“Where does that leave us?” I asked.
If I were the hangman, I’d place the noose around Shelby Cabot’s neck. Hers and Kenneth Franken’s.
My heart sunk. It had been a disillusioning few days for me. First I discovered that a much-admired literary figure was, in reality, a cruel, bitter old tyrant who bullied everyone around him. Then I’d learned that the sour old man stole most of his ideas from a real-life detective, and that he hadn’t even written some of the best work attributed to him. Now Jack was telling me that the very son-in-law who had written those novels—without thanks or credit—was probably a double murderer. From this set of facts alone, one might get the impression that a life in book publishing was as ruthless as a career in the Mafia.
“Okay,” I said. “How do we prove to the State Police that Deirdre is innocent? And that Shelby and Kenneth are the real murderers?”
Jack Shepard’s glee was a palpable thing, carbonating my veins like soda pop.
Call them up and invite them over for a chat.
“That’s crazy! For starters, Fiona told me Kenneth went to Providence. That’s where the State Police took Deirdre, and he’s trying to secure a high-profile criminal lawyer before her arraignment tomorrow. Fiona said he’d be back after that to pick up the luggage.”
The faithful husband routine, Jack replied. Or maybe Kenneth was the one who stole farmer Zeb’s truck and used it to run down Josh Bernstein. Either way, it works out better for us. You might not be able to handle Franken, but Shelby will be a pushover for a saucy tomato like you.
“I’m no saucy tomato, Jack. And Shelby’s no pushover. She’s tough as nails and twice as hard. I butted heads with women like her during my eight years in publishing—and it was I who wore the bruises.”
That was before you met me, doll, Jack said. I can show you the ropes. And I’ve always found the toughest nuts are the easiest to crack. Poke a few holes in their skin and they deflate like balloons. You just have to muster the nerve to take a jab or two.
“Okay. Even if I buy your mixed metaphor, how am I going to convince Shelby to come over here?”
Play the blackmail card. Tell her you have something she left, the very thing she was looking for the other night. Giver her the drift that you know the score, that you have the syringe. And this is key: make her think you’re on her side.
“But I don’t have the syringe. The police do—”
That’s our ace in the hole. My bet is the police haven’t enlightened Deirdre or Kenneth as to what they found yet—and no one else saw it except Bird Woman—
“Fiona Finch!”
—And that kind of information won’t be made public until after the arraignment, if at all. So even if Shelby and Kenneth planted the evidence on Deirdre themselves, your mentioning a syringe will set Shelby’s blood boiling because you ain’t supposed to know. How could you? Unless you saw something.
In fact, as far as Shelby’s concerned, you just might have the real syringe, and the one Josh Bernstein found was a phony. Make her believe that, and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.
“Are you sure?”
Sure I’m sure! Even if she thinks you’re bluffing, she’ll know something’s up—something that smells like blackmail. And if she thinks you have the real syringe, even better.
Shelby probably wiped the fingerprints off the syringe, but she’ll still have doubts. Murderers always do, and doubts prey on guilty minds in the wee small hours. It gnaws at their edges, exposing the raw fear of being caught. You’re in a good position to take advantage of that dame’s night sweats. Dangle that syringe as bait and you’ll get her over here. Then you can give her the third degree.
“I’m supposed to give her the third degree? I don’t even know the etymology of the term.”
Keep your panties on. I know the routine. I broke con artists, hit men, and nickel grifters as a private dick—and without breaking their knees, either. Well . . . most of the time. Anyway, I’ll be right here inside your head, telling you what to say.
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t do it. I’m just not very good at being tough, Jack. I’m sure I’d just fold and mess it all up somehow.”
There was a long, empty silence. A chill bit the air, and I shivered.
“Jack? . . . I’m sorry . . .” But there was no response. No voice. Not even a sense of him. Just a cold, empty room.
Suddenly, a hard, sharp series of knocks sounded on the glass of the store’s front door. I jumped and turned. A dark blue uniform shifted from foot to foot on the sidewalk: Officer Eddie Franzetti.
I went to the door, unbolted it. “Eddie? What brings you back?”
He didn’t speak right away. I didn’t like the expression in his dark brown gaze.
“Oh, hey, I saved you a copy of Shield of Justice,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. I moved into the store and reached behind the counter. With a sharp box cutter, I opened the very last of the twenty boxes and held the book out to Eddie. But he didn’t take it. Instead, he took off his hat and looked down at the floor.
“I knew you lied to me, Pen,” he said in a whisper. “You said you didn’t recognize that corpse. But I could see in your face that you did.”
I nodded. There was no use denying it now.
“I figured you had your reasons, so I gave you a little time. But we still haven’t I.D.’d him, so I had to come back.” Eddie lifted his head and his eyes met mine. “Who was it, Pen? And why didn’t you tell me his name?”
“His name was Josh Bernstein. He was a publicity assistant with Salient House. And his death was no accident,” I replied.
“You should have told me, Pen. Lying just makes it worse. Chief Ciders is already fit to be tied that we haven’t caught the driver yet.”
That sounded like Ciders, all right. I remembered how angry he’d looked when he finally got to the scene of the hit-and-run. He’d come straight from Embry’s lot, where Zeb’s stolen truck had been recovered. He still had the lot’s brick-red mud on his boots.
“I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t want to tell you it was Josh because I needed some time to think. I just didn’t want the police talking to Shelby Cabot. Not yet, anyway. Something’s going on. Something I can’t explain.”
Eddie shook his head again. His face was so grim I was really starting to worry. “Eddie? Is there something else on your mind?”
“I shouldn’t say anything,” he said. “I could get in a lot of trouble. But your brother Pete was one of my best friends. And your dad. He was the one who encouraged me, you know? Said I could become a cop like him, introduced me to the chief back when Ciders was still a patrolman.”
“I know.”
“They were good men, Pen. Both of them. God rest their souls.”
“Eddie? Come on. You’re scaring me. What’s this all about?”
“I got wind that the State Police are going to be coming by tomorrow. Deirdre was arrested for murdering her father, but they think she had an accomplice. And since you were the one who gave Brennan the bottle, and they got it on film . . . I’m really sorry, Pen, but you’re at the top of their list.”
“You’re kidding?” I rasped. My mouth had gone suddenly dry.
“Pen, just call a lawyer. Get some protection. I don’t know how far they’re going to go, but somebody really wants your hide. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Is there anything I can do?”
I barely heard Eddie’s words. As my hand slowly set down the Shield of Justice book on the edge of the counter, I felt my body and mind go numb—except for one thought: My son. Spencer.