Chapter 13 #2
No doubt. It didn’t take genius. I didn’t say anything, though, just quirked a brow for him to go on.
“You’re wondering whether your stepson could have killed Nick.”
Yes, I was. Or at least I was wondering whether it was a possibility. That it could be one hadn’t crossed my mind until just now—why would it?—but Kenny’s feelings for Jacquie had been writ plainly on his face, and now I had to wonder what else might be going on.
“I didn’t even know they knew each other,” I said. “Or rather, I didn’t know they knew each other socially. That he knew her as anything other than his father’s mistress.”
“No, why would you?” Greg said. He leaned forward, his voice low. “I’m sure you know this, Gina, but him being here with the dead man’s girlfriend less than forty-eight hours after the murder is either very poor timing or really suspicious behavior.”
No kidding. “I wonder how he found out? It must have hit the papers, I assume, but I wouldn’t have guessed Kenny kept up to date on the news.”
.
“You told your admin,” Greg asked, “didn’t you? And she’s sleeping with Kenny’s uncle, isn’t she?”
She was. Pretty literally, too, this morning. My face puckered. “So Rachel must have told Daniel and Daniel told Kenny. That makes sense.”
Greg nodded. “That’s if he didn’t already know because he committed the murder.”
Yes, of course. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that Kenny wanted Jacquie,” I said. (Which it was pretty clear that he did, if you asked me.) “Couldn’t he just have waited for her to break up with Nick? Or tried to woo her away with money and status, the way David did?”
Greg tilted his head. “Does he have a lot more money and status than Nick? I didn’t think his inheritance from your ex was that substantial.”
Substantial enough, if nothing like what David had had before the assets got split into four. Then again, who knew how much of Kenny’s share was left after the Bronco and the bar?
“Nick was fine with Jacquie screwing David,” I said. “I’m sure he would have been fine with her screwing Kenny, too.”
“But would Kenny have been fine with it?” Greg leaned forward to emphasize his point. “He had the opportunity to see what happened with your husband, after all. How Jacquie went back to Nick after David’s death. What was to keep her from doing the same to Kenny if he ran out of money?”
Nothing at all, as far as I could see. If the bar didn’t make it off the ground, Kenny wouldn’t have a whole lot to recommend him anymore.
“Maybe he was the one who pushed the idea that Nick was cheating,” Greg continued. “Maybe he tried to break them up that way first.”
Maybe. Although that had sounded very much like it was Jacquie’s own idea, based on her impressions of Nick’s changed behavior. And how would Kenny have known about Megan, anyway? Especially if she were, as I suspected, an undercover cop? Those are not circles Kenny travels in.
“She hired you to look into it,” Greg continued, invested in his scenario now, “but you told her that you didn’t think Nick was cheating. Kenny had to employ stronger measures to get what he wanted.”
I thought about that. “It’s not impossible. I considered whether he might have killed David back when David was murdered. For the money, in that case. He’s spoiled, and he doesn’t like to be told no, so it’s definitely not a case of, ‘oh, no, he’d never.’”
Greg nodded. “One more for the suspect list, then. The mob, Jacquie, and Kenny.”
And possibly Sal, and Mrs. Miller, based on her proximity and access to the crime scene.
“I suppose we’re either looking at Kenny killing Nick so he could be with Jacquie,” I said, “or Jacquie killing Nick so she could be with Kenny. If it isn’t the mob, I mean.”
Greg nodded. “Or them killing Nick together, although I can’t think of a reason why they would. He didn’t have any money he was leaving her, did he?”
I snorted. “Judging from the way he lived, he had a hard enough time just making ends meet. And we know he gambled and lost, because that was how the mob got their claws into the Body Shop. He was in debt. Any excess money he had would have been in the coin jar on his counter.”
“Not likely to be that, then.” Greg sat back as the waiter arrived beside the table to do the production number with the corkscrew and cork and sip of wine.
When he’d left again, Greg clinked his glass against mine across the table and continued, as if there had been no break in the conversation.
“Here’s another angle to consider: What if Kenny’s involved in the money laundering? ”
“Kenny? Why would he be?”
Again, it wasn’t necessarily something I would consider an impossibility, but the suggestion still took me by surprise.
