CHAPTER SEVEN

We swung into Jimmy’s driveway several minutes later and found him exiting the garage with a book in hand. He put on a faint smile and gave us one of his surfer-dude waves, but I could tell his heart wasn’t into it.

My insides mellowed for the Skink. Everything had seemed to be going right in his life. A new home. New business. New outlook. And now sorrow had struck.

Instead of dropping off Max like I’d planned, I parked and ambled up the driveway with him. I knew time was ticking, and Tantig would be waiting, but being late was better than calling and confessing what had happened today.

“How’s it going?” I asked Jimmy.

“Hey, dudette. Max. Like, I’ve had better days.” He hiked his thumb over his shoulder. “Detective Romero was here earlier and—”

“He was?” I stopped in my tracks. “When, earlier?”

He gave a small shrug. “Few hours ago. Like, after you left here, and before now. Wanted more info on the photos you found.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t Romero have followed up on my discovery? He was a detective, wasn’t he? “What did you tell him?”

“Not much I could tell him that he didn’t already know.” He raised his bushy black eyebrows until they disappeared behind his springy blond curls. “Like, I showed him the room I showed you. He went through the boxes and confiscated Dooley’s camera.”

“Did he find anything else?”

Jimmy shook his head sadly. “I wished he had, dudette. I want to know who killed my cuz.”

“We’ll find the killer, Jimmy. Don’t you worry.” Never mind I was queasy inside about finding the murderer for myself. To be frank, Dooley wasn’t just any dead victim. He was Jimmy’s beloved cousin. And I was torn between feeling sympathetic for Jimmy’s loss and being angry and afraid because Dooley had been stalking me. In general, I didn’t put stalkers high on my list of friends.

Admittedly, I’d also been panicky since I’d discovered the photos. I wasn’t sure where my emotions sat regarding Dooley, but one thing was certain. The sooner we found his killer, the sooner I’d learn answers and, hopefully, find peace for everyone involved.

I patted Jimmy’s arm, noticing the book he was holding was a bread and pastry cookbook. I motioned to the spiral-bound hardcover. “Where’d you get this?”

“Oh, yeah.” He held up the book, nodding at Max. “Here’s the book you asked for.”

My eyebrows went up sharply at Max.

“What!” He glared at me. “I told Jimmy I was coming back for the bread machine and asked if he had any cookbooks to go with it.”

“When did you do that?”

“After we cleaned the shop window, while you were talking to one of Robin Hood’s Merry Men.”

Naturally. Max didn’t miss a thing.

“It’s okay, dudette,” Jimmy said. “After Romero left, I remembered I’d taken a bunch of Dooley’s cookbooks to the garage. He was bringing over box after box, and I told him I didn’t want Aunt Neila’s house to turn into a junkyard.”

A tear slipped down Jimmy’s cheek. Not only had he recently lost dear Aunt Neila, but now, Dooley. “Dools didn’t like that much.” He swiped away the tear surreptitiously. “I think he felt I was calling his stuff junk.” He sniffed. “I wasn’t, man. Truly.”

Max wrapped his arm around Jimmy’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go inside and talk bread.”

Max. Always one to console. And always one step ahead.

“You two go on. I need to do a short errand.”

“No probs,” Jimmy said. “But if you like, you can look at Dooley’s stuff.” He gestured to the garage. “Like, mi casa es su casa.”

I considered this. It would only be a short detour. And by now, I was late anyway. I’d already gone through the boxes in the bedroom and found nothing that explained Dooley’s murder or the photos of me and how the murder might be connected. I didn’t know what I’d find in the garage, but if something was valuable to Dooley, like the pictures, I wanted to see it for myself.

I agreed to take a quick look and darted inside while Jimmy led Max into the house.

Jimmy had already put his personal stamp inside the garage. His beat-up pickup truck dripped oil on the cement floor, a workbench was piled with Red Sox and Celtics bobbleheads from his scalper days, and old tickets and posters of the Boston Bruins were taped to the wall. To one side a ladder and several surfboards added to the menagerie, along with a shelf of tools and another shelf dedicated to old DVDs.

In the far corner sat a stack of boxes with cookbooks sticking out. I wandered over to the boxes, knelt in front of them, and rummaged through the books in a methodical manner. I set Japanese cookbooks in one pile and diabetic cookbooks in another. Irish, Italian, African, and every other regional cuisine joined the first pile. Soups, salads, main courses, and desserts each got their own stack.

Dooley had quite a collection of cookbooks, and twenty minutes later, I’d rifled through most of them. Besides the odd dog-eared page and photocopied recipe, I couldn’t find a thing pertaining to Dooley or his personal life. No notes. No more pictures of me, or anyone else for that matter. Not one clue as to why he was killed or was stalking me.

I hauled out the last book. COOKING FOR DUMMIES.

I flipped through the first few chapters and found simple recipes for grilled cheese sandwiches and piggies in a blanket. No wonder it was at the bottom of the box. If Dooley was as good a chef as Jimmy professed, grilled cheese sandwiches weren’t something he was laboring over learning to make.

I gave up on finding anything significant and went to set the book back in the box when a small red notebook slid out. I picked up the booklet and skimmed through the pages.

