I couldn’t help but grin. “Except give away all your money, on your way out the door.”
“As I said, I’d been thinking about it anyway. I thought it would stop the killing.” She looked at me defiantly, her eyes clear now. “I don’t grieve that it led to Alta killing Darlene and Georgie.”
“She killed them to get that half million?”
“I don’t think Alta found that money, or even cared about it. It wasn’t in her car. I’ll bet the police will locate it in one of Georgie’s accounts. Alta killed Darlene and Georgie to cover her own tracks.”
“Like she was going to kill you?”
“No. Killing me was to be revenge, plain and simple. Georgie killed Andrew, but Alta and Darlene, one or the other or both, killed Mr. Stitts and Bob Norton.”
She sipped at her coffee, and I finished my pie.
“I don’t know what more I can tell you, Mr. Elstrom,” she said finally.
“Why not marry Silas Fairbairn?”
Her face brightened at the mention of his name. “He wanted to, brought it up all the time. I kept telling him I didn’t want folks to think I was after his money. ‘Let them think that, if their nasty minds demand it,’ he’d say. I’d say, ‘Never mind. We’ve got each other, as is.’”
“That wasn’t your reason, though.”
“If it ever got out that I’d been involved in a killing when I was a kid, there would be no end to the scandal. He had me; I had him. It was enough.”
A car pulled into the parking lot. An elderly couple came into the diner and took the first booth by the door.
She lowered her voice. “Remember, Mr. Elstrom: Alta came here with a knife.”
“There’s a policeman in Chicago, named Plinnit,” I said. “He’s putting warrants out on Sweetie Fairbairn for everything he can think of, right down to assaulting me.”
She raised her eyebrows behind the cartoonish red glasses. “Little ol’ me?” she asked, forcing a smile.
“The DNA that was found under my fingernails, that partially matches yours? It’s enough for some of the warrants. As is a grainy security video from the lobby of the Wilbur Wright, showing you going up to your penthouse, twice, just before I discovered you with Bob Norton’s body.”
“Twice?” She shook her head. “The first time had to be Darlene.”
She watched Gus bring menus to the couple in the booth. “I helped take care of his wife when she was dying, years ago. He can alibi me for every minute I need, as can his brothers.”
“Plinnit can play loose with the facts. For now, he’s focused only on your apprehension.”
“I know how to travel, Mr. Elstrom.”
I started to ease out of the booth.
She put her hand hard on my wrist. “Mr. Elstrom?” she asked.
“This has to be the best place for pie in four counties, exactly as advertised, though I’ll never admit to being here to learn that, should anyone ever ask.”
We walked together, toward the door.
“No sir,” she said, when I stopped at the cash register to peel off some of the last of Leo’s money. “In fact…” She went through the swinging door to the back, coming out a couple of minutes later with a box.
“I’m afraid it’s all I have to give, now,” she said.
I thanked her and took the box out to the Jeep.
For a time I drove, enjoying the steady sound of the engine, and the dark of the night, and the promise that somehow, my life would sort out once I got back to Rivertown.
And, for a time, I enjoyed glancing down at the white box on the seat beside me, savoring the last mystery of Sweetie Fairbairn. Finally, I could stand it no more. I pulled to the side of the deserted country road and opened the box.
Inside, as I’d expected, was an apple pie.
On top, as I’d hoped, were layered several slices of Velveeta.
I laughed with relief, certain that I could not imagine a more righteous resolution to the day.
Jack Fredrickson
Jack Fredrickson's first Dek Elstrom mystery, A Safe Place for Dying, was nominated for the Shamus Award for Best First Novel. His short fiction has appeared in the acclaimed Chicago Blues and in Michael Connelly's Burden of the Badge anthologies. He lives with his wife, Susan, west of Chicago, where he is crafting the next Dek Elstrom novel.
