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I’d fallen asleep earlier than normal and slipped into a deep slumber. My cell phone rang. The day’s activities drained me. I was fortunate to have heard the ring at all. I answered. It was Nickel, one of the co-owners of the Swamp Bar, the local Sinful dive, located just off the main highway on a dirt road.
“What’s up?” I asked, my brain still in a bit of a fog.
“There’s a tiny woman down here with a big British fella,” he said. “Her name is Bessie. She asked me to call you.”
“Huh?” I said, still half asleep. “Call me? Why?”
“This big fella with her, Victor—he’s been drinking a lot.”
“Oh dear,” I replied.
“The woman seems worried that he might get himself in some trouble,” Nickel said. “He’s down here shootin’ off his mouth, rambling on about Celia Arceneaux. He’s drawing a crowd. Right now, it’s not too bad, but things could turn pretty quickly. She thought you might be able to help.”
“You think someone is going to kick his butt?” I asked.
“This is The Swamp Bar,” he said. “You have to ask?”
“Thanks for the call,” I said. “I’m on it.”
I threw on the clothes I’d worn earlier in the day and managed to run a brush through my hair before heading out the door. Twenty minutes later, I was there. As I pulled into the Swamp Bar, I flashed back to the time Buckshot Billy dumped a bucket of cold water on me during a wet t-shirt contest. Much to my embarrassment . . . I won.
The bar was now kicked into high gear. I could tell from the number of cars and trucks that were somewhat randomly parked outside and from the amount of noise coming from inside.
Victor and Bessie were not hard to find, but it was an entirely different scene from what I expected to see. Victor was leaning against the bar, drink in hand. There were nine women and three men standing around him. Bessie was standing off to the side with an odd look on her face—reflecting a combination of boredom and concern. The men and women were all but bellowing with laughter as Victor spoke.
I began to hear him as I approached. He was telling the story of seeing Celia Arceneaux earlier in the day when Carter and I were there.
The group was laughing. Victor was laughing with them, and then continued, “Your American hero, John Wayne, said it best—life is tough, but it’s even tougher when you’re stupid.”
The group howled with laughter again.
Nickel noticed me as he walked by, “Thanks for coming,” he said.
“Sure, but I’m not certain what the problem is,” I replied. “He seems to have found an audience that loves him.”
“Not everyone,” Nickel shot back. He nodded toward one of the pool tables.
One man who was paying close attention was certainly not laughing. It was Owen Scruggs, a trucker well known to be a supporter of Celia. He was actually a volunteer for Celia’s mayoral campaign. He stood on the busiest street corner in town prior to the election and patiently held a “Celia for Mayor” sign for hours on end. He did not seem to be enjoying Victor’s superfluous comedy routine one bit. Victor continued telling the story of his interface with Celia, with a fair amount of exaggeration thrown in for good measure. His speech was slurred and he seemed to be uneasy on his feet, choosing to prop himself against the bar. He was certainly drunk. Bessie continued to look bored and disinterested.
“Victor!” I called out.
He looked at me and smiled broadly. He’d changed clothes and was now wearing a lighter jacket over the top of a Grateful Dead t-shirt.
“Ah, the beautiful Miss Fortune Morrow,” he announced as I joined the group. “I told you the hottest women in town loved me.”
“I guess that’s why you’ve hit on every woman in the bar already,” Owen barked. “No takers, I see.”
“The night is still young and my fortunes may have changed,” he replied. He turned to me, “No pun intended.”
“What are you doing here, Victor?” I asked.
“I’m simply enjoying the best the town of Dreadful has to offer,” he replied.
“It’s Sinful,” Owen barked, “and he’s been ripping on Celia Arceneaux for an hour. She ain’t here to defend herself.”
“Whatever, Owen,” one of the women yelled back. “Most of us have made fun of Celia from time to time. He’s just poking a little fun—ain’t no harm in it.”
“Well, I happen to like her,” Owen said. “If you’d just get to know her, you’d like her, too. The more you know her, the more she grows on you.”
