I drove the two blocks to the police station on autopilot. I felt hollow and strangely disconnected. A dozen possibilities flew through my brain, none of them good. Was our late friend a spy, confidence woman or criminal on the run? After wedging the sports car into a parking spot, I turned to Babette. “What else did you find? I presume Bascomb scooped the lot.”
Babette swallowed twice and dabbed at the mascara under her eyes. “There was a bankbook too and some jewelry—a watch and a couple of rings. Stuff she never wore in front of me. And bankbooks—I didn’t even know they had those things anymore. Of course, it was a foreign account, so they do everything differently.”
“What country?” Patience and persistence were essential when Babette veered off track.
She gulped once more. “The Cayman Islands. And Perri, it gets worse. Ethel had over half a million bucks in the account. Can you believe it? She said she was broke. I paid for her food.”
At that point I was willing to believe almost anything especially if it involved a certain murder victim who had deceived us all. Like it or not, Ethel was probably a blackmailer at the very least. A wealthy community like Great Marsh overflowed with potential victims who could and probably would pay to keep their secrets safe. Those solid citizens might also kill to protect their interests. Babette released her seatbelt and scrambled out of the car.
“Come on,” she wailed. “Get the lead out. Titus is waiting for us.”
I waved her on and waited while she disappeared into the maw of justice. Something important was burning inside me. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Pruett’s number.
* * * *
That afternoon, good, hard work saved me from obsessing about Ethel. I tidied up my office, attended to my pets, and focused on perfecting the shipment of belts that had been ordered. I admit that I primped a bit while getting dressed but that was professional pride. Nothing more. Subdued makeup, a spritz of perfume and my best silk slacks were merely tools to lift my spirits. Pruett wouldn’t even notice.
When Babette swung by at six pm, I was seated on the porch, calmly reading The Washington Post. She gave me one look and hooted. “All gussied up, aren’t you, hon? Guess I can’t blame you. One night with Pruett could make a girl’s entire year.”
“What are you babbling about? Besides you look pretty spiffy yourself.” Posh jewelry and a dreamy red pantsuit lent Babette a glamorous air. Her high-heeled boots upped the sex appeal to a new high.
Compliments usually sidetracked her, but this time was different. I ignored her contemptuous snort and plugged in the GPS. Since car thefts in Georgetown had reached epidemic proportions, we decided to take my old Suburban. As an added precaution, I loaded Keats and Poe into the back seat. Anyone trying to steal my ride would get a rude awakening when that Pretorian Guard sprang out at them.
Clyde’s was a favorite watering hole for Georgetown style-setters, and the crowd hovering outside the door reflected that. We slowly worked our way up to the maître’d without much hope of ever getting seated. Then Babette uttered the magic words: Wing Pruett.
The server’s face was wreathed in smiles as she nodded. Mr. Pruett was waiting for us in his booth. His booth? Although there was no metal plaque on it, the choice spot was clearly reserved for Pruett, bon vivant and general hottie. When he saw us, he rose and waved merrily. “Ladies. Welcome. You both look lovely. Have a seat. Please.”
He looked jaw-droppingly handsome himself in tight black jeans and a white turtleneck. Fortunately, dignity triumphed over lust and I forced myself to turn away rather than gape. Babette showed no restraint at all. She seemed intent on slobbering over him and swilling alcohol with equal abandon.
“Looks like you own the place, Wing,” she trilled. “This your regular hangout?”
For a moment, I thought that he blushed, but I was mistaken. The amused glint in his eyes dispelled that notion. Charming female admirers was second nature to this Beltway bad boy, a practiced art in which he excelled. I stared at the menu to collect my thoughts.
“I’m sure Pruett is busy, Babette, so let’s get down to business.”
He raised an eyebrow at my brusque tone but said nothing. Leave it to Babette. She downed her cosmopolitan and blundered right in without giving it a second thought.
“Don’t mind her. Perri and I had a hard day what with the bank and the cops too.” Babette’s dimples deepened as she pinched my cheeks. “She’ll perk up when she has a drink. Let’s order.”
“Hot stuff,” Pruett said after Babette had filled him in about the safety deposit box. “What about the jewelry? Any initials or identifying marks?”
Babette shook her head. “A gold Rolex, and two nice sapphire rings with diamonds. Possibly Art Deco. Pretty standard stuff. Nothing worth killing for.” Since my pal was almost a pro when it came to the glittery stuff, I trusted her assessment.
“Hmm. No letters or disks, I guess. Too bad. Of course, extortion can excite a bunch of emotions. Sometimes just the thought of getting ripped off is enough.”
“Blackmail is such a low crime,” Babette growled. “I’d kill her myself if Ethel were still alive.” Her exuberance attracted the attention of several diners. She lowered her voice after I hushed her. DC was filled with tipsters and newshounds determined to satisfy the public’s unending appetite for gossip.
I knew both crimes were bad but wasn’t sure if blackmail and extortion were the same thing. Fortunately, Pruett the know-it-all supplied the answer.
“Extortion,” he said, grinning. “In Virginia statutes, there is no blackmail. Just extortion. Kind of interchangeable, actually.”
“I forgot that you’re an attorney too,” Babette simpered. I really hated it when she did that. Luckily it only happened around the limited supply of presentable males who came her way.
Pruett shrugged. “A failed law student. Family thing, you know. My mother insisted but it bored the pants off me.”
