CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Chief!” I said in surprise. I looked past him.
“Is Hope with you?”
“She won’t be joining us.” He gave me a cold once-over, then said in a no-nonsense voice, “How about you and me having a talk instead?”
I swallowed, feeling suddenly unnerved. Ed Louvain was a big, imposing man, tall and broad-shouldered with a hawkish face, buzz-cut light-brown hair, and hard, cold green eyes that were now laser-focused on me. It didn’t help that he had on his navy police uniform, his badge shining on his chest, his gun strapped to his thick, black belt.
And then from behind me I heard, “Why don’t we all have a talk?” Abby walked past me with her hand outstretched. “Chief Louvain, I’m Abby Knight Salvare. I’m a private detective working on the Carly Blackburn case. It’s very thoughtful of you to take your wife’s spot for this interview.”
Ed Louvain looked a little nonplussed as he shook Abby’s hand. Clearly, he thought his presence would be intimidating, but as he towered over Abby, who was smiling brightly, it was obvious who had the upper hand.
Abby indicated my office. “Let’s go in there and talk.”
I walked around the desk and sat down, still in awe of what I’d just witnessed. While Abby and the chief took seats across from me, I opened my iPad, ready to take notes.
“We hope your wife is okay,” Abby began.
“She’s fine. Just busy.” Ed adjusted his big body in the chair. “What can I answer for you?”
I looked at the list of questions we’d written down for Hope and didn’t know where to begin. They weren’t intended for her husband. As I scrolled through the list, my iPad went dark. I sat in front of the blank screen as the realization hit home. I’d forgotten to charge it. And instantly my mind went blank, as well.
Fortunately, Abby took the lead. “We understand there have been problems between Carly Blackburn’s son and your son, resulting in your son’s expulsion. We also understand it caused tension between Hope and Carly, resulting in a heated argument before the fashion show.”
“I don’t know anything about an argument,” Ed said, shifting again in the chair. “But I can tell you my son has been vilified by the Blackburns.”
“Did you know Hope was angry with Carly over your son?” Abby asked.
“We were both angry,” he said.
“Was Hope angry enough to smash Carly’s windshield?”
The chief said nothing.
“Your wife seems to have quite a temper,” Abby prodded.
“I see where you’re going with this,” he said, “but Hope would never hurt anyone intentionally.”
“Carly was in her car at the time Hope smashed her windshield,” Abby said. “She could’ve easily been hurt.”
“Stop right there,” he said angrily. “My wife didn’t kill anybody.”
“Why was she never charged with anything?” Abby asked. “Like aggravated assault?”
“Because Carly never filed a report,” he retorted, then added cannily, “unless you have proof to the contrary.”
And because Carly was dead, all we had was a third-person account. He had us there.
“Does Hope ever use eye drops?” I asked.
He gave me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Because that was the poison used on Carly,” I said.
He sat there looking stunned for a moment, then said, “Anyone could’ve bought eye drops.”
“But only a few people would know the chemical composition of eye drops, and even fewer people had access to Carly’s water bottle,” Abby said, “your wife being one of them.”
Ed ran one hand through his hair. Finally, he said, “I know my wife better than anybody, and I mean it when I say she wouldn’t kill anyone. She’s kindhearted. She’s a good mother.”
“Mothers are ferocious when it comes to defending their children,” Abby said.
He sat there for a moment thinking about what she’d said. Then he leaned forward. “You’re looking at the wrong person. If you want to know whom you should be investigating, let me give you a tip—off the record.”
“Okay,” Abby said.
He talked low and steadily, as if each word held its own importance. “I happen to know that Detective Walters was investigating Mayor Sloan’s security guard.”
“He was investigating?” Abby asked. “But he’s not now?”
“Walters dropped it,” Ed explained. “But here’s the inside scoop. The security guard, Ben something, tried to get on the police force and was rejected, so he went to work at the Blackburn Casino instead. And guess what? He stole money and was sent to prison.”
“How is that relevant?” Abby asked.
“When the mayor first reported these supposed threats,” the chief explained, “I offered him the names of several good men to work as security. Instead, he hired a man with a criminal record.”
“Why would he do that?” Abby asked.
Ed cleared his throat. “Let’s just say this Ben character might not play by the rules.”
“And that suits the mayor?” I asked.
Ed shrugged. “Maybe it suits him just fine. Here’s the thing. Mayor Sloan claims to have been threatened, but he’s never shared any evidence with the police. No letters. No emails. No evidence at all.”
“Then why did he hire a security guard?” I asked.
“My guess is that Charles Sloan needed a favor, and he recruited a criminal to help him out. The threats were just a cover.”
“Is it possible Mayor Sloan could’ve put pressure on Detective Walters to drop the investigation?” I asked.
Ed rubbed his nose. “Are we done here?”