Victor looked at Owen and smiled, “I had a boil on my ass once; it grew on me as well. So, from a certain point of view, I actually agree with you.”
The grouped laughed again. I made my way to him and whispered in his ear, “I think it’s time to move along. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that trucker is not happy with you—you know, the six-feet-five inch, two hundred and fifty pounds of all muscle trucker.”
He looked at me and winked. He glanced at Owen and then turned back to the group.
“Did I tell you about the time Celia went to a fortune teller?” Victor asked loudly.
“No,” one person shouted back, smiling in anticipation.
“Tell us,” another person yelled.
“Oh, if you insist. Celia walks into a fortune teller here in Sinful,” Victor began. “She asks the woman to look into her crystal ball and tell her about the day of her death. The fortune teller waves her hands around the crystal ball and looks into it. After a moment she looks up at Celia and says, ‘I’m sorry. The day of your death is a little cloudy. I can’t give you the date but I do know your death will occur on a major holiday in Sinful.’”
Bessie looked away, shaking her head. She sighed. Victor continued.
“Celia looks at the fortune teller and asks, ‘How do you know this?’ The fortune teller looks back at her and replies, ‘Because, any day you die will become a holiday.’”
Everyone in the small crowd began to laugh—everyone except Owen, that is. He was stewing. He was also strong enough to break Victor in two if he so pleased.
“You need to shut up, Mister,” he barked. “I mean it.”
“Settle down, my good man,” Victor replied. “It’s as this young woman said earlier—it’s all in good fun.”
“It doesn’t sound like fun to me,” Owen replied.
He stood and looked at the group of people in front of Victor, “You people make me sick, listening to this guy. What if Celia got hit by a bus tomorrow? Y’all’d be sorry then.”
“I seriously doubt that.” Victor replied.
“Why not?” Owen asked.
“Because, my good man, if Celia were hit by a bus tomorrow, it’s highly likely I’d be the one driving it.”
The group roared in laughter once again; Owen’s face turned beet red; he was ready to explode. I had to do something, and quickly.
“Victor, I have a couple of questions for you,” I interjected. “Why don’t you and I find a table in the corner so we can talk.”
“That’s actually a good idea,” he said. “I was coming to see you tomorrow anyway. Now is just as good.”
“What has Celia ever done to you?” Owen spouted at Victor, unwilling to let him just walk away. “You need to apologize. You don’t want to mess with me. You haven’t seen a man like me before.”
Victor smiled at Owen. Actually, it was more of a sneer. He turned as if to walk away. When he paused again, I knew there’d be trouble. He turned toward Owen.
“That’s actually not true,” he said. “I have certainly seen men like you in the past, but only in places where I was charged admission.”
The group looked at Owen and laughed.
“He got you,” one of them said.
“And good,” added another.
Owen let out an angry scream and charged Victor, striking him with his fist on the left cheek. Victor fell to the floor with a thud. The rest of the group stood and backed away. Owen straddled Victor and fell to his knees over his wide body. Victor held his arms up in the air in a defensive position as Owen began to swing wildly.
I dove for Owen, using my shoulder and full body weight to knock him away from Victor. I thought about how far I could go without endangering my cover. Although I could easily handle the likes of Owen, not many people in Sinful would believe a former beauty queen turned librarian could handle herself in a fight. Fortunately for me, Nickel came around the bar and held Owen down as he tried to get up.
“Okay, I’ve warned you about this kind of stuff,” Nickel said to Owen, pulling the trucker to his feet. “Get out, and don’t come back until you’ve learned to play well with others.”
“But this guy was . . .” Owen began, in protest.
“This guy did not lunge out and take a swing at you,” Nickel interrupted. “Now go on, Owen. Get on out . . . now!”
“This ain’t over you Limey old fart,” Owen scoffed at Victor. He knocked over a chair and stormed out in a huff.
Bessie, I noted, did not make a move toward Victor to offer aid of any kind. She merely remained in place, off to the side. Her smug expression reflected both a lack of interest and a lack of surprise that the incident occurred.
Victor’s glasses had dislodged. They were now dangling from one ear over his chin. He looked dazed and severely disoriented . . . and really goofy.