I closed my eyes and recreated today’s scene at the Great Marsh police station. Lieutenant Bascomb’s reaction had been priceless. The man just about combusted once he realized that his suspect pool had tripled and now included some of the town’s most prominent citizens. Quiet, inoffensive Ethel had cut quite a swathe through the community. Her selfless service to so many worthy causes was now tinged with the taint of corruption.
Pruett prattled on about something forgettable that entertained Babette and bored me. I came to attention when he mentioned Ethel’s suspicious bank balance.
“That’s a nice chunk of change, but really not a lot of money.” He stared into space. “Not for extortion in a well-heeled community like Great Marsh. What price respectability, huh?”
I analyzed the situation calmly and clearly. Perhaps Ethel was an intelligent criminal who realized that even wealthy housewives—and I believed most, if not all, her victims were women—might have trouble gathering huge sums of money. Relatively paltry payments on the other hand were much more sustainable.
“Maybe she was more interested in smaller, steady payments than one big score,” I said. “And don’t discount the elements of power and control in the equation. That’s a lot of ego balm for a clerical worker.”
Pruett nodded and asked what Bascomb’s plan of action was. I suspected that while we enjoyed the comforts of a Georgetown eatery, the poor cop was busy sussing out the many faces of one Ethel McCall.
“I checked reported burglaries in the area,” Pruett said. “Not too many. Casts doubt on that theory. After what you guys learned today it’s even less likely.”
“At least he doesn’t think I’m in danger anymore,” Babette said. “Ethel had plenty of her own enemies.”
Pruett got a peculiar look on his face that roused my suspicions. When we locked eyes, I understood everything. Ethel’s criminal past was a two-edged sword. Babette’s personal danger had lessened, but she had just graduated from potential victim to prime suspect.
* * * *
We left shortly after eating our dinner. Pruett escorted us to my car but leapt back as Keats and Poe launched a spate of growls and barks.
“Got your guard dogs with you I see.” His expression was more smirk than smile. “Don’t they know this is America not a war zone?”
“Sometimes it’s hard to see the difference,” I said.
Babette ignored the subtext of his comments. “Those dogs are crazy about Perri. Lord help anyone who tries to mess with her.” She swayed a bit causing Pruett to grasp her arm and help her into the Suburban. I vowed immediately to prevent her from driving home. Bascomb would lock her up and throw away the key if she were nabbed for DUI.
Pruett nodded. “That’s for sure.” He stepped back then pivoted sharply. “Text me if you get anything useful from Jakes. I’ll work a few angles from my end. And be careful. Both of you.”
The drive home seemed endless as Babette chirped nonstop about the glories of Pruett. Nothing, not even the small matter of her dear friend’s murder, deterred her from weaving alcohol fueled romantic fantasies. All of them ended the same way with Pruett and I joined in wedded bliss.
“You’re not listening to me, Perri,” she griped. “You know my instincts about these things are always on target.”
That statement was too ludicrous to even comment on. Besides, Babette meant well, however misguided she might be, and anything that lifted her spirits was okay with me. As we pulled into her driveway, I grew anxious. Her estate was shrouded in darkness. Swaying tree limbs and swirling leaves lent an ominous air to the place.
“Where’s Carleton?” I asked her. “Isn’t he usually home on a weeknight?”
“Don’t ask me. He doesn’t punch a timecard. We have our own “don’t ask don’t tell” policy.”
A sudden noise startled me, causing my dogs to bark. “What was that? Sounded like a door banging.”
I could tell from the way Babette’s eyes widened that she was frightened. “It’s coming from Ethel’s place,” she whimpered. “Oh, dear Lord. I have to find Clara.” She bolted out of the Suburban and sped toward her front door.
I reached under the seat for the powerful torch I had carried since my army days. It was military grade, a tactical flashlight with a strobe designed to immobilize any person or creature that posed a threat. Personally, I preferred it to a gun, although I had one of those too.
Keats and Poe were already on alert. As soon as the hatch opened, they bounded toward the sound with their hackles raised. I followed close behind them, activating the strobe feature of my torch.
“Babette! Stop! Wait for us!”
She disappeared into her house, switched on the lights and emerged with Clara hugging her side. I shone the floodlight toward the garage windows where Carleton’s black BMW was clearly outlined. Babette saw it too; bent over and made a keening sound like none I had ever heard before. She was clearly terrified, and I didn’t blame her. She froze in place as rigid as a stone sculpture.
“Call the police while I check out Ethel’s place.” I walked toward the guesthouse feeling braver than normal because of my dogs. Both Keats and Poe had faced danger many times and never failed. If only I could match their courage.
The unlocked screen door, mired in crime scene tape, rattled on its hinges. Perhaps the police had forgotten to fasten it. There must be a dozen different explanations, all of which eluded me as I stood there.
“Perri, wait. I called the police. They’ll be here any minute.” Babette and Clara edged toward us.
Her words made sense. No sane person would barge into a darkened home, no matter what type of training or skills she might have. For some reason common sense deserted me. I forged ahead with the Malinois at my side and stepped over the threshold. Babette and Clara made it a party of five. Once again, I activated the strobe and panned the hallway that had led to Ethel’s space. Babette’s scream pierced the night like a siren.
There at the bottom of the stairwell lay the crumpled form of Carleton Croy.