Chapter 21
The police station was no more inspiring from the inside of the jail cell than the outside.
Arthur wondered if whoever had built the place had a personal grudge against colors other than off-white and tan, or if the effect was accidental.
Perhaps if Sheriff McMartin were the culprit, he hadn’t always been a homicidal jerk.
Maybe staring at the plain walls and drab architecture here had driven him to it.
No wonder Salvatore’s harmonica had sounded so sad.
Arthur sighed and leaned his head against the wall.
Thinking about Salvatore sent an unpleasant spike of pain through his chest, feeling as lethal as a wooden stake, and it came with an undercurrent of worry.
If his many stories were true, Sal was pretty crafty in a crisis, and he’d survived far worse than relocating to another country to evade authorities.
But the Sal Arthur had been married to for sixty-odd years was different from the Sal of legend.
The man wouldn’t even go to the dentist, for crying out loud.
As Arthur’s thoughts wound in circles and he fretted over what might become of the man he loved—and what would become of them as partners—the ache in his chest deepened and spread like roots.
When McMartin appeared in the doorway of his office, his leading-man smugness was back in the curve of his smirk and the fold of his arms across his chest.
“You know there are no cameras here,” Arthur said. “At least not the kind you want to be in front of.”
McMartin frowned for a fleeting moment, then his grin returned. “Snap at me all you want, vamp. I finally got you.”
Arthur grimaced. He’d spent the last few days trying to stay civil with McMartin—they were both investigating the same murder, after all—but there was no need now.
Arthur was behind bars for a crime he was becoming more and more certain the sheriff himself had committed.
It would certainly explain a lot, like the sheriff’s gross incompetence and his disappointment when he’d learned of the FPI’s impending arrival.
Yes, it all made a great deal more sense if, instead of simply lacking the skill to properly direct the investigation, Sheriff McMartin had orchestrated it all to appear that way, all the while pinning the murder on someone else.
He would’ve preferred to solve this crime outside a jail cell, of course, but this would have to do. At least now he had a chance to really question McMartin. Maybe Arthur could lull him into a false sense of security after the arrest, make him say things he wouldn’t normally admit to.
“Indeed,” Arthur said, letting his shoulders slump dramatically. “You got me.”
The sheriff reddened and puffed up his chest. “Have to say, I’m surprised you gave up so easily.”
“What makes you think I’ve given up?” Arthur straightened his back and lifted his chin, trying to look as imposing as possible, but he wasn’t sure what the effect was. Sal was always better at this sort of thing.
“Keep pretending. But tomorrow morning when the FPI shows up to take you into federal custody, I’m going to hand them a perfectly solved case file.”
“I wonder if they’ll find the details a little too neat.” Arthur stepped closer to the bars, staring McMartin down. “Almost like fiction.”
With a huff, the sheriff rolled his eyes. “Please. You were sloppy; you got caught. Happens every day.”
Arthur raised a brow. “Every day…sure.” Trident Falls wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.
In the past fifty years, there had only been one other murder, and McMartin certainly hadn’t solved that one.
The low crime rate was one of the reasons Arthur had been eager to move here in the first place.
“Open and shut!” the sheriff boomed.
“It makes a good story,” Arthur conceded with a shrug. “But we both know the truth. I didn’t hurt Brody Young. You did.”
“I told you last night, I had no reason to hurt him.”
“Then how come I don’t believe you?” Arthur began to pace across his cell—a short distance, but the movement did the trick all the same.
McMartin’s eyes followed him like a pendulum.
“You paid Brody off. He could’ve come back asking for more money.
He could’ve threatened to tell everyone about the movie—”
“Just—keep your voice down,” McMartin said, tossing a glance over his shoulder at the one other deputy in the station. It was late, and she didn’t seem to care what was going on in the universe outside her phone screen. For once Arthur was thankful for modern people’s obsession with technology.
“Why? Afraid you’ll have to silence someone else? Frame them like you framed me?”
McMartin made a confused face. “What? How could I have framed you?”
Arthur’s foot scuffed the floor with a squeak of rubber on concrete, and he paused on the far side of the cell.
Salvatore’s absence was an acute silence.
There was no quip about the sheriff’s inability to pull off such a plot, no jab at his intelligence or competence.