“Victor, are you okay?” I asked.
He blinked and looked at me with glazed over eyes, “I think so. I’d like to sit up,” he said.
I strained to lift him into a sitting position. I’d misjudged his weight earlier. The man was easily over three-hundred pounds. Bessie made no move to help. She stood there, looking at him dismissively.
“Nickel,” I called out. “Can we get a cold cloth and some ice, please?”
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” he replied.
“Bessie, can you help me get him to his feet?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head, “I’m not straining my back. He made his bed. Let him lie in it.”
“Don’t you want to help your brother?” I asked.
“Look at him,” she said. “Of the top five fattest people I know, he’s three of them. I have a bad back. He can lay there.”
“Get over here, woman,” Victor demanded.
Nickel returned with the cloth and ice. He helped me get Victor to his feet. We managed to get him to a table. Bessie finally joined us.
“Anything else?” Nickel asked. “I need to get back to the bar.”
“I’ll have another drink,” Victor said.
“No, he won’t,” Bessie countered.
“No, we’re good, Nickel,” I agreed. “Thank you.”
Nickel left.
“What were you thinking, Victor?” I asked. “You’re so rude to everyone.”
“I can’t help it,” he confessed. “The older I get, the more everything annoys me,” he replied.
“By everything, he means people,” Bessie chirped.
“That guy was huge,” I said. “He could have broken you in two.”
“That’s one way to lose weight,” Bessie snipped.
“I would slap you, dear sister,” Victor threatened, “but I don’t want to get slut on my hands.”
“Bugger off,” she scowled.
“Victor, how drunk are you?” I asked.
“Most of it is show. He’s not all that drunk,” Bessie said. “When he gets really sloshed, he recites the poetry of William Wordsworth. Talk about clearing a room fast.”
“Maybe it’s time to go home, Victor,” I suggested.
“Nonsense,” he replied. “The night is still young. Let me buy you a drink.”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “Let me drive you home?”
“I can drive. I haven’t been drinking,” Bessie interjected. “It seems that my entire purpose for the evening has been to get Moby Dick home.”
“Okay then, let Bessie drive you home,” I proposed.
“One more drink,” he pleaded. “You and me together. Victor and Miss Fortune . . . and, uh . . . Bessie. We need to talk anyway.”
I looked at Bessie; she nodded, “We do need to talk.”
“Okay, I’ll have a beer,” I said. “Then we go.”
“Deal,” he agreed. I waved at Nickel, and held up three fingers.
Nickel’s face twisted in a confused look, “You’re kidding. Really?”
I shrugged and nodded.
He let out a breath and pointed at me, “I hold you responsible.”
Nickel brought the drinks to our table. He glared at Victor, “I shouldn’t be serving you,” he said. “You’re a sad drunk.”
Victor looked up at him, “You are correct, sir. I am a sad drunk and you’re an imbecile. The difference is, tomorrow . . . I will be sober, while you, sir . . .”
“Victor, please . . .” Bessie admonished.
“Listen, bud . . .” Nickel began. “I saved your fat a . . .”
“Okay, boys, put away the cannons,” I interrupted. “Nickel, we’re all good, I promise. We’re having one beer and then we are leaving. We won’t be any more trouble.”
“See to it,” he replied.
Nickel flashed another scowl at Victor, and stalked off.
Victor looked at me with a glint in his eye, “You know, you are quite famous around here,” he teased. “Some might even say . . . infamous. There are many stories about you being bandied about.”
“Is that so?” I replied.
“It is, indeed,” he said. “I was particularly enamored with the one where you won a wet t-shirt contest right here in this very bar. I was quite disappointed to discover that you were not around earlier for a repeat performance. It would have been such an honor to see you defend your crown.”
“That will never happen.” I promised.
He sucked in a little breath through his teeth, “Such a pity. You know, you and I have much more in common than you might believe.”
“How is that?”
“Well, here we are—both outsiders,” he began. “Unappreciated and unwanted by the locals.”
