You Don't Know Jack (19 page)

"Sorry." The thought had been in bad taste, but I couldn't see beyond my big toe. Muted voices drifted to me from somewhere ahead.

"I know that voice," Lars said. "It's Frankie."

I halted. Panic sifted through me. What now? I wanted to get nearer to listen, but fear of Frankie spotting me, also had me wanting to sneak back out the door to wait for him to leave.

"And miss overhearin' somethin' that could prove Apollo's innocence?"

"Stop reading my mind," I huffed quietly.

"There's nothin' else to do in here."

"Why don't you get out of my head and show yourself?"

"Why don't you quit talkin' out loud before someone sends for the guys with the straitjackets?"

Mexican standoff. He knew I couldn't help myself. I always talked out loud when I was nervous and right now, I was knee-knocking rattled. I parted a couple of leaves and, through the gap, spied a tall, muscular, handsome man with flame red hair snuggled close to a shorter, curvy, beautiful woman who also had flame red hair. They were standing behind a rib high counter, upper arms touching as they perused something spread out on the counter. Papers maybe? I couldn't be sure. I strained to hear what they were saying.

"Are they talkin' about me?" Lars said.

"How can I tell with you yakking in my ear?" I whispered. "Shh."

"I'll bet they are. That Frankie could have killed me. He never liked me. And he's big and strong enough."

"Was whoever killed you big and strong?"

"Maybe."

"Don't you know?"

"It's kind of a blur..."

I sighed and loosened the scarf at my neck. Maybe Lars not remembering the trauma of being murdered was like my not being able to recall everything about being shoved into traffic. Maybe murder victims could summon up some of what led up to their killing, but not the most important detail.

I was about to tell him to go away, when I remembered I had a question he could answer. "Lars, was Bruce really cheating on you?"

"I don't like talkin' ill of the livin', darlin'."

"Was he?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

I'd thought if Lars found out how it felt to be cheated on, it would bring us full circle, give me permanent closure, or satisfaction even. Oddly though, the thought of the love of his life betraying him made me sad. "No, I wouldn't."

He said nothing. Probably sulking.

I stared through the slit between the leaves at the two redheads, all touchy-feely, making inappropriate goo-goo eyes at each other, acting more like friends-with-benefits than siblings. Ewww. Was it just me or was this sick? I did not want to deliver the news to Dinah that, yes, your husband is having an affair... with his sister.

"Why are you always pokin' into other people's sex lives? You should worry about your own bedroom woes, darlin'. Theirs is none of your concern any more than mine is."

"Unless Bruce was having an affair and that's why you were murdered."

Lars started to speak again, but I shushed him. I was transfixed by the redheads. Maybe it was my self-imposed carnal abstinence, but I couldn't look away from this subtle foreplay. The worst kind of voyeur had nothing on me.

"You're just horny, darlin'. You need to get laid."

I did.

"But please — find someone to do the horizontal lambada with besides that damned cop. Maddox never was good enough for you. Neither is his brother—"

"Shh!"

Eve said, "You need to finish what you started and get rid of her."

"I know," Frankie agreed. "She's becoming a problem. But how should I do it?"

"Well, the accident didn't work," Eve said. "Who thought she'd survive?"

"The car was a dumb idea. Too much risk involved." Frankie scratched his jaw. "It just didn't work."

My stomach seemed to free fall toward my ankles. They weren't talking about Lars. They were talking about me. About killing me. While flirting with each other.

"Just kill the bitch," Eve said.

"How?"

"I don't know...  Poison?"

Poison? I gulped.

"Hmm. It would have to be untraceable," Frankie said in a voice that meant he was considering it.

"There are a lot of poisonous plants."

"What about our suspect?"

"The fall guy is out on bail. With the right timing, he'll be suspect numero uno."

They shared a mean laugh, then Frankie said, "That idea was genius, but does he know about poisonous plants?"

"He does."

He does? I'd never heard Apollo talk about plants of any sort.

"Thank you." Frankie kissed Eve. A quick meeting of the lips. He beamed at her. "I couldn't have gotten this far without you."

Bits of humid air seemed like icy chips on my face. Frankie just confessed to trying to kill me, firmed up plans to poison me sometime soon and frame Apollo, and I didn't have my recorder. Who would believe me? If I accused him, he'd deny it and Eve would back him up.

"I heard him, darlin'," Lars said.

"Who are you going to tell Lars?" I asked.

Frankie's voice silenced the ghost in my head. "Before I go, I'll need some flowers."

"The usual?"

He laughed. "Of course, the only ones she likes."

She who?

As Eve moved toward the cooler behind the counter, my gaze followed, snagging on a display of carnations. The ice on my cheeks began to melt. A memory stirred. At the time, it hadn't connected any dots, but was now clicking like a row of tap dancers. It was on the memorial wall in the foyer of the nightclub. A photo of a performer wearing a solid white tuxedo with a black tie and in the lapel... a black boutonniere.

The Black Boutonniere Killer had taken his signature from that photograph of Jade Edger. Why? Did that mean Frankie was the BBK? And his sister Eve was his accomplice? Serial killing sociopaths? Or was Dinah at the root of this, perhaps killing off former lovers of her brother because they might have given him AIDS?

Then why would she hire me to follow Frankie? The connecting dots fell apart again. Nothing made sense.

Frankie stuffed whatever he and Eve had been perusing into a brief case, collected the tissue wrapped bouquet, and kissed his sister on the cheek. He started down the faux brick path toward me.

"Jesus, run, darlin'!" Lars shouted.