There was just Arthur behind bars, McMartin looking in, and the facts they both knew hanging heavy between them.
“You have access to all the case data, you control the police report, and I wouldn’t put it past you to falsify records to make the pieces fit together.
Dr. Young probably gave you my dental impression ages ago, which you used to fake Brody’s bite.
But I’m actually more concerned with who you might hurt next. ”
McMartin shook his head. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering to talk to you.”
“Don’t you?” Arthur said, lifting his chin. “It’s obvious to me.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You want to frustrate or intimidate a confession out of me so you can hand the FPI a completely wrapped-up case. You’re afraid if they do any of their own investigating, or even talk to me too long, they’ll realize who the real culprit is.”
“Keep spinning those lies,” McMartin huffed. “You’re the only one who believes them.”
“I’m going to tell them about you, of course,” Arthur pressed on, lowering his voice so the deputy wouldn’t overhear. “They’re going to be very interested in why you, by your own admission, gave Brody Young hush money. Your so-called alibi will be pretty flimsy when they go looking.”
“My alibi is solid, like I told you last night.”
“You wouldn’t even tell us what it was. Am I supposed to just take it on faith?”
“I don’t have to tell two random vampires anything about my personal life!” McMartin growled, face moving dangerously close to the bars. If Arthur had designs on escaping by less than respectable means, a few inches more and McMartin would be in biting range.
“Or, the simpler explanation, that you have no alibi because you were the one who attacked Brody.”
“Saying that over and over won’t make it true, and the FPI agents will never buy it.” McMartin’s smirk was triumphant, as good as a confession to Arthur.
“I suppose we’ll have to see what the FPI thinks when they look into you. The corrupt sheriff…I guess it’s a cliché for a reason.”
Some of the redness faded from McMartin’s face. He looked a little shaken. Good. Arthur wanted him afraid, wanted the guilt of what he’d done to push him to confess.
Arthur pressed on. “Do you think the FPI will bother to keep the truth about your movie a secret? Or will it be all over the entertainment news by Monday evening? Certainly everyone in town will know.”
Pale beneath his fake tan, McMartin’s smug self-assuredness was finally gone. “They don’t care about that sort of thing.”
“They’ll care because it was motive for attempted murder. What will that do to your eventual reelection campaign?” Arthur asked.
“As soon as they see proof of my alibi, they’ll clear me.”
“Since you refuse to tell me what it is, I have no choice but to assume you’re lying.” Arthur crossed his arms and fixed the sheriff with his best impression of a coy smile. “Come on, what was it? Seeing a married woman? Committing some other crime?”
“No, it was—I was—” McMartin glanced at his oblivious deputy and stepped right up to the bars. “I was recording some new audition material. My agent dropped me because of the movie thing, so I’m looking for a new one.”
Arthur paused. Well, that wasn’t what he’d expected. But it was probably a lie. “Auditions? Why are you so hesitant to show me, then? Isn’t an audition something meant to be seen?”
“It’s what I’m auditioning for that you wouldn’t understand.” He crossed his arms, shoulders hunched.
“I’m certain if you explain yourself properly, I will. You’re the industry professional, after all.” Every good detective knew when to butter up a suspect.
“Fine.” McMartin took out his phone, then hesitated. “You ever hear of the show Love Is Dead?”
Arthur perked up. “Sal and I watch every week, in fact.” Or, they had. Now he wasn’t certain they’d ever view another episode together.
“They’re looking for a new host, so I thought I’d throw my hat into the ring.” The sheriff tapped his phone screen a few times and turned it to Arthur. The video played.
A close-cropped recording showed a glossy-faced McMartin wearing an onyx tuxedo and a cellophane smile. He gestured as he spoke, arms cutting in and out of the frame.
“Find out what happens when love bites back, this week on Love Is Dead!” McMartin said into the camera.
And, unfortunately, it didn’t stop there.
“Sasha and Maurine’s love for the Count is neck and neck!
There’s more than just their hearts at stake.
” He hit all the puns with a bit too much force. Sal probably would have loved it.
The time stamp on the video was from last night—just after eight p.m., right around the time Brody had been attacked. Perhaps this was all a little too convenient, though.