“Not all of them, in my case,” I insisted. “I have a number of wonderful friends.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ve checked into you.”
My ears perked, “You have?”
“Yes, indeed,” he insisted. “From the belly of the deep web to the far reaches of Sinful’s intricate gossip network.”
I noticed that Bessie’s irritation with Victor had evaporated, and she was now completely focused on everything I was saying. I felt as though I was being set up. I wondered whether she really needed my help tonight, or if the whole thing was a ruse to get me to the Swamp Bar.
That was extremely unexpected, “Why would you check into me?”
“I happened to love Emma and when I heard she had come into quite a bit of money and was spending a great deal of time with the local librarian; I began looking into things.”
I raised my eyebrows, “Oh, so you know how to look into things?”
“I do.” He gestured toward Bessie, “We both do.”
“And what did you find out?” I asked, still skeptical, but genuinely curious.
“Well, to begin with, we know you are not who you claim to be,” Bessie said.
“I’m not?”
“No.”
“What do you think you know, Victor?” I asked.
“For one thing, we know your last name is not Morrow.”
Victor’s revelation floored me. I was not ready for that. My heart sank. I tried to avoid it but I know the shock appeared on my face. I sat there in abject silence. I took in a breath and held it. I looked at Victor. The smile had left his face. His look turned sober and serious. Bessie continued to focus on me, studying my reaction.
“I see that our observation has rendered you positively speechless, my dear,” Bessie said.
“I . . . I . . . don’t know what you mean,” I replied.
“Oh, we believe you do,” Bessie answered.
“Look, Victor and Bessie . . .” I began. Victor interrupted me.
“Before you go any further, Fortune, I have a question for you. Did Emma ever tell you what Bessie and I did for a living in Vermont?” he asked.
Victor looked at me with steel eyes. His state of drunkenness was dramatically overblown, I could tell. He was speaking clearly and succinctly.
“No, she didn’t,” I replied. “In fact, she never said much about either of you.”
Victor looked at Bessie and shrugged, “You see. I told you so.”
Bessie offered a small shrug in return.
He reached into his back pocket and fished out his wallet. Opening it he pulled out a business card. He slapped it on the table and pushed it in my direction. I picked the card up, my jaw nearly dropped to the floor as I read it:
The Blooming Detective Agency
Paradise, Vermont
Victor and Bessie Bloom, Private Investigators
“You two are private investigators?” I asked.
“Were,” he corrected. “We were private investigators. We’ve been retired for a few years now.”
“Semi-retired,” Bessie corrected.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.
“We weren’t going to say anything until we were sure about you,” he offered.
“Sure . . . about me?”
“Yes,” Victor replied. “Bessie, please tell her.”
Bessie smiled, “Victor and I were more than a little curious when Emma told us the story of how you and two little old ladies found evidence to find and bring Glory’s murderer to justice after so many years. We were grateful, of course, but we couldn’t figure out why—why the interest?”
“Well . . . I . . .”
“So, we started looking into Sandy-Sue, a.k.a., Fortune Morrow,” Bessie continued. “That’s when we found out that this was not the only case you’ve been involved in here in Sinful.”
“Look, you two have it all wrong about me . . .” I began.
“We have it wrong, really?” Bessie asked in a teasing tone.
Victor looked at Bessie, “See if the bartender can play Thriller on the jukebox. Fortune is back pedaling like Michael Jackson. How I just love a good moon walk.”
Bessie flashed me a knowing look,” Shall I continue?” she asked.
“Can you?” I replied.
“Oh, yes. As it turns out, Fortune Morrow, a would-be beauty queen, turned librarian, has solved more murders than Sherlock Holmes,” she said, “and all in a matter of months, and in a town of less than three hundred people, no less. We both knew right then and there that there was more than meets the eye with Miss Fortune Morrow.”
“So, we dug a little deeper,” Victor said.
“How deep?” I asked.
“Oh, we are quite the excavators,” Victor boasted. “You should see my miner’s hat—all yellow with a cute little flashlight on top.”
