You Don't Know Jack Read online

He held his hand up in a give-me-a-minute and I'll explain gesture. I reined in my impatience as he retrieved the wine bottle, refilled our glasses and sat behind the desk again.

  "Since we first discussed tentative suspects the day of Lars' memorial, I've done some digging," Apollo said. "Patty had an interesting childhood."

  I gripped the marker tighter. "As interesting as yours and mine?"

  "Different."

  "She told me books and reading were her salvation as a kid, but nothing else."

  He scooted the wheeled chair forward until his chest bumped my desk. "I could see that. She spent a lot of time on the road. No real home. She's an only child. Her father, a widower, and she lived in an old Winnebago. He owned a traveling saw sharpening business."

  I didn't share his insight or enthusiasm. Sounded more like we were back to a circus act. "Lars wasn't sawed to death."

  His scowl disapproved of my tasteless joke. What can I say? Dark humor saves my sanity in times of distress. These were distressing times.

  Apollo started straightening papers on my desk. "He sharpened all kinds of blades..."

  Let there be light. My brain engaged. I perked up. "Including knives."

  "They did the knife show and swap meet circuits up and down the coast and throughout the tri-states. Towed a trailer behind the Winnie that housed his machinery and served as the workroom. At the meets, little Patty was trotted out in cute get-ups as a sort of miniature barker snaring prospective customers to Pop's demonstrations."

  This explained Peppermint Patty hawking products in the bookstore; she'd learned sales techniques at an early age. I could only imagine a childhood spent living in an RV — part adventure, I supposed, larger part lonely. Books and reading were my salvation as a kid. No doubt. I had been lucky. I'd also lost a parent at a young age, but at least I'd never been lonely. Lately, I was understanding how awful lonely felt.

  "Pop also sharpened knives and blades brought to him at the shows."

  "Long story short — he was quite comfortable with all things sharp and deadly. Which means Patty would have been, too."

  "If three plus three still equals six." Apollo smirked, the first sign that his normally good spirits hadn't been destroyed by his time in the slammer.

  "How did knife show/swap meet Patty end up owning two bookstores? Was the saw sharpening business that lucrative?"

  "Naw. I think her old man is still living the life. Probably in that same Winnebago. Patty dumped him when she won the state lottery a couple of years ago. It wasn't a mega lottery, but it gave her the means to buy the Bellevue bookstore and to secure herself a permanent home. The Bainbridge bookstore is a newer acquisition."

  "I suppose bookstores makes sense for her, but what doesn't make sense is where the crazies came in."

  Apollo shrugged and started aligning my desk pencils. "Maybe her love of books transferred to the writers and then into an obsession."

  Obsessions were unaccountable. People seemed to get them for every kind of thing. I tried not to think of my own obsessions. "I wish I could search her house and offices."

  "You're going to add burglar to your list of odd jobs?"

  "Breaking and entering might be a good skill for an investigator to acquire."

  "Don't even think about it."

  He was right. With my luck I'd be caught. Stone would arrest me. Put me in those handcuffs he was always threatening to use. Perversely the idea appealed to me. Damn. Why did that man always snap to mind when I was up to my earrings trying to solve a mystery? Why did I want to slip into his arms and let him shield me from the world and its evils?

  Concentrate.

  I saw Apollo was reading my blushing face and coming to the correct conclusion. Always one for stating the obvious, he said, "How did you segue from breaking and entering into sleeping with Stone Maddox?"

  "I didn't," I lied. We both knew I was lying. I'm not a good liar when it comes to sex. I can't even fake an orgasm. I'm an embarrassment to all womanhood. I turned back to the suspect list. "In your background checking did you come across anyone else she was romantically involved with who might talk to us? An ex-lover? A former friend? A disgruntled ex-employee?"

  "Didn't take it that far. Yet." Apollo stopped straightening things on my desk and began jotting on a tablet.

  "There's another thing that's been puzzling me. The judge thought you were a flight risk and set your bail accordingly. Who paid it? Do you know?"

