Chapter 15
Now we were getting somewhere! “Do you know her name?”
Sonja shook her head. “She isn’t a regular. I serve hundreds of people every night. Most I know only by sight. She’s very attractive. A tall blonde with good taste in clothes.”
That could be nearly half the women in Georgetown. It didn’t fit anyone who worked at the bookstore, but Helen fell into three of the categories. “You’re sure she’s a blonde? Not a redhead?”
Sonja took a big breath. “The neon lights sometimes cast misleading tints, but I remember her as a blonde.”
My excitement fizzled. There had to be more to this. Why would she bother telling me? “This woman just watched him?”
“It was the way she did it. Almost from the shadows, like she was spying on him. And there was no mistaking her anger. Later on, when a few drinks had loosened her up, she talked silliness of revenge on Delbert because she hates her new job.”
“Did you tell the police?”
She mashed her eyes closed briefly. “No. They haven’t talked to me. I didn’t report it that night because I would have to call the police all the time. Drunk people say a lot of things they don’t mean.”
“Did Delbert notice her?” I asked.
“I was working, so I couldn’t watch them continuously. I saw him look at her once. His glance remained on her. I remember wondering if he found her attractive, or if she was a previous girlfriend whom he had discarded in a cruel manner.”
That was no help at all. Jacquie Liebhaber was a blonde. I couldn’t imagine her hanging at Club Neon, though, unless she was trying to torment Delbert. “Age?”
“Late twenties? The typical Club Neon age group.”
That eliminated Jacquie.
I took a slip of paper out of my pocket and wrote my cell phone number on it with a blue-tipped colored pencil. “Would you call me if she comes in again?”
Sonja looked at the paper like she feared it might bite her.
“Sonja, I appreciate this information very much. But I can’t help feeling like there must be something more. You could have told me this at Club Neon last night.”
Her gaze flew past me. She appeared to scan the street outside. We were alone, yet she spoke in a hushed voice. “A man came into the club asking questions—”
I interrupted her. “When?”
“Last night. Before you arrived. He was very large.” She balled her hands into fists and held up her elbows. “Strong like a fighter. On his left arm, just above his elbow, was a tattoo of a butterfly. He was bald, but I remember thinking perhaps he shaves his head because he had a bushy black mustache. Florrie, he scared me. He was like a character from a movie. The big bad dude who comes in to break the knees of the quivering scrawny guy.”
“And he made inquiries about Delbert?”
“Oh yes. He asked for me by name, which made me very nervous. How would he possibly know my name?”
Maybe he had paid a visit to Delbert’s roommates like I had. I turned to look out the window. “You thought he was watching you?”
“He was watching me! He was still there when you came in. You weren’t the first person to be talking about Delbert. A lot of people knew him. His death was a hot topic. But”—she smiled—“you and your friend didn’t look like Club Neon types. I felt more comfortable with you.” She leaned across the table. “I’m not afraid that you’re going to punch me or haul me off to a dark warehouse to grill me.”
I wondered if she had seen too many thriller movies. Then again, maybe she was right to be wary of the man with the butterfly tattoo. Scott and Lance thought Delbert had finally crossed the wrong person. It could be someone with unsavory connections. But if Butterfly Man or a pal of his had murdered Delbert, why would he be asking about him?
I bought several slices of raspberry cream torte from her as thanks, and because they looked delicious.
I walked home wondering if there were no end to the people Delbert had hurt. He was like a human wrecking ball. The professor knew that. Surely Delbert’s parents must have realized it. They had paid to clean up his messes.
In spite of myself, I kept an eye out for a big bald guy with a large mustache. Not one person matched that description. I felt sort of silly about it as moms with darling children in strollers passed me. The men in ties and business suits, or golf shirts with shorts, didn’t seem very threatening, either. It was a nice neighborhood. Bullies like Butterfly Man were few and far between.
I walked along the driveway to the carriage house. In front of the garage, Sergeant Jonquille chatted with a guy in a uniform different from Jonquille’s.
“Florrie!” Jonquille sounded pleased to see me.
My heart skipped a beat when my eyes met his.
“I was just filling Felipe in on the details.”
I shook Felipe’s hand. His name tag read FELIPE NUNEZ, MONTOYA SECURITY. He was shorter than Jonquille, but on the pudgy side. I guessed him to be close to fifty. “We’re all very glad to have you here.”
“You’re in good hands with Felipe. He used to be on the police force with me, but he got smart and retired. Now he snags all the cushy jobs,” said Jonquille. “I stopped by to let you know that you can go back into the bookstore if you stay off the third floor. We blocked it with crime scene tape. You can reopen to the general public on Thursday morning.”
Day after tomorrow. Thank goodness. “That’s fabulous! Thank you so much. Any leads yet?”
Jonquille cocked his head. “Leads?”
“To the killer.”
He blew a breath out of his mouth. “I understand how you feel about Maxwell. He’s lucky to have someone as loyal as you. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to the idea that he knocked off his nephew.”
“You’re not even considering that someone else might have murdered Delbert?”
Jonquille looked away for a few seconds. “It’s not up to me, Florrie. I’m not in homicide. But it doesn’t look good for the professor. I’ll tell you what. If you come up with a legitimate suspect, or concrete evidence, I’ll take it to homicide.”
“Who’s on the case?” asked Felipe.
“Zielony.”
Felipe groaned. “The man’s like a terrier after a squirrel. He won’t give up even if the squirrel jumps to another tree. Good luck changing his mind.”
“But what about justice?” I was horrified. “I understand doing your job, but what if I’m right and the professor isn’t guilty? It would be unfair to incarcerate him while the real perpetrator gets off scot free. Or worse—kills someone else!”
“Florrie,” said Jonquille, “we’re all about justice. But you’re one of our witnesses. You told us that Maxwell was planning to do something to take care of Delbert. Deep in your heart, you probably know the truth. You’re just not ready to accept it.”
I tried not to scowl at him. Something had happened at the mansion the night before that put Mr. DuBois in the hospital. He knew that, but would poo-poo it by saying there was no connection.
There was nothing to do but thank them both and go home. It had been a very stressful twenty-four hours, and I longed to pull out my sketch pad and relax. Besides, if we were going to reopen, I needed to invite Jacquie Liebhaber to a grand reopening party. If Jacquie came to sign books, it would be a huge success. I’d have to order extra books right away and get on the ball. I hoped I could get them fast enough.
I unlocked the door to the carriage house. Peaches and Frodo waited for me, purring and wagging. There was no warmer welcome home.
After the requisite petting, I fed both of them. “What do you think of the carriage house, Frodo? Are you okay being here?”
He was too busy snacking on dog cookies to respond. I logged into the bookstore computer and searched for contact information for Jacquie Liebhaber. Her agent’s number came up, and I called it.
When the agent answered, I explained that I wanted to invite Jacquie to a signing on rather short notice.
I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“Who is this again?” she asked.
“Florrie Fox of Color Me Read, in Washington, DC. I believe Ms. Liebhaber was once married to the owner, John Maxwell?”
There was silence on the other end. Finally, the agent said, “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t believe she’ll be available on such short notice.”