“Don’t be coy,” Abby insisted. “Are you saying that the mayor hired the security guard to kill Carly?”
Ed held up both hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not saying that. I’m only telling you what I know. Detective Walters was looking at the security guard as a suspect. Now he’s not. Let’s leave it at that.” He stood up and adjusted his belt. “Now, we’re done here.”
“One more thing,” I said. “I’d like a sample of your handwriting.”
He balked at my request. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“Fine. You leave my wife alone, and I’ll give you a sample.”
Before I could oppose, Abby agreed to his deal. “Write this out. ‘Leave the investigation to the police. ’ ”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“If you’re not guilty, then it doesn’t matter, does it?”
He stood up, glaring at Abby. “Forget it. No deal. You stay away from my wife. I’m keeping my eye on you—both of you.”
I showed him out of the office and came back to find Abby making notes in her notebook. “What did I tell you about that iPad?” she joked. “I’m telling you, pen and paper is the way to go.”
“Thanks for taking over,” I said. After retrieving a charging cord from my desk drawer, I plugged in the dead device and said, “What do you think about Ed Louvain?”
“He didn’t convince me of his wife’s innocence, that’s for sure. He was clearly trying to guide us in a new direction, But he did bring us some interesting information about the security guard.” Abby put her pen down. “I think we really need to dig into this guy. And I’m very curious as to why Walters dropped the investigation. Maybe the mayor did put pressure on him.” She flipped the notebook closed. “With some careful questioning, we may find out tonight.”
* * *
Shortly before six o’clock, after making sure Delphi was closing the store that night, I went out front and waited for Abby to pick me up. It was a warm evening with a light southwesterly breeze, a perfect night for a ride in a convertible. I felt bad that I wasn’t taking Nicholas with me to the fair, but I didn’t plan on staying long.
Abby pulled up a few minutes later in her shiny yellow Corvette. She was dressed casually in tan capri pants and an orange and tan plaid shirt, the orange setting off her bright red hair. She smiled as I got in. “You came prepared. And I love your outfit.”
I turned my head, making my ponytail swing. “I did come prepared. And thank you.” I arranged the skirt of my light green sundress beneath me and fastened the seat belt. “How did your visit with Jillian go?”
“She’s very depressed,” Abby said. “Her arraignment hearing is still two days away, and she’s frantic to get back to her little girl.”
“What are her chances of being released on bond?”
“Slim,” Abby replied. “The evidence is stacked against her.” She heaved a sigh. “We’ve got to get this investigation moving.”
She drove us across town and turned into the fairground entrance, where she made her way across the lumpy field to the rows of parked cars. Then we walked across the grassy terrain, this time free of mud, and paid our entrance fees at the gate.
We headed up the big blacktop walkway, passing carnival games and fried-food stands. And right before the St. Jacob’s food tent stood a bright blue tent with a big sign in black letters across the top that said, Meet and Greet with Mayor Sloan.
“Here we are,” I said.
Inside the tent, Lila and two other women were standing behind a table that ran across the front. The table was loaded with free giveaways—cup cozies, pens, buttons with the slogan Keep Sequoia Small across the front, coffee mugs, and bottle openers. But contrary to what Lila had predicted, there was a line of people waiting to talk to the mayor.
“Athena, Abby, good to see you,” Lila said as she walked over to us. “Charles had to slip out for a bathroom break. He’ll be back any second.”
“Were you able to get a writing sample?” I asked.
“I didn’t feel comfortable taking something off his desk,” Lila replied. “Sorry.”
I glanced around at the buttons and bumper stickers and campaign posters with the mayor’s smiling face on them, and I had an idea. “Can I have a poster?”
Lila handed me the poster. Then her eyes grew wide. “This dress!” She reached for my hand and spun me awkwardly. “It’s beautiful. You look good in blue.”
I looked down at the patterned dress. “It’s green.”
“More like a blue-green. And your hair looks so full and bouncy. I see you’re learning a lot from our new friend, Abby.”
To my utter humiliation, Lila leaned over to whisper a conspicuous thank-you to Abby. “I didn’t think Athena had anything to wear other than beige and white, like she’s always on a safari.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from retorting, And you always dress like a drunk yoga instructor. But I remembered my mother’s advice and forced a smile. Find your zen place, I told myself.
We chatted with Lila about the campaign, and a few minutes later the security guard walked in through a flap at the back of the tent, glanced around, eyed me for a moment, then held the flap open for the mayor. Sloan came striding inside, his brown hair neatly side-parted and combed back, looking sharp in a light gray suit and a gray, white, and red–striped tie over a white shirt. He spotted us, smiled his winning smile, and came right over.
“Athena Spencer!” He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Good to see you. Thanks for stopping by.”
“This is my friend and associate, Abby Salvare,” I said. “Abby is a private detective, too.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Abby,” Sloan said, turning on the charm.