“Yes, it’s quite the fashion statement,” Bessie snarked, looking at me. “Fat man in a hard hat—what a woman magnet that is.”
“Piss off,” Victor snapped.
She ignored Victor, “When we began our investigation into you, we found out fairly quickly who the real Sandy Sue Morrow was and where she really lived. As it turns out, the real Sandy Sue doesn’t live in Sinful at all, and hasn’t for years.”
“Yes, imagine our surprise,” Victor added. “And that left us with the question; if the real Sandy Sue, which is a dreadful name by the way, does not live in Sinful, then who is the adorable crime-fighting super-hero running around town posing as such?”
He sat back in his chair and interlaced the fingers of both hands over his substantial paunch. He flashed a self-gratifying smile.
“So, you know everything?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” Victor said. “We reached a certain point and the trail went cold—ice cold, which meant to us that your true identity was being covered up by a very powerful organization.”
“We don’t know who you are, dear,” Bessie said. “We just know you aren’t Sandy Sue ‘Fortune’ Morrow.”
Victor nodded, “Even when I stepped up my efforts, I ran into a roadblock each time. The only people who could block my investigation so thoroughly are employed in very powerful government agencies. There was a chance, of course, you could have been in witness protection, but you do not handle yourself like a shrinking violet, hiding out from the mob.”
“That’s true, you don’t,” Bessie agreed. “The way you handed yourself with that hillbilly knob tonight suggested skills that only come from extensive training and experience.”
Victor smiled, “Our guess is CIA or FBI. Bessie thinks it’s FBI.”
I said nothing.
Victor turned to Bessie, “It doesn’t matter which.”
“So,” Victor continued. “Are you undercover or hiding out? Bessie thinks you are hiding out. Which is it?”
Again, I said nothing. Victor looked into my eyes.
“I guess you were right about this one, Bessie,” he said.
She smiled.
“What makes you think I am hiding out?” I asked.
“There are a couple of reasons,” she said. “One, because what the hell would an undercover agent actually uncover in this town—little old ladies failing to report their bingo earnings, perhaps? Doesn’t seem likely. Two, the fact that if someone needed to be hidden in a remote location, you can’t get more remote than this place.”
“So, what exactly were you thinking about me when you began this investigation?” I asked.
“What do you think? Our dear sister was a virtual hermit in this town and went unnoticed for thirty years,” Bessie said. “She comes into a little money and then all of a sudden she has friends pouring out of her ears. Friends like Celia Arceneaux, and especially a new best friend who brings her books each month out of the kindness of her heart.”
“Hey!” I snapped. “I don’t think I like where you are heading with this . . .”
Victor held up a hand, “Relax, Fortune. We know you didn’t murder my sister. We know you loved her.”
“You said murder?” I repeated. “You mean you think she was murdered, too?”
Victor turned to Bessie again, “Told you she thought so.”
“We do indeed,” Bessie said to me.
“Everyone from Carter to the EMT to the doctor at the hospital believes it was a simple heart attack,” I said.
“We know this all too well,” Bessie replied.
Victor adjusted his glasses and smiled, interlacing his fingers on the table, “In my thirty years as a private investigator I have become very jaded when it comes to believing in coincidences. We know Emma had a heart condition, but then again so would anyone else who knew her—even a person seeking to murder her. She was the healthiest and happiest she had been in years once Glory’s murder was solved. She comes into some money and what—she suddenly dies? Bessie and I have been doing investigative work since long before you were born. My sister was murdered. I know it.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.
“Because I believe that you believe she was murdered, too,” Victor said. “We need your help to find out who killed her. By the manner in which you solved Glory’s murder, we know you are capable. Your experience as a Federal agent will be most helpful to us.”
“What made you believe that I thought Emma had been murdered?” I asked.
“Because we visited Mark Baker to inquire about Emma’s accounts,” Bessie said. “We asked him many of the same questions you did. He let it slip that you were concerned and . . . looking into things.”
“And then we followed you to the bank,” Victor said. “Once you left, we chatted with the brainless teller who spoke to you, only to find you were trying to cash a check for one dollar and twenty cents made out to you by Emma. The teller said you seemed most upset that she couldn’t do it and wouldn’t answer questions about her account.”
