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I WANTED TO TALK TO Portia first. She was supposed to be my friend, and I wanted to know more about her relationship with Blaine. And why she hadn’t told me.
It took some fancy footwork, but they finally let me in to see her. When the guard ushered her into the visiting room, I couldn’t hold back my astonishment. She looked nothing like the Portia I knew. Gone was the sleek sophistication and elegant fashion. She was pale, worn, with bags beneath her eyes and an equally baggy uniform in an unsightly shade of beige.
I started to hug her, but the prison guard barked, “No touching.” I barely refrained from responding with a very immature tongue-sticking-out.
We sat at the Formica table in uncomfortable plastic chairs where we stared at each other for a good thirty seconds. For once, I had no idea what to say.
“Thanks for coming,” Portia finally said, her fingers clasped together tightly on the table. “Sure. Of course. We’re friends. It’s what we do, right?”
She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t stand it in here, Viola,” she whispered. “It’s so awful. And this isn’t even prison. If I don’t get out of here—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupted. “I’m working on it.”
She glanced at me, blue eyes wide. “How?”
“Don’t worry about the how, just know I’m on the case.”
“Are you sure? You could get hurt.”
“This is me we’re talking about.”
“Yes,” she said grimly. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
I waved airily. “I can handle myself. I’ve done this before.”
She looked doubtful. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Sure thing. Now listen, I need to ask some questions, okay?”
“Sure. What do you need to know?”
“I talked to your coworker, Annabelle. She said that you got into an argument with The Louse the day he died, and you threatened him. Is that true?”
She gave me a half-hearted smile. “It’s true.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? If the police find out—”
“Because it’s not what you think. He put his hands on me, and I snapped. Yelled at him. I told him he’d pay, but I didn’t mean that I’d kill him. I meant that I was going to turn him in. Finally.”
“I thought you said turning him in would do no good.”
She shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t. But I figured threatening him might get him to stop. At least for a while.”
“Okay, I get that. One other thing.” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it, so I blurted it out. “I hear you’re dating Blaine Nixon.”
She went even paler, if that were possible. “How’d you hear that?”
“So it’s true?”
She stared at her hands. “Yes.” The response was so soft I barely heard her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She sighed. “Blaine didn’t want his dad knowing about us.”
“Oh, gee, that’s real manly of him,” I said dryly.
“It isn’t like that,” she insisted. “In the past, his dad has done some pretty awful things to Blaine’s girlfriends.”
“Like sexually harassed them?” I guessed.
“And worse, if you can imagine.”
Unfortunately, I could. “What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“There has to be more to it than Blaine being afraid The Louse would come on to you. I mean, that boat already sailed, if you know what I mean.”
She sighed. “I don’t have the right status. His parents, especially his dad, wouldn’t approve, and since he’s living with them...” She shrugged.
Sounded like a major weenie to me, but I didn’t want Portia feeling any worse than she already did. “Don’t the Nixons have, like, a ton of money? Why do they need more? It’s not like you’re some kind of gold digger.”
“I have no idea. All I know is that Blaine was convinced they wouldn’t like us dating, and he wanted to keep it secret. At least for a while.”
I thought it was idiotic, but it was Portia’s life, not mine. It did seem like there was more to this than what she knew. It was time to confront Blaine.
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THE DIRTY DOG WAS A pseudo-English pub down near the waterfront. It boasted the appropriate atmosphere of dark wood, gloomy lighting, and dozens of beers on tap. There was even a dartboard in one corner, although I’d never seen anyone play. The food was good, if simple, the drinks cheap(ish), and the denizens cheerful. And it was there I found one Blaine Nixon sitting at the bar, nursing something that smelled vaguely of rotten mulch. In case you missed it, I’m not a fan of beer.
“Hey, Blaine,” I said, skootching onto the stool next to him. “How’s it going?”
He turned bleary eyes in my direction and let out something vaguely resembling a grunt before returning to his pint.
“That good, huh? Watcha drinking?”
He ignored me.