I didn’t browse far when I spotted my name. And Romero’s. I knew Dooley had been photographing me, but now it seemed he’d also been taking notes on his thoughts and what he’d seen.

Dooley had been out of jail a couple of months now. According to these dates and entries, he’d been following me almost from the start of his release.

Valentine and Detective Romero cuddling outside retirement home, read one entry. Another said Valentine on cell phone, talking dreamy-eyed to someone. Probably Romero again. The more pages I flipped, the more frequent Dooley’s observations.

A tremor shot down my spine. How close had he been to me? I mean, to hear me talk on my cell phone? I trembled again, somehow feeling compromised.

I kept reading and found a passage that made me sit up. Valentine’s not who I thought she was. She’s not Ziggy’s girlfriend. And I’m not following her anymore. If Stoaks wants her dead, he’ll have to find someone else to do it.

I gasped in shock at the words. Girlfriend? Ziggy wanted Dooley to kill me? The journal tumbled from my fingers. Sending the gross dildo messages was bad enough. But setting up my murder?

I swallowed hoarsely, mulling over this latest information. Was it true? The two men knew each other? They must’ve been locked up together at Rivers View. Romero hadn’t mentioned that when he’d said Dooley had been released several months ago. And since Jimmy had said Dooley once lived in New York, I’d assumed he’d been in the slammer there.

Ziggy must’ve lied to Dooley about me being his girlfriend so he could then use that lie to his advantage. He simply had to convince Dooley to kill me if he caught me cheating on him. Of course, that was assuming I’d been dating anyone. Could he have heard about Romero and me from prison before Dooley had been released?

Darn Romero. He was already two steps ahead of me. And what about Luther Boyle? Did he know about Dooley and this scheme? Granted, my knowledge of prisons had come mostly from the movies, but didn’t inmates hang out together in the jail yard or courtyard or whatever they called it? Wasn’t that where they formed relationships? Maybe not. Maybe at this prison, they didn’t mix auto thieves with murderers. Either way, Luther had said he and Ziggy weren’t all that close, so if he was telling the truth, it was possible he didn’t know about this plot.

I guess I’d never learn if Luther knew Dooley since Luther had made it clear he was done sharing. That was A-Okay with me. I had no intention of going back there again. I could form my own theories without the help of an uncooperative jailbird.

The best theory was the simplest. Ziggy had known Dooley in prison where he then formed a plan when he knew Dooley was getting out and heading back to Rueland. And the plan was to ask him to hunt me down. His girlfriend. Keep tabs on me. And kill me if Dooley caught me cheating on him. Did Ziggy murder Dooley because Dooley wouldn’t harm me?

I played this out in my mind. Suppose Ziggy escaped from prison and headed straight for Dooley’s. Dooley must’ve been alerted or aware that his jail mate was planning an escape. Maybe Ziggy told him that himself. Or maybe Dooley had heard it on the news. Just because I didn’t tune into the nightly broadcasts didn’t mean the rest of the world didn’t know what was happening. Perhaps a search had already been underway.

I looked down at the cookbooks and the journal. Dooley wanted his stuff safe, including this journal about me. He wanted it away from his apartment in case rats got to it. Enter the rat. Ziggy Stoaks. If Dooley knew that Ziggy had escaped, and he also knew that he wasn’t going to hurt a hair on my head, that explained why he was hiding his stuff at Jimmy’s. He didn’t want Ziggy to find the pictures or his notes that showed he was washing his hands of this crazy plan.

Romero had said there were business cards at Dooley’s place from the Wee Irish Dude. What if Ziggy had broken into the apartment, and when he didn’t find Dooley there, he tracked him down at the restaurant and killed him?

Let’s say Romero was right, and Dooley had opened the door for his assailant. Did Ziggy confront him about no longer stalking me? Did Dooley threaten to go to the cops? An altercation could’ve ensued, like Romero had said. Ziggy could’ve killed Dooley because the ex-con wouldn’t snuff me out. Poor Dools. He’d been in prison for auto theft. He didn’t deserve this.

A swarm of emotions welled up inside me from all the speculation. Not only was Jimmy making a real go of the restaurant business, but Dooley also seemed to want a clean start. I might have been deluding myself into thinking he’d died for me, but in a way, he had. He’d rejected Ziggy’s request to kill me. The proof was in the journal.

The only thing that didn’t add up was the woman caller at the restaurant who’d left Dooley distressed. Who was this person? And what was her connection to Dooley? The more I thought about all this, the worse I felt.

I put everything back in its place, picked up the booklet, and shoved it in my purse. Perspiration dotted my forehead, and my insides ached from the guilt eating me over Dooley’s death. Not to mention the fear plaguing me over Ziggy’s mission to end my life.

Despite the inner turmoil and mounting dread, I had to move forward. I wasn’t going to let Ziggy Stoaks get away with murder. He needed to be stopped soon, before anyone else got hurt. And as far as I could see, I was the next person on Ziggy’s list to get hurt.

I swept the back of my hand across my damp forehead and made a solemn promise to myself. If I didn’t accomplish anything else in the next twenty-four hours, I’d get the man who killed Jimmy’s cousin and who wanted me dead.