“Think about it,” Greg said. “He’s opening a bar with his uncle. Bars are perfect for money laundering. You bring in cash, run it through the till, claim it as revenue. The IRS gets their cut, and suddenly dirty money is clean.”
I blinked. “You think Daniel and Kenny are working with the mob.”
“I think they could be,” Greg said seriously. “Especially if Kenny’s hurting for money. You said he invested his entire inheritance in this bar. What if it wasn’t enough? What if he needed more capital and turned to less legitimate sources?”
First, it couldn’t have been his entire inheritance. Sure, Rachel had said that, but David had left him a not inconsiderable sum. Even Kenny wasn’t likely to have blown through it in just a few months.
“And you don’t know what connections Daniel might have,” Greg continued. “He’s only been here in Nashville a few months, right? You have no idea what he might have been up to before that.”
He’d been David’s brother, and had been in touch whenever he ran into trouble, so I had some idea. But Greg was right that I had no idea whether Daniel could have been involved with the mob out in the Sunshine state.
“For all we know,” I said slowly, as ideas crowded one another in my head, “it was Nick who put Kenny in touch with the mob. If he knew Jacquie from when David was sleeping with her, he might have known Nick, as well.”
“He might have known them longer than that,” Greg said. “He might have been the one who introduced them. Kenny, I mean. Introduced his father to Jacquie.”
That stopped me cold. “Kenny? Introduced Jacquie to David?”
“You never know,” Greg said. “If you’re willing to consider that Kenny knew both Jacquie and Nick from before, any number of things might be true.
Kenny and Nick were about the same age, right?
And Kenny got in some trouble as a teen and young man?
So did Nick, from everything we’ve heard.
They may have been friends for a decade. ”
They may have been. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of that. Just because Kenny and Nick were from totally different backgrounds, didn’t mean they couldn’t have crossed paths in the past, especially given their similarities.
“That’s...” I trailed off. Was it crazy? Or was it possible?
“I’m not saying it’s true,” Greg said. “I’m just saying it’s worth considering. Especially now that Nick’s dead and Jacquie’s already moved on to Kenny. Or vice versa.”
He took another sip of his wine. I did the same, and let it sit on my tongue for a moment or two before I swallowed.
“This is crazy,” I said finally. “I’m sitting here wondering whether my stepson is involved with the mob. And whether he murdered my dead husband’s mistress, who is also my current client.”
“Welcome to my life,” Greg said with a slight smile. “Just remember, Gina, there’s no proof of any of this. We’ve spun some interesting theories, but there’s no way to know whether any of them is true.”
“One of them must be true. Nick’s dead. And he didn’t kill himself.”
“Doesn’t mean any of our theories is the right one.” His smile widened. “Sometimes truth really is stranger than anything I could come up with.”
He had a point there. Nonetheless, I earmarked the theory to come back to when I had time to mull it over in peace and quiet.
We ate when our food arrived, and the conversation drifted to safer topics.
Greg told me about his mother’s bridge club, and about the ranch house in Wyoming where he wrote during the winter months, and a bit more about the research trip to Scotland that he was planning for the spring.
I told him about Edwina’s latest antics and avoided saying too specifically whether I’d travel with him or not.
He hinted, but didn’t come right out and ask, so I felt justified in not coming right out and answering.
He noticed, though, because, as we were finishing dessert, Greg leaned forward.
“You know, Gina,” he said.
Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.
“I enjoy your company very much.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said formally. “I enjoy yours, as well.”
He smiled. “I’m glad. And I understand that it hasn’t been very long since your ex-husband died—”
Still my husband at the time of his death although I didn’t say so. “Three months, give or take.”
He nodded. “I understand that you need time. The last thing I want to do is scare you off.”
“I’m not scared,” I said.
“Good. Then may I take you out again tomorrow?”
His hand was warm, his expression sincere. I smiled back, and told myself that this was what I wanted. A successful, famous, (age-appropriate,) man who could support me in the fashion to which David had accustomed me.
But even better than David, because Greg offered excitement and travel and no hateful stepchildren, and I probably wouldn’t have to worry about him leaving me for a woman young enough to be his daughter.
If he had made it to forty-eight without any ex-wives, he wasn’t likely to start the trading in and up at this late date.