“Why did she answer questions for you?” I asked. “She wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“I am Emma Peterson’s Power of Attorney, and the executor of her estate.”
He looked down and peered at me over his glasses with a smile and continued, “One dollar, twenty cents. Really, Fortune?”
I shrugged, “A girl’s gotta eat, right?”
Bessie smiled, “It was then we realized you were conducting an investigation of your own.”
I paused and let out a breath, “Listen, Victor and Bessie, about my identity. . .”
It was Bessie’s turn to interrupt, “We have no desire to expose you, Fortune. Regardless how this turns out, your secret is safe with us, we promise. We are simply here to find out what really happened to Emma and to bring her murderer to justice.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, then,” I said. “Carter. . . uh, Deputy LeBlanc, had a blood sample drawn from Emma and a full toxicology screen was performed.”
The news seemed to shock them both.
“And?” Bessie and Victor said in unison.
“And . . . nothing,” I said. “It came back clean as a whistle.”
Their expressions turned dour as though the words had deflated them. Victor finally broke the silence after a long sigh, “Well, that certainly pops the proverbial bubble on my first thought; that Emma had been poisoned.”
“That was the very first thing we were going to ask you to help us get accomplished,” Bessie said. “May we see it—the actual test results?”
“I have them back at the house,” I told her. “I’d be happy to give them to you, but you won’t like what you find any more than I did.”
“Dammit,” Victor barked. A few people turned and stared. Nickel leaned back from his spot behind the bar and looked our way. I waved and smiled.
“Nothing to see here,” I yelled out, and then turned back to Victor.
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” I said. “I mean, if it wasn’t poison then Emma’s death could have been caused naturally, right?”
“She was murdered,” Bessie insisted. “We do not yet know how or why, or by who, but she was murdered. We are certain.”
“How can you be certain?” I asked. “Her money is intact, isn’t it?”
“Yes, the money she set up in trust was untouched,” Bessie said.
“A few things happened recently that flew high on our radar,” Victor said.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“First, there is the obvious—things you know already; elderly woman comes into money. There are many predators out there—men and women alike. Two weeks ago, I began getting multiple calls from Emma. One of the calls was about Celia, who had been incessantly hounding her about this ridiculous statue. The other, however, was even more interesting.”
My ears perked.
“She wanted to know how she might go about setting up an account in the Cayman Islands,” he continued.
“A foreign account? In the Cayman Islands? Why would she want to know that?” I asked.
“My first question to her,” Victor said. “It was so far out of left field coming from her.”
“It made us believe someone was trying to influence Emma,” Bessie interjected. “Of course, at the time, we never thought that it would lead to murder.”
Victor nodded in agreement.
“She said she was given advice that the Cayman Islands was the best place to hold your money if you wanted to maximize your returns and take advantage of loop holes in U.S. tax laws.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t sound like anything Emma would be remotely interested in,” I said.
“We agree,” replied Bessie.
“Who was giving her this advice?” I asked. “Mark Baker?”
“We’re not certain yet, but frankly we are somewhat suspicious of Mr. Baker,” Bessie said.
I shook my head and waved him off.
“Mark Baker had nothing to do with this,” I insisted. “Mark was Glory’s best friend in high school. He loved Emma. If you could have seen his reaction when I told him the news, you’d understand—he’s not your guy.”
“Who else, then?” Bessie asked.
“I’m not sure, but I have a couple of ideas. Have either of you ever heard of a woman named Maxine Reed?” I asked.
Victor and Bessie shook their heads, no.
“I don’t know her either,” I said, “but she was recently seen with Emma in the General Store and she accompanied Emma to visit Mark Baker ten days ago. Maxine was a recent acquaintance of Emma’s. She spent a lot of time with your sister over the last two to three weeks.”
“I do recall Emma telling us that she had met a new friend at the nursery, but I didn’t catch her name,” Bessie said. “It must have been her.”
“We must check on that lead for certain,” Victor said.