  The pencil stopped moving on the page. His olive skin had a pasty hue. "Didn't ask. They said I could go. I went. Ran to the nearest shower. A whole bottle of herbal bath gel couldn't wash off the odor of that nasty disinfectant."

  I stared at him, my wand thin, gentle friend, riveted by the fear he must have endured being locked up with junkies, thieves, killers, big, mean, brutal men needing an outlet for their anger. Though I saw no visible signs of new abuse, no bruising or cuts, I knew it was the emotional wounds that did the most harm. He seemed unable to breathe. As though the memory of recent days correlated with the horrors of his childhood.

  I went to him, put my hands on his shoulders.

  "Look at me." It took a few minutes, but he did. "You're not going back there, Apollo. I swear it on my life."

  He released a shuddery breath, swiped his nose with a hankie.

  I returned to the board, gave him time to gather his composure. I made a new heading on the acrylic board. Unanswered Questions. Under that I wrote numbers, then: Who paid Apollo's bail?

  I said, "I also want to know, why an attorney the likes of Duke Maddox stepped up and offered to represent you pro bono."

  "You mean because his clients are in Donald Trump's stratosphere and I'm only a guy who could cure Trump's ugly hair problem?"

  I smiled at the thought. "Do you know Duke Maddox?"

  Apollo shook his head. "Met him the night I was arrested."

  But that didn't make any sense. How did he know to be there? We stared at each other.

  "Oh. My. God." Apollo broke the silence. "He was already at the precinct, waiting for me to be brought in."

  "Waiting for you?" Oh. My. God. "That means someone told him where to be and when, but who would do that?"

  "Stone?" he suggested weakly.

  "No. He thinks you killed Lars."

  "Well, then how should I know?" He waved his hands, and I sensed his hyper-energy returning. "Maybe Duke did it to gravel Stone. They seem to have some sort of brotherly rivalry thing."

  They did? Was one-upmanship the source of Duke's interest in me? Sleep with the girl who'd slept with his brother? Ewww. I plopped onto the edge of the desk, risked getting too near my BFF's nervous fingers. "Maybe that's why Stone suggested moving in here until after the trial is over."

  "He did?" Apollo's busy fingers froze. "It's more likely he thinks I'm a threat to you."

  Why couldn't it mean Stone missed me? "I know he's scared for me. Someone tried to kill me, but I cannot believe he really thinks that someone is you."

  Apollo huffed, his chest puffing in offense. "I'm strong enough to push someone into traffic."

  I rolled my eyes. "Talk like that doesn't help your case. Or our theory."

  He seemed to deflate. "We're back to square one."

  "No, we're not. Who paid your bail? Duke?"

  Apollo jammed his hands through his hair, managing to resemble a confused porcupine, half spiked hair, half deflated. "I asked him. He swears he didn't."

  "If not Duke, then who?"

  "Someone with deep pockets."

  "And ulterior motives."

  "The killer..."

  Apollo blanched as what this meant registered. "The murderer paid my bail figuring if I'm not in jail when he or she kills again, I'll be the fall guy again." His gaze darted over our suspect list, fear radiating off him. "Which one of them, Jack B, is trying to frame me for Lars' murder?"

  I shook my head and tapped the marker pen on the motive section of the suspect board. "We need more data to make that deter
mination. I need to do more investigating."

  "I want to help."

  If only I had as many answers on this investigation as I had offers of help. First the Golden Oldies, now Apollo. My inclination was to tell him what I'd told them: "No!" But if I refused his help, I doubted the risk he was in would deter him from conducting his own investigation. Not to mention he'd already dug up some great info. I didn't know anyone as good at gathering information, or gossip that could lead to information.

  I said, "I'm taking my manuscript to Frankie's sister's tomorrow. She's that book doctor you recommended. I'm hoping to dig some information out of her about him. I'm also going to visit the other sister, the florist, while I'm on Bainbridge. I figure she can tell me where someone would acquire black carnations."

