her statement a question. The beige top she wore today was long and belted at the waist, over a brown skirt that touched the bottom of her knees. She resembled her brother, something I noticed a lot more when they were together like this.

“Not to mention that its manager is a possible murder suspect,” Derek added, “which could lead to a loss of employees there, depending.”

“There is that,” I agreed. “You never know when the police may make a mistake and arrest an innocent person. But one thing I intend to do is prevent that—and that's another reason I'm here. I'd like your help, and in exchange I'll keep you informed about what I learn about the case, as long as you promise not to make anything public till I say it's okay. Otherwise it could compromise what I'm doing to save myself.”

“Don't try to tie our hands,” Derek said, his look as stern as his tone.

I stared back at him. “I thought this could be mutually beneficial, but if it only goes one way, forget it.”

“Who says you'd come up with anything new?” he challenged, leaning on his arms toward me over the counter. “And if you come up with something we already have, you could say it's all yours and claim we can't run with it.”

I shrugged one shoulder in my Lucky Dog shirt of the day, a deep blue T-shirt. I'd dealt with Derek before, but usually in situations where he was clearly interviewing me or others. Even if his subject was controversial and his manner too pushy, we'd never really argued. Before.

“There'd have to be an element of trust,” I agreed. “Both ways. But maybe this is a totally bad idea. I wondered about that when I came up with it.”

I started to rearrange the leash in my hand, to steer Pluckie toward the door, when Celia called, “Wait.”

I stopped and looked back at her, doing just that: waiting. But inside, I figured we were through here.

I wasn't even going to buy an ad if we didn't at least talk.

Standing at the counter beside her brother, Celia said, “I want to hear your idea, Rory. If we can work something out that's useful to you and to us, then why not?” She was looking at Derek now, who'd raised his eyebrows and one side of his mouth into a dubious-looking expression.

Well, let him be dubious. In fact, maybe that was a good thing. I could tell them what I was thinking, and if he kept that doubtful, negative attitude, I'd still just tell them to forget it.

“Come over here and sit down with us,” Celia continued. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” I said. If nothing else, I could get a little caffeine out of this conversation. Although my adrenaline, considering the atmosphere, was bound to keep my nerves edgy anyway.

I went to the opening at the end of the counter and passed through into the office area, Pluckie with me. There, Celia moved a chair around so I could sit between her desk and Derek's.

“Okay,” she said. “What's your idea?” She approached the shelves near the far wall where a coffee maker sat and brought back a paper cup with a sleeve on it for me. I took a sip as I pondered what to say next.

I was a retailer, not a writer, so I hoped I could articulate it in an understandable way, one that both they and I liked. I started by underscoring that I hadn't killed Flora, and added, “I'm still not exactly sure why she singled me out in her rant after the Welcome, but that only matters because it puts me in the authorities' line of fire. So to speak.”

Celia and Derek already knew my toys had been found with Flora's body. I wasn't about to tell them the additional bit of knowledge I'd obtained from Brie, about Richy the Rabbit's foot shoved into Flora's mouth, in case they hadn't heard that yet. As far as I was aware, only Brie and the cops, and now me, knew of that detail. But if my idea worked out, I might let the Vardoxes in on it later—despite it pointing to me as the killer. Or maybe because of it, since someone was attempting to frame me. I wouldn't mind that part of all this becoming public.

“You know that I helped figure out who committed the other murders in town recently.” I looked from one Vardox to the other, and they both nodded. “I don't really know what I'm doing when I conduct an investigation on my own, but like you, I ask questions and dig in where amateurs aren't really supposed to go.”

“We're not amateurs,” Derek growled.

I raised my eyebrows as I looked at him. “You're professional journalists. But you're not professional investigators. And … well, did you solve those murders?”

He clearly didn't like my challenge. “You're correct. We're professional journalists. It's our job to learn and report the stories, not solve criminal cases. But you—” His glare turned almost scornful. “You're only a retail store manager. We know a lot more about crimes and investigations than you do, thanks to our research and writing.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Celia cut in. I wanted to hug her, or at least thank her. Instead, I just smiled at her.

She didn't smile back. “What's your plan, Rory?”

“Coordination,” I replied. “In her rant, Flora said she felt harmed by storeowners and restaurant owners and others in Destiny, since the protective superstitions she'd been told about on her prior trip didn't help her. I figure you've probably already interviewed some business owners for your articles.” I paused and looked at Celia, who nodded. “I don't suppose any of them confessed to being among the people Flora might have been angry with, right?”

“That's right,” Derek said, and I turned my head to look at him.

“You know, it was said to be bad luck to talk about what was going on here,” Celia added.

“And you of all people know what happens if you violate that Destiny rule,” I replied, looking from one of them to the other. I was sure they'd never forget the fire in their office, the apparent result of one such violation.

“You got it,” Derek responded glumly.

“But now the black cat's out of the bag, so to speak,” I said, wondering where the nearest black cat, or their caretaker Catrice, might
be. Maybe she'd know something useful, considering how she
roamed the streets of Destiny at all hours with her dark-furred charges. That would be another avenue to try, but it wasn't where I was headed now.

“The bad luck we were warned about has already occurred—to Flora,” I continued. “From her confession, we know who perpetrated the crimes at the shops. Since any damage to Destiny's reputation has already been done, I think it'll be okay now to talk about the whole situation so that the remaining crime—Flora's murder—can be solved and everything put behind us.”

“I agree,” Celia said, looking at her brother.

“I'll interview Mayor Bevin about it before we get in too deep,” Derek said, “but I think you're right, Rory. The murder certainly overshadows any other kind of bad luck that might have resulted from talking about the harm done to Destiny and its businesses.”

Good. We were heading somewhere.

“So what if we try this?” I said. “Together, we choose a store owner, or manager, or worker from the shops that we know were looted or vandalized by Flora. Those were the people she was angriest with, right?”

“That's the impression,” Derek said. He paused. “Do you actually know which businesses were involved? Besides yours, I mean?

“I've heard some fairly strong rumors,” I said, recalling my conversation with Carolyn as well as with the Mardeers and Brad Nereida. “We can start with those shops, at least. As well as any that you two have heard about.” I didn't want to mention the names of the stores yet, not till we had a deal, but I figured that people like Celia and Derek, who were nosy for a living, probably had an even better idea than I did about who'd been broken into.

“Then what do we do?”

“My idea is for you to approach the shop folks individually, in an order we agree upon. Push them a bit for descriptions of what Flora did to their place of business, after telling them why you don't think it's bad luck anymore to talk about it. See if you can get quotes from them. But then get really pushy and tell whoever you're talking to that you really think they're a major suspect in the murder. Tell them you've got the ear of one of the police detectives, whatever.”

“No one will confess because of that,” Derek scoffed.

“And we're certainly not going to do a story that's all speculation without any proof,” his sister added.

“Of course not,” I agreed, although I wasn't so sure. “But here's what'll happen after your interview. I'll go see each person right after you've talked to them. Tell them I heard you were badgering them, accusing them, in the interest of sensationalistic journalism. Empathize with them.”

“Ah, I get it,” Derek said.

“Me too,” said Celia. “And I like it. If whoever you're talking to knows more about the murder—”

“Their empathy with me will be pretty darn strong, and might lead to more clues … or even a confession of guilt,” I finished.

“So who's first?” Celia asked with a big smile. “And by the way, were you serious about buying that ad you mentioned before?”

I could hardly say no now.