“Yeah. Looks real appetizing. Like I can’t wait to just dive in.” I let out an awkward laugh. Why was this guy so hard to talk to? How on earth did I get him to open up and spill his guts?
“What’ll it be?” The bartender leaned over the counter and gave me a look that told me dillydallying was frowned upon.
“Sarsaparilla. And make it strong!” I laughed awkwardly again. “Always wanted to say that.”
The bartender gave me a look and braced his beefy arms on the counter. “Everyone’s a comedienne. Try again.”
“Heh. Okay.” I squinted at the fridge behind the bar. “How about some apple juice?” I said lamely.
He shrugged and turned to grab a bottle from the fridge. A quick flick of the wrist, and the cap sailed off onto the bar top. He slid the bottle across. “Five bucks.”
My eyes widened. “Are you kidding? Beer doesn’t even cost that much.”
“You want beer prices, you buy beer.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “But I want a receipt.” I dug a five-dollar bill out of my handbag and slapped it on the bar. “Receipt?”
“Coming right up.”
I turned back to Blaine who’d ignored the whole altercation. “I just saw Portia.”
He perked up. “You did? How is she? Is she okay?”
“She’s holding up.” I took a sip of my apple juice. It was nothing exciting. Certainly not worth the insane price. I was going to have to write a strongly worded letter to the manager.
“I wish there was something I could do,” he said morosely.
“How about paying for a good lawyer? Getting her out of there?”
He snorted. “With what money?”
“Aren’t you guys rich?”
He gave me a look. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“The almighty August Nixon had a serious gambling problem. There’s nothing left. Or not much, anyway. What little there is left went to my mom, not me.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “Is that why you were hiding your relationship with Portia?”
“Partially. I know it sounds stupid, but both of my parents were hoping I’d marry well, you know? Prop up the family name. Which is ridiculous. Anywhere else on the planet, we’re total nobodies, but in Astoria, we’re Big Deals. They’d do anything to save face and keep their status intact.”
“So, neither of your parents would have appreciated you dating Portia?”
“Nope.”
I scowled at him. “Geez. Grow a spine, why don’t you?” Sometimes I really should keep my mouth shut.
He glowered at me. “I tried. I did. But my mother was barely holding on as it was, and my father was becoming increasingly unstable.”
“Like losing his mind?”
“Sort of. The gambling losses were causing a lot of stress. He snapped at the least little thing. I did not want to set him off. I figured things would settle down eventually and then I could tell them. In my own time.”
“Portia seemed to think you were also trying to protect her from your father’s unsavory advances.”
He snorted. “As if I could do that. She worked with the guy. But it kept her off my back. At least for a while until I could figure things out.” He shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t matter now. Mom may be disappointed, but tough. Everyone will find out the truth about good ole August Nixon soon enough.”
I mulled that over as I sucked down my bottle of juice. “So, you knew all about the money being gone.”
He swallowed. “Sure.”
I knew he was lying. “You had no idea! You thought you’d inherit.” And that was a darn good motive for murder.
“Listen,” he snapped, “I may not have known, but that didn’t mean I killed the bas—my father. I had no reason to.”
“How about needing money?”
“Why would I need money?” He didn’t quite meet my eye. “I’ve got a job. Might not make me rich, but I do okay.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but until I could prove otherwise, I decided to let it go. “How about an alibi?”
He rolled his eyes. “Who do you think you are? Jessica Fletcher?”
“I’m trying to help Portia. You want that, don’t you?”
He sighed. “Sure. Fine. I was in Seaside at a concert.”
I nodded. I would definitely check that out. “Thanks.” I slid off the barstool. “I might have more questions later.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
I was nearly to the door when a thought struck me. “Hey, Blaine, do you know anyone called Mrs. A?”
He frowned. “You talking about that old biddy that donates to the museum?”
I stepped a little closer. “Old biddy?”
“Sure. She’s been donating for years. Dad used to kiss her backside on a regular basis.”
“You remember her last name?”
“Um.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if it might have inspiration. “Yeah. Archer. Mrs. Glennis Archer.”
I beamed at him. “Thanks!” I was out the door and nearly to my car before I realized I never got my receipt.