“Do you have someone else in mind?” I asked.
“We’ve considered Celia?” Bessie asked. “She wanted money from Emma to fund her project. She sounded pretty desperate.”
I shrugged, “I thought of that, too, but my instinct says no. Celia is a lot of things—a lot of . . . annoying things, but I’ve never thought of her as a murderer.”
Victor shook his head, “Celia is living proof that people who are both stupid and ugly still manage to find ways to reproduce. She’s certainly dodgy enough. People can sometimes surprise you, Miss Morrow, or whatever your real name is.”
“Please, just call me Fortune. The less you know the better off we all are,” I responded. Victor was certainly right about one thing; I had seen many surprising things from people during my time in Sinful.
“Has Celia had any recent setbacks?” Victor wanted to know. “Financial, professional, personal . . .”
“I don’t know anything about her finances. She’s had more than her fair share of personal setbacks and humiliations,” I reported. I told them the story of Pansy Arceneaux, who was Celia’s daughter. Pansy once had an affair with her own uncle and was later murdered in Celia’s kitchen. I also told them about the whole debacle surrounding the mayoral election. Celia was originally declared the winner of the mayoral election until it was discovered that a vote for her had been registered by a dead person. The recount was stressful and ugly and didn’t go Celia’s way.
“So, it’s safe to say that Celia has suffered a great deal of public humiliation in a town where she sees herself as a person of great influence?” Victor said. “She can be a spiteful woman, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, that’s all true,” I admitted.
“A proud woman with a mean streak who has been scorned might lash out under the right circumstances?” Bessie said.
“Circumstances such as . . .?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Victor said. “Perhaps asking for money to fund a personal project that might elevate her in the public eye, and then being told no?”
“I was there when Celia asked you about it,” I reminded. “It didn’t sound to me as though Emma had actually said no to her. It sounded more like she was expecting Emma to say yes.”
“Could have been a show on her part,” Bessie said.
Victor nodded, “Yes, that outburst could have been for our benefit. Celia is not as stupid as my jokes about her would have you believe.”
“That had to be painful for you to admit,” Bessie noted.
“Even morphine wouldn’t dull it, I’m afraid,” Victor replied.
“We could always triple the dose,” Bessie suggested.
“But that would kill me,” replied Victor.
“Perhaps, but the problem would be solved,” she said.
My mind wandered as Victor and Bessie traded barbs. Could it be Celia? I had thought many bad things about her, but murder?
“I’d like to bring Carter in on this discussion,” I said. “If there’s anyone . . .?”
“I’d be the first to go in that direction if I thought he would, or could, do anything. But he can’t—not yet, anyway. Please, no police,” Bessie interrupted.
“Why?”
“Why, you ask?” Victor replied. “Let me spell it out for you, my dear. Even if he agreed to help us, it would be with extreme reluctance—his heart would not be in it. He doesn’t believe it.”
“I know all this,” I said, “but I’d like to think that he would be objective.”
“And I’d like to think the four lumps of sugar that I have in my tea each day would help me lose weight,” Victor replied. “I don’t think either expectation is particularly reasonable.”
He was probably not wrong about Carter . . . or the sugar.
“We have a lot of work to do to identify the killer,” Bessie said. “The police would look at the lack of evidence and then decline to intercede. If anything, they might put up a roadblock to our independent investigation, once they realized we were conducting one. At the moment, we are flying under the radar, so to speak.”
“Right now,” Victor added, “the murderer thinks everyone believes Emma’s death was caused by a natural heart attack. The killer is relaxed.”
I nodded, “So, where do we begin?”
“We begin with the people we know to be associated most closely with Emma: Celia and this Maxine Reed person you mentioned. Do you know how to reach her?”
“I know one of Maxine’s friends, Cindy Lou, our elections coordinator,” I said. “Let me start with her.”
“Good,” Bessie said. “Victor and I will start a background check on Celia.”
“Thank you for being a friend to Emma,” Victor said, raising his glass of beer. “A quick toast to new friends.”
I raised my glass, and clinked it with Bessie’s and Victor’s. We drank.