I was already halfway out the door. I tore into the street, trucked to my car, and locked the doors the second I was inside. I found my cell phone, dialed Stone, started jabbering when he answered, before I realized I was talking to a recording. Voice mail. Damn.

I drove the car to a deserted side street, pulled over, out of breath and still shaking. I dialed the beauty salon. Apollo answered. My breathing calmed. He was there. Alibi intact. "How are you doing?"

"I'm in a live episode of the Twilight Zone. A couple of new customers told me they were thrilled to have their hair done by a murder. Freaks."

He said it flippantly, but I knew it hurt him. "Did you tell them to go to hell?"

He laughed. "Better. I played along, and both left double my usual tip."

I warned him again not to leave the shop and then, I filled him in on what I'd overheard and observed at the flower store.

"I hate to bust your balloon," Apollo said, "but apparently anyone can make black carnations. So, Eve Steele selling them means zip. A lot of Goths are into them year round."

Goths? I envisioned Vampira, along with all my theories crumbling like so many dead petals. It struck me that I hadn't seen the flowers Eve selected and wrapped up for Frankie. Maybe they weren't black carnations. Or maybe that bouquet was meant for some other woman. Damn. Maybe I shouldn't have run from Frankie but followed him.

"Hel-lo, Jack B? Are you still there?"

"Yes, sorry. What were you saying?"

"I said, the Crain sisters and the Golden Oldies all knew how to make black carnations. Seriously, I looked it up on-line and voila, they were right. You just put food coloring in a glass of water, clip the stem of the carnation and insert for twenty-four hours."

I frowned. "Who makes black food coloring?"

"Just mix equal portions of blue, red, and yellow."

"Really..." I glanced at the clock. I was about to be late for my appointment with the book doctor. "I don't have time to explain right now, but I'm more convinced than ever that there is no BBK. If I'm right, the first two murders were committed to make Lars' murder seem like another random murder by a serial predator."

"You mean the black carnations are a ruse signature?"

"I do. I'll tell you more when I see you. Don't leave the beauty shop."

I hung up, chewing on the bits and pieces of new information this day had wrought. The simplicity of securing black carnations actually aligned with my core belief. Serial killers came with predispositions and established signatures, rituals that seldom varied. But the signature for the murders of Lars and two others was a dyed carnation? What kind of symbolism was that? It reeked of pretense, of diversion tactics, of making the police look left, while the killer moved right.

Had Stone noticed the photo of Jade Edger in the white tuxedo on the memorial wall? I was sure that was where the idea of using a black carnation came from and that meant the killer was likely someone familiar with the nightclub. Someone like Frankie Steele?

My gut said yes, but I still had no proof. An overheard conversation wasn't going to convince Stone or get Apollo off the hook. Maybe I could learn something from Frankie's sister.

I checked the directions to Teri Steele's house, started the car and pulled into the road. Lars wasn't the victim of a serial predator. His murder wasn't random. The killer was probably one of my suspects. Probably, Frankie. I ought to be pleased. I was on the right track. Instead, I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, and an unsettling sense of urgency. I needed to find solid, physical proof. Fast.

But what was I looking for and would I know it if I found it?

When you've chosen to pursue a writing career by doing odd jobs modern electronics, that most of your peers rely on, don't fit your budget. My car isn't new. Translation: it doesn't have GPS. My temporary phone isn't smart. Translation: it doesn't have internet or apps or even a camera.

Note to self: Purchase some serious investigative gizmos.

But for now, Map Quest to the rescue. I'm not familiar with Bainbridge Island beyond the town of Winslow, but even I can read street signs and the mileage indicator on a dash board.

Too bad Map Quest couldn't fix my punctuality defect. Being late was not the impression an aspiring writer should make on someone helping edit a manuscript that could lead to a first sale. Or the impression an amateur P.I. should make on someone with potential information that could nail her brother for more than one murder, as well as stop the fiend from killing me.

Ten minutes later, I pulled up to a gray clapboard that obviously started life as a cottage, spent its teen years growing taller and wider, and was now settling into a neglectful senility. Hedges needed trimmed, leaves needed raked, and the walkway needed swept.

The house nestled among many on a tiered hillside with views overlooking the ferry dock. Teri Steele opened the door before I could knock. First impression? She did not have flame red hair, had not inherited the family beauty, and was older by several years than her siblings. Mouse brown hair capped her head, accentuating a forgettable face. She had a long, lean body that hinted at a hiking fetish and wore a shapeless ankle length dress with flat ugly shoes that made my feet want to commit suicide.

Her feet probably felt the same standing toe to toe with my knock-off Manolo Blahnik booties.

"Come in." Teri turned and I followed, through a tidy mud room, galley kitchen reeking of fresh brewed coffee, and a small sitting room with windows that overlooked an unkempt lawn, a falling down deck, towering pines and maples, and an expansive and breathtaking water view.

She talked as we walked. I quickly deduced Teri was direct, said what she thought, got straight to business. She reminded me of other New Yorkers I'd either met or spoken to — used to fast paced city life and revved up to meet it. Island living hadn't mitigated her energy. This was a busy woman with just so much time to slot everything into each day.

Except yard work and home maintenance — which probably meant she was single and overworked and underpaid.

I liked her right off and I didn't want to like her. I'd just overheard her brother and sister plotting my murder.

We arrived in a larger room offering the same panorama as the sitting area. From its generous proportions and the well-used stone fireplace, I guessed this had once been the living room.

The furniture was functional office with the usual electronic equipment: phone, computer, printer, fax. Bookshelves took up two whole walls, and a conference table stood center stage. Stacks of manuscripts occupied every corner and nearly every surface. Yet, I had a sense of order despite the disorder.