And if I got a flash of… what else? Mendoza in his waiter’s uniform, dimple flashing as he grinned at me, I was able to push it aside and tell myself not to be an idiot.
“That would be lovely,” I said, squeezing his hand before pulling mine away. “Why don’t you call me tomorrow and we’ll figure it out?”
He nodded and signaled for the check.
The drive back to Hillwood was quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
Greg kept the radio on low, some jazz station that filled the silence without demanding attention.
It was a Sunday night, so traffic was slow, even on the busy roads, and after we turned onto Hillwood Drive, we didn’t pass another car until we reached the house.
As we turned up the driveway, I could already hear barking. The closer we came to the house, the more frantic and high-pitched it became.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, already reaching for my seatbelt.
Greg pulled up below the porch, and I was out of the car before he’d fully stopped, running toward the front door.
That’s when I saw it.
The door—my beautiful wooden front door—was splattered with red. Great gobs of it: running down the window and wood, pooling on the threshold, splashed across the brass knocker and handle.
I rocked to a stop and swallowed down the acid in my chest as I wondered how much blood it would have taken to get this effect. A bottle? A bucket? More?
But even as I reeled, my more calculating back-brain informed me that the color was wrong, too bright under the porch light.
And there was a smell. Not the coppery scent of blood but something harsh, chemical.
All the air went out of me as I recognized it for what it was.
Behind me, Greg had gotten out of the Jaguar and was approaching slowly, his phone already in his hand. “I’m calling the police.”
“That’s not necessary,” I told him. My voice was thin, but steady. “It’s just paint. I’ll take a picture of it—”
I suited action to words, “—and then I’ll send it to Detective Mendoza. He’ll be able to determine whether it’s worth involving Lieutenant Copeland and CSI tonight.”
Greg was staring at me, and I added, “No one’s hurt. Edwina’s fine, see?”
She was hopping up and down inside the door, still barking frantically.
We could see the top of her head and her bouncing ears on every jump.
But while she was practically hysterical, that was par for the course when I was standing outside the door and she was stuck inside and couldn’t get to me. There was nothing wrong with her.
“There’s no need to call a crime scene crew out to my house at this time of night,” I said firmly. “Not for a gallon of paint. They’d be here all night, and I’d never get to sleep. It makes more sense to wait until the morning. If you’ll just escort me to the back door…”
I headed in that direction without waiting for an answer, and Greg, perforce, followed. His eyebrows were elevated, but he wasn’t objecting.
“I’ll go in through the kitchen door,” I explained, “and then I’ll contact Mendoza and tell him what happened. And tomorrow, in daylight, they can come out and take care of it.”
Greg looked around, at the small circle of light outside the back door and the black silhouettes of the tall trees rustling in the faint breeze. “Whatever you say.”
“I do say. It’s my house, and my front door, and my dog that’s going crazy inside. If I want to wait until tomorrow morning to deal with the police, then that’s my right.”
“And you’re not worried about staying here by yourself tonight?”
Of course I was. But— “There’s nobody here. Edwina wouldn’t be behaving the way she is if someone was. And I have a decent alarm system. It’s not that easy to get inside my house.”
Mendoza foray two days ago notwithstanding.
“Besides,” I added, “this wasn’t even really a threat, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“I don’t think so. It’s going to be annoying to clean up, of course. I may have to paint the door if I can’t get rid of all the red. But it isn’t blood. And there’s nothing all that scary about a thirty-dollar gallon of paint.” Not beyond the initial shock of seeing it and assuming the worst.
“If you say so,” Greg said. He sounded doubtful.
I smiled up at him. “I do say so. Right now I just want to get inside and comfort my dog. But I promise I’ll contact Mendoza as soon as she calms down. He’ll know what to do.”
This was most likely related to either Jacquie or to Nick and the mob.
The only question was whether it was a gift from someone who knew I had found Nick’s body, and who wanted me to know that they could come after me next—although I had no idea why they would bother, when I had no idea what was going on—or whether it was Kenny who had decided to pay me back for the scene at Fidelio’s.
He knew better than anyone where I lived—it had been his father’s house for eighteen years—and all in all, I rather thought it had his touch.