Page 58 of Murder By the Millions
I typed his name into the search bar. A number of projects he’d built appeared as images. Most were beautiful in design. In Seattle. In San Francisco. In Aspen, Colorado. His style was akin to I. M. Pei’s. I discovered a few links to articles that described his work. I skimmed them and couldn’t find one person who’d claimed a design was shoddy. A link to an article about the building he hadn’t completed in Santa Monica, California, popped up. I clicked on it. The image of the shell of a building was front and center. The lede read,Builder dumps mall project, leaves pristine area in shambles.Reading on, I learned Jason hadn’t explained why he’d abandoned the mall, but it had occurred about four months ago.
“Delilah,” I whispered. “It had to have been because of her.”
Next, I researched Patrick and found dozens of images of him going caving and engaging with bats. Others showed him at eco-warrior events. At one, he’d encountered former Vice President Al Gore, possibly the most high-powered eco-warrior in history. On his Facebook page, Patrick had posted videos explaining, close up and personal, what a raw diet consisted of. The same videos were published on his YouTube page. I viewed the Yelp page for Hardwick Construction and hit upon dozens of positive reviews touting his work ethic, skill, and honesty. An interview in theBramblewood Timesprovided a detailed biography of one of Bramblewood’s most eligible bachelors, withimages of Patrick, first as a boy on the farm, then as a senior in high school presented with running back awards, and lastly as an adult pounding nails into walls and repairing rooftops.
In a recent photo of him at Raven’s Roost, a beginner’s cliff that offered incredible views, he was mugging to the camera while dangling off the cliff, holding on by one hand. I recalled my theory—he could climb Mount Everest one-handed—and figured this baby cliff was a snap for him. I smiled when I viewed a video of him at a karaoke bar, rocking out with two of his crew. The song was “When I Come Around,” another Green Day hit. All in all, he seemed like a nice guy, and most likely was not guilty. Plus I couldn’t figure out how he would’ve known about my spearhead collection … until I remembered he’d come to a book club event at my place about six months ago.
I copied links from images and articles into Patrick’s column.
Darcy thwacked the kitchen door with his paw.
“Stop. You might hurt your—” I paused. Was that how he’d injured his toenail? No, there had been drops of blood on the hearth, not by the kitchen.
He yowled. Not in pain. In irritation.
“Yes, I know. It’s getting late. But I’m not done.”
I fetched his favorite mouse toy, opened the door, hurled the toy into the living room, and shut the door. Then I slipped the cookie sheet of orange-drop cookies into the oven, switched on the timer, and prepared the blood-orange dough.
While it rested, I considered Ignatius Luckenbill II, who had adamantly wanted the properties Jason had been trying to secure. Why those properties? Were his other projects failing? Did he think building homes at such a visible site would drum up more business?
A Wikipedia page revealed he’d worked on construction crews while attending college, meaning not only did he knowhow to run a company, but he also would be familiar with tools. He had never been to my house. Had he learned from someone else about my spearpoints? Might he have a collection of his own? His father had been an adventurer. I continued browsing. During college, Iggie had earned degrees in law, business, and architecture.Wow. A triple threat.
Afterward, he took over his father’s business, which he’d inherited because his father died of a heart attack at the age of fifty.Young,I thought and whistled. I didn’t realize how long ago he’d passed. I quickly researched the man’s demise and discovered that over the years, he’d had fainting spells. When he learned he had bradycardia, he was fitted with a pacemaker. An autopsy was performed after his death, and the coroner determined Senior had thick heart muscles, which made it difficult to pump blood out of the ventricles. No foul play had been involved.
I jotted notes in Iggie’s column and dove deeper into theBramblewood Timesarchives, where I landed on a couple more articles about him. One featured an interview in which he bragged he had a Biltmore-sized deal coming up. Had he been referring to the four properties in Bramblewood? Had he intended to build a hotel there? No, the property where the inn on Biltmore Estate was located consisted of eight thousand acres. At most, the four properties comprised ten acres.
I revisited Iggie’s Wiki page and scrolled down to details of his personal life. He was married to Shayna, née Jensen, his second wife. His first wife, unnamed, moved to Charlotte and took the children. Neither of the grown children were in real estate or construction. His current wife didn’t work. She donated her time to worthy causes in Asheville.Worthy causescould be a veiled way of saying she donated a lot of cash to passion projects, prompting me to wonder if Iggie needed money because his beloved was bleeding him dry. It also caused me to wonder ifone of the children had composed the Wikipedia page on their father’s behalf, little digs being part and parcel of a broken family.
I added links for Iggie’s info into his column and eyed Reika’s name.
“One of the neighbors said a dog barked,” I murmured. Reika had a dog. A yappy dog.
I imagined a possible scenario. Reika didn’t live far from the Sugarbaker estate. While walking her dog, she might have gotten a bee in her bonnet about how much she wanted the preservation society to have the Yeager properties, and in an effort to convince Jason not to follow through with his purchase, she headed there. She might not have been aware of the hour. She didn’t wear a watch. Perhaps she saw Jason moving about in his gardens. To seem less confrontational, she tied Amira to a tree before approaching, but being tethered made the dog bark.
After all the time I’d spent with Reika, I knew a lot about her without having to search the Internet. She and her descendants had lived in North Carolina for as long as the state had been in existence. She had been married once, but he’d died. I recalled someone telling me it had been under questionable circumstances, but I couldn’t remember who.
When I was talking to her at the history museum this morning, she’d offered her alibi for last night—reading the same book we’d read for book club. She said she often reread books. Her claim hadn’t bothered me then, but now it did. Why? I often read books more than once. I’d devoured every Agatha Christie I owned so often the pages were worn on the corners. I’d readGone Girlthree times to learn which clues I’d missed.The Thursday Murder Clubhad required a couple of readings, as well, in order to understand each point of view. So, finding fault with Reika for perusing a book a second time shouldn’t have nagged at me, but it had sounded like a lie.
I jotted a note in her column and reviewed my list from a distance.
“Is there another suspect?” I murmured. “What about Finette Fineworthy?”
Darcy, realizing I was nowhere near ready for bed, dropped to the dining room floor with athwumpand curled into a ball.
Finette was close to Jason. She might have been in love with him, which meant she probably hadn’t killed him. What if she had professed her love, and he had rebuffed her?
“No. She’d have wanted him to remain alive. She couldn’t win him over if he was dead.”
Iggie had hinted that Jason was paying Finette. For what? Her sway with the town council? If she was accepting a bribe because she needed money, it would be another reason to keep Jason alive. If he was dead, he couldn’t make good on a debt.
I added Finette’s name with a question mark, to be revisited if a stronger motive occurred to me.
The timer went off.
At the same time, the doorbell rang.
CHAPTER12