“Could we talk for a minute?” I asked.
His smile grew forced. “Sure. I have a few minutes. Why don’t we step over here?”
We moved to the opposite side of the tent, where we couldn’t be easily heard. He faced us, arms folded across his suit coat. “How can I help you?”
“First of all,” I began, “my mother is a big supporter. I’m sure she would love a signed copy of your poster.”
“Well then,” Charles smiled, his chest fairly puffing with pride, “whom can I make it out to?”
“How about, ‘To the best mother in town. Leave your troubles behind.’ ”
Charles looked up from the poster in confusion. “You want me to write that?”
“Sure. It’s something my mother always says. She’ll get a kick out of it.”
From his pocket he pulled a bright blue pen with the words Vote for Sloan across the side. After a few scribbles, he handed the poster back to me. “Is that all I can do for you?”
I quickly checked the autograph and noticed the handwriting was completely different from that of the threatening note, so I rolled up the poster and stuck it in my purse.
“We also have a few questions about the night of Carly’s murder,” Abby told him, as she pulled out her notepad.
Charles glanced over our shoulders with consternation at the line of people waiting.
“It won’t take much time,” Abby assured him, “and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Go ahead, then,” he said.
She retrieved the pen from her purse and said, “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes.”
He waved his hand. “Be my guest.”
Abby readied her notebook while I began. “We were told you were backstage at the fashion show the night Carly was killed. Is that true?”
He looked up at the ceiling, his fingers pressed against his lips, thinking. “I believe I stepped backstage briefly to wish my wife good luck. That was right before I went out and introduced the show. There are many witnesses who can attest to that.” He smiled confidently.
I watched Abby write down his response, fearing that Sloan would try to charm his way through our interview, treating Abby and me as though we were starstruck supporters hanging on to his every word. Hopefully our questions would shake things up a bit.
Speaking of which, I noticed Abby’s arm shaking next to me. I looked over at her, and she smiled at me, encouraging me to proceed.
“Where was your security guard during the show?” I asked.
“I believe he was securing the premises,” he said with a smile. “That’s his job, after all.”
“Are you aware that your security guard worked for Donald Blackburn before working for you?”
“Yes, I did know that,” Sloan answered. “Why?”
“We’re just checking up on everyone who was backstage,” I said.
Once again, Abby shook her arm briskly and then placed her pen against the paper, cursing under her breath.
Charles cleared his throat. “Is something wrong?”
She looked at me. “You’re never going to believe this.”
“Out of ink?”
Abby’s cheeks flushed red, and before I could pull my fully charged iPad from my purse, Mayor Sloan reached his hand out. “Please,” he said. “Have mine.”
Abby reluctantly took the cheap campaign-sloganed ink pen and motioned for me to continue.
“Are you aware the police were investigating your security guard?” I asked.
“You must be mistaken,” Sloan assured. “I would’ve been alerted if that were the case.”
“We have a confidential source who says otherwise,” I said.
After a brief flash of indignation, the mayor calmed himself and leveled out his expression. “Let me assure you,” Sloan responded smoothly, “that I have every confidence in Ben. He made a few mistakes in the past, but now he’s an upstanding citizen. Are there any other questions I can help you with?”
Abby finished writing down his response, then said, “We understand you stopped Unified Construction Company from building a shopping mall on the other side of the highway.”
“It was going to be a mega-mall,” the mayor said, “and yes, I did. As you’re aware, my goal is to keep out big businesses.” He smiled his campaign smile. “I’m all for the little guy.”
“Would there be any reason why Carly would’ve been in communication with Unified on your behalf?” I asked.
“On my behalf?” The mayor pursed his lips. “Not that I can think of.”
“What about CB Development Company?” I asked. “Have you ever heard of them?”
At that, the mayor’s polished veneer seemed to crack. “Excuse me?”
“CB Development,” I repeated. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“I’m not familiar with the name.” In a low voice, he asked, “Should I have heard of this company?”
“We want to know the correlation between the two companies,” I said.
“Having never heard of them,” he replied coolly, “I really couldn’t say.”
I was hoping Abby was picking up on the mayor’s transformation. He no longer stood with his shoulders back, and his smile no longer seemed charming. Instead, his shoulders had stiffened, and his hands, which had been relaxed at his sides, came up to adjust his tie. His eyebrows lowered, and his gaze grew chilly as he once again threw the question back to me. “What do you know about this CB corporation?”
For some reason, the question came across as threatening, and I found my own shoulders tensing. “We know very little except that Carly received mail from Unified Construction and also CB Development Company,” I answered. “That’s why we’re asking you if they’re connected.”
Sloan glanced around at the increasing crowd and frowned, clearly growing impatient. “I don’t have any more information for you, and quite honestly, Carly’s death is still hard to discuss. Perhaps we can continue at a later date.” He motioned for his security guard to join him, no doubt to have us escorted out, but Abby wasn’t buying his act.
