Sergeant Drummond thought about that, said, “We’ll call the Lotto.”
“I’d be calling past clients too,” I said. “See if any of them are missing jewelry. I mean, there were jewelry pieces the Abramses and Martins couldn’t identify in your photographs, right?”
“True,” Johnson said between mouthfuls.
Drummond’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out, looked at it, said, “Sorry, gentlemen, but I have to take this.”
He got up, leaving me with Johnson, who said, “There’s another possibility, you know.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Maybe Francie was the jewel thief, but she wasn’t the killer,” the young detective said. “Maybe she went to rob someone and surprised the killer.”
“You mean in the act of trying to murder a third socialite?”
“Why not?”
“Any reports of assaulted socialites?”
“Not that I know of,” Johnson said.
“Dessert?” Althea came over and said.
“I’m stuffed,” I said.
She frowned at me, said, “I make it from scratch.”
I held up my hands. “I’ll make room.”
“Sweet potato pudding,” she said, smiling. “Coffee? Tea?”
“I’ll take a coffee,” I said.
“I will too, Althea,” said Drummond, sliding back into his chair.
“I have to be going,” Johnson said. “Can we get the check?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Drummond said. “I’ve got you both covered.”
“Let me take my part of it,” I said.
“Visiting dignitary, I don’t think so,” the sergeant sniffed.
Johnson got up, said, “Again, it was great meeting you, Alex.”
“Likewise,” I said, getting to my feet and shaking his hand.
“See you in the morning, Sarge.”
“Bright and early,” Drummond grumbled.
Our coffee and pudding came. I didn’t know sweet potato pudding could be decadent, but it was.
The sergeant took a sip of coffee, said, “So all we’ve been doing is talking about our case. What is someone like you working on these days?”
I hesitated, then started telling him about my cousin Stefan, and Starksville, and all the strange twists the case had taken in the few days we’d been there. Through it all, Drummond listened intently and quietly, sipping his coffee and eating pudding.
It took me the better part of an hour to tell it all, and with the beers in me, I probably said more than I should have. But Drummond was a good listener, and it just seemed natural.
“And that’s where we are,” I said.
After several beats, the sergeant said, “You like this guy Marvin Bell for killing that kid, but I don’t hear anything that says you got him involved.”
“Because we don’t have him involved,” I said. “Like everyone in Starksville says, he’s a slippery guy.”
Drummond shifted his jaw left and nodded, lost in thought. Then he said, “I’ve known my share of slippery guys. Trick is to let them get so slippery they get overconfident and they—”
His cell phone rang. He looked at it, shook his head, said, “Sorry again.”
The sergeant got up and walked away, and I finished my coffee, thinking that I’d better find a place to stay the evening. Althea brought the check, which was incredibly reasonable considering the quality of the meal.
“I’ll handle the tip,” I said when Drummond returned.
The sergeant smiled. “I think you’re going to want to handle the whole bill once I tell you about those last two phone calls.”
“How’s that?” I said.
“The first call was from the Belchers’ funeral home,” he said. “They handled your Paul Brown’s embalming and delivered his body in a pauper’s casket to a church that isn’t in Pahokee anymore. Closed fifteen years back.”
I frowned. “And the second call?”
“From the minister who used to run that church,” Drummond said. “The Belchers called her. She evidently knew Paul Brown and says she’s willing to meet you out in Pahokee tomorrow around six p.m. to tell you about him.”
I grinned and snatched the check off the table.