  "I could do an online search for that." His fingers found the keyboard in a symphony of eagerness.

  Keeping him here, at the computer sounded safe enough. He wouldn't be able to maneuver as freely as me without drawing attention from the press. Or perhaps being accosted by opinionated Joe Blows. "Good idea."

  "Or I could talk to Bruce." Apollo's hands lifted, the clicking stopped. He reached for a tablet, pencil, began jotting. "You said he was hiding something. I'll get it out of him."

  "No. Have you forgotten what he did to you at Lars' memorial? Stay away from Bruce."

  "Then what am I going to do once I've done the internet search?"

  "You could hang out here until I get back."

  He glanced around. "This place could use a good cleaning, and sprucing up."

  I envisioned coming back to a home without dust bunnies, a home without dirty dishes, a home free of chaos and creativity, where nothing would be as I'd left it, where nothing would remain of me. I cringed. "On second thought, if the killer bailed you out of jail and is planning to pin another murder on you, you'll need to have a constant alibi. You'll need to be around other people in case someone else turns up dead." Hopefully not me. "You could stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning I could drive you to work. They're shorthanded without you."

  He considered.

  "The media has gone away..." I said.

  "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "Will my face look better tomorrow?"

  I could lie to spare his feelings, but like my road-scraped face, improvement was day to day. "A little."

  It was a good day for dying.

  As the Bainbridge ferry chugged across the chopping waves of Puget Sound, I gazed on the purple and white majesty of Mount Rainier standing bold against the crystal blue sky. Autumn mornings like this made me glad to be alive, so why were thoughts of death foremost in my mind?

  Plan A: Get to Seattle early and follow Frankie, hopefully to Bainbridge Island, in order to kill two birds with one stone. Maybe that was why death thoughts stalked me.

  Plan A failed to include a contingency that had the Crain sisters so thrilled to see Apollo and me, there was no escaping a lavish breakfast of pancakes with peanut butter and raspberry syrup. I stayed on the promise that none of them would let him out of their sight until I returned for him in the afternoon. That and my inability to resist pancakes with peanut butter and raspberry syrup. By the time I hit I-5 for the city, rush hour traffic clogged every lane.

  Plan B: Take a ferry to Bainbridge Island and interview Frankie's sister, the florist bitch to use Dinah's acronym., until it was time for my appointment with the other sister, Teri Steele, the book editor. Plan B failed to include a contingency that had me too late to grab my favorite latte from Starbucks. Instead, I stood at a window sipping ferry coffee strong enough to fuel my car, mesmerized by the view, and thinking of death.

  Note to self: include contingencies for all future plans.

  Amendment to note to self: stop thinking about death.

  But I couldn't.

  As if on cue, my phone rang. Private caller. Breathing. Static. "Endré?"

  "Next time... die."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "Quick darlin'," Lars said. "Call 9-1-1!"

  I would have jumped at the sudden appearance in my head of my dead ex-husband, but that phone call had already sprung my startle mechanism. "What for?"

  "For a reality show that does retail make-overs before this place expires."

  I stood just inside the doorway of the flower shop on Bainbridge Island, held back by vegetation as dense as an evil forest, autumn blooms and greenery reaching for me like hexed monsters. Lars had a point. It was all merchandise and zero display. If I suffered from claustrophobia, I'd run out of here. "If I was after flowers, I'd steal 'em from someone's garden than shop here. And is she kiddin' with that name? Eve's Apple Garden."

  "Her name must be Eve," I whispered.

  "I wouldn't know. Dinah calls her 'bitch'," Lars said. "Of course, we don't know her well enough to call her bitch."

  "I don't know her at all." But I had photos of her. I would recognize her on sight. If I could see past the foliage, that is.

  "Follow the yellow brick road," Lars said.

  I looked down. Sure enough, the floor wore a mock brick pathway that wove between the lofty, pressing vegetation. I started forward, fending off leaves, wishing I packed a machete.

  "Ouch. That's cruel, darlin'. Did you forget I was stabbed to death?"

  "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.