“We’re trying to find answers in the death of your campaign manager,” she said loudly. She half-turned toward the crowd, speaking more to them than to Charles. “You want answers, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he snapped, giving her a chilly glance. Then he straightened his lapel and put his smile back into place. He put his hand out, shepherding us farther back into the tent, away from the crowd.
I glanced over at Lila, who was standing behind the table, trying her best to placate the ever-growing line of fans. She turned to give me a desperate look, but all I could do was hold up my finger and hope she could buy us some more time.
“Let’s talk about the threats you received,” Abby said. “Do you know who sent any of them?”
“No,” he replied sharply. “They were all anonymous.”
“Were they handwritten?” Abby asked.
“No, typed out.”
“Did you suspect any were from Unified?” I asked.
“They were certainly one possibility.” He gave me a curious glance. “Are you trying to tie Carly to the threats?”
“We just find it odd that she would receive mail from Unified at your campaign headquarters,” I said. “And that would be especially true if Unified had threatened you.”
“If we could take a look at the threats you’ve received, it might help us,” Abby said.
“Do you still have those letters?”
His jaw pulsed with tension. “No.”
“Do the police have them?”
“I’ll tell you what the police have,” he answered crossly. “They have Carly’s murderer in jail right now.”
Abby didn’t back down. “Let me rephrase the question.”
“Yes,” he replied, “why don’t you do that?”
“What happened to the letters?” she asked.
“I destroyed them, that’s what happened to them,” he snarled.
If they’d ever actually existed.
Lila interrupted our intensifying interrogation to announce that some of the people in line were starting to leave. At that, Mayor Sloan ended the interview.
“One more thing,” Abby said. “We’d like your permission to ask your security guard a few questions—”
Sloan had been on the verge of saying no, but then Abby added, “Unless you don’t feel comfortable with us talking to him.”
“There’s no reason for me to feel uncomfortable. Of course, you may talk to him.” He motioned to the guard. “Ben, come over here.”
As the beefy guard ambled over, a scowl on his face, I noticed he wouldn’t look at me. He had on navy shoes and a dark-blue suit, the jacket stretched taut over his muscular chest and shoulders.
“Ben Logan, this is Athena Spencer and Abby Salvare. They’re private detectives, and they’d like to talk to you.”
Logan gave a nod to his boss, who then strode away. The guard folded his arms across his massive chest and looked straight at Abby, once again avoiding my gaze. He said nothing.
“I understand you did a sweep of the backstage area before and after the fashion show,” Abby said.
“Correct.”
“When you did your initial sweep,” Abby asked, “did you stop at any of the dressing rooms?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. It almost looked as though Ben had something to say, but he merely looked away and said, “No.”
“Are you aware that someone tampered with the victim’s bottle of water?” Abby asked.
He looked around as though scanning the area. “I heard that, yeah. What’s that got to do with me?”
“Did you see anyone tamper with the water?” she asked.
“No.”
“Did you handle the bottled water at all?” Abby pressed.
“Now, why would I do that?”
“Maybe because your boss instructed you to,” Abby countered.
“Lady, you’re crazy.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I’m done answering your stupid questions.”
“Then I have a question for you,” I said. “Did you leave a note under my office door?”
Logan’s ears turned bright red as he finally faced me, his eyes cold slits. “I don’t know anything about any note, and I don’t know what office you’re talking about.”
“Someone who looked a lot like you knocked me down while leaving my office building today,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where were you today about two thirty?” I asked.
“With the mayor,” he said.
“We can check with the mayor’s secretary, Mr. Logan,” Abby said. “Are you sure you want to stick by your answer?”
“Look,” he said, getting louder, “if the mayor is in a meeting, I wait outside until he goes somewhere. But I swear I was nowhere near Greene Street.”
I paused, wondering whether Ben had realized his mistake. How had he known our office was on Greene Street? “Would you like to prove that you didn’t write the note?”
“How?”
“Give us a sample of your handwriting,” I told him. “You can use the back of this poster.”
“I’m not doing anything unless the mayor tells me to.”
“Did the mayor tell you to write that note?”
Logan simply stared at her, opening and closing his fists anxiously.
“Ben?” the mayor called. “I need you to secure the area.”
“Yes, sir.” With a flicker of a smile, the hefty guard sauntered away.
As I watched him disappear into the crowd, I said to Abby, “I have a feeling the mayor called him away on purpose.”
“I think you’re right.”
“And the guard was lying about being with the mayor this afternoon.”
“You’re right about that, too,” Abby said. “We never told him your office was on Greene Street.”
“Exactly.”
My phone beeped with an incoming text. It was from Selene: Can you come to St. Jacob’s tent? I need you to stop me from killing Mama.
Oh, boy.