Page 78 of Murder By the Millions
We arrived at the bookshop around four thirty, and I retreated to the office, deciding it was time to do another deep dive on the three people I suspected of murder—whether they had an alibi or not and, more importantly, whether I liked them or not. I didn’t kill Jason. I needed to prove who did.
Darcy leaped onto the office desk and purred.
“Hello to you, too.”
He began pacing along the far edge, as if he wished he could take away my angst.
“Cool it, cat. I’m fine.”
First, as I had done at home, I created a Word document on the office computer. I generated a three-column grid and added the names Patrick, Iggie, and Reika.
Next, I reached out to three of Iggie’s cronies from the country club using numbers Tegan provided. None answered their phones, so I left cryptic messages saying they had won a free private meal from Dream Cuisine. I didn’t think they would call me back without knowing me or the reason for my call, and I didn’t want to say I was investigating their buddy.
Following that, I checked out Shayna Luckenbill online. I didn’t know whether she would talk to me about her husband, but we were kindred spirits. Like me, she was an avid reader. After I knew more about her, I would reach out as a part owner of Feast for the Eyes and encourage her to come to the shop and join our book clubs. Images of her popped up everywhere, ones of her donating time to the theater, to the art society, to the children’s group at the library. In each she was decked out in what appeared to be expensive clothing. I phoned Lillian and asked if Shayna was a regular at Puttin’ on the Glitz. She said she was and had one of the deepest pockets she’d ever seen, adding she wasn’t sure how long Iggie could afford to keep her in so much finery.
One picture of Shayna and Iggie at a formal event gave me pause. Iggie was fixing his cuff link, as he had at Ragamuffin the other day. I zoomed in on it and gasped. A cursive capitalIwas etched on the cuff link, a capitalIthat, because of the serif, could’ve been mistaken for a capitalJ.Could the cuff link found at Jason’s belong to Iggie?
I jotted the tidbit in his column, and then, because I couldn’t help myself, texted Zach about the discovery. Not unsurprisingly, he didn’t respond. By now, he might have learned Iggie’s alibi and ruled him out.
“Let’s get to know Reika better.”
Darcy stared at me, waiting for more.
“I know she reads historical fiction, like the Elizabethan Spy Mystery series by Suzanne B. Wolfe and the Wrexford & Sloane mysteries by Andrea Penrose. She also tunes in to Burt the Cyber Buddy’s blog. Does she have any actual tech experience? If she does, why doesn’t she read techno-thrillers, likeThe Gomorrah GambitorKipper’s Game?”
Because I hadn’t researched Reika online last time and had simply jotted down what I’d already known about her, I typed her name into the search engine bar. Up popped links to articles about her, most particularly in regard to the history museum. Upon nabbing the position of curator, Reika was interviewed at length by theBramblewood Times.She had earned a doctoral degree in history and had served as assistant curator for thirty-five years. Now, with her guidance, she had persuaded the museum to shift away from merely displaying artifacts and strived to present the objects in a social, cultural context. In addition to acquiring new objects, Reika enjoyed writing exhibit scripts, preparing grant applications, and having teas to raise funds.
All in all, she sounded like a model citizen. I scrolled through pages of articles and paused when I saw one in theCharlotte Observerwith a photo of her. Not a flattering photo. Her hair was a mess; her face slack. Apparently, she’d been arrested for disorderly conduct after attending a conference for the American Alliance of Museums. In a drunken stupor, she’d taken down an entire exhibit.How embarrassing,I reflected, but the incident had nothing to do with Jason Gardner.
I moved on to Patrick. I still wanted to know what Jason had been referring to regarding his childhood. It couldn’t have been about Patrick making prank calls as a teen or about him and his buddy Zorro being hauled in for eco-trashing. Leaking information about those mild offenses wouldn’t affect Patrick’s current business.
Using the Internet search engine again, I learned Patrick’s name was quite popular. Lots of links appeared. I narrowed it down by city and state and landed on an article referencing Patrick S. Hardwick and featuring a picture of him and a few other guys at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro.
Moving on, I spied a link to a person-in-the-spotlight article in theBramblewood Times.The text next to the link read:Hardwick’s sealed record for assault remains secret.
My adrenaline kicked up a notch. I clicked on the link, which led to a blank page with a picture of a miracle cure for belly flab.
“Crud,” I muttered. “A broken link.”
Was the assault the “other thing” Zorro had alluded to? I doubted Patrick would discuss the matter. Hoping to track Zorro down and press him for answers, I was about to type his first name in the search bar—how many Zorros could there be?—when I caught sight of a disturbing image of Patrick lower down on the server page. “Age ten,” the caption read. He was standing at a graveside, staring solemnly at the coffin of his father, who had passed away in prison.
Holy moly.
The two-line explanation below the caption went on to say that Patrick’s father went to jail for killing a man, but it didn’t mention whom he killed. Had Patrick inherited his biological father’s bad genes? Had Jason learned about this and, to keep Patrick in line, threatened to expose him?
Given his history of assault, I could see Patrick wanting to squelch the story of him being the son of a known murderer.
I pulled a blank thumb drive from the top drawer of the desk and saved my grid document. Then I hurried out of the office to inform Tegan of my findings.
At the same time, Finette sauntered through the front door and made a beeline for the sales counter. Tegan and Chloe were assisting customers who were looking for specific books, so I went to help her. “What brings you in?” I asked pleasantly. “You picked up your second copy ofThe Great Gatsbyearlier.”
“I ran into a friend and was telling her about your darling shop, and she mentioned a series I should start. Juliet Blackwell’s Haunted Home Renovation mysteries. I don’t know the title of the first.”
“If Walls Could Talk.We happen to have it on hand. Let me show you.” I escorted her to the mystery aisle. “In the story Melanie Turner, the protagonist, is a remodeler in San Francisco. There are eight books in the series. I’ve read all of them. They’re terrific.” When she didn’t respond, I mustered the courage to say, “How are you doing, by the way?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Earlier at Lillian’s shop you … I mean …” I groped for the right words. “How are you doing with Jason gone?”
