part0030

Mars Covington’s luck had run out. In the blink of an eye he lost his lady, his job, and his home. Indeed, after King Cedric exiled him from the kingdom, what choice did the gardener have but to leave as ordered? All too aware of his lowly station in life, Mars departed with nary a farewell to his princess, and had walked all day, determined to put the kingdom, and the past, behind him before nightfall.

Yet, as the sun began to wane, Mars allowed himself a slight detour from his path. He climbed the nearest ridge for one last glimpse of Griffondale Castle. What was Princess Destiny doing at that moment? “Does she miss me?” he asked the thin air.

Mars was not a vain man, nevertheless he was certain the princess did miss him. In fact, he was certain she would continue missing him, even after she and Prince Drake were wed, even after they had—

The lowly but noble gardener emitted an uncharacteristic, yet sorely warranted sigh, as his mind wandered to his first encounter with Destiny, and to their first stolen night in his cottage. Oh, the joy! Oh, the rapture! Oh, how lovely, and perfect, and—

Mars dropped his rucksack and sat down on the nearest boulder. “Think!” he admonished himself. Where was he going? Who would employ him? The man was no fool. He was certain King Cedric had already dispatched messengers throughout the vast lands, forewarning neighboring kingdoms to beware of the gardener with wayward morals!

Yet, Mars continued admonishing himself, how could he be so callous as to give even the slightest consideration to his future? His future was meaningless without his Destiny!

The gardener shook himself and rose to his feet. “Onward!” he proclaimed to the thin air before trudging downhill toward—

“Toward where?” I asked the thin air. Actually, I asked Snowflake, who was perched on her favorite windowsill overlooking my desk.

Evidently, the cat had nary a clue, and was offering only a prolonged meow when the phone rang. “Let’s go to the lake tonight,” Wilson said with nary a hello. “What do you say?”

“I say I hope you have good news.” I stood up and stretched. “You have found Karen safe and sound, have identified and arrested Wayne Stasson’s murderer, and hence Karen’s kidnapper, and are thus providing a happy ending to this whole tragic tale.”

Wilson skipped a beat. “Tell Adelé Nightingale this is reality.”

“I do not like reality lately.”

“At least be thankful you’re not dealing with Jimmy Beak.”

That I certainly was. Especially when Wilson mentioned the impending press conference.

“That’s why I want to stay at the lake,” he said. “I’ll need to relax afterwards, and I’ll be closer to the action tomorrow.”

Trust me, our little shack-slash-cottage on the banks of Lake Lookadoo is seldom close to any action. It is, however, closer to the Rigby Estate than our downtown condo. We agreed I would watch the press conference, pack up the cats, and meet him at the shack.

“Cottage,” he corrected and hung up.

“What do you think?” Carter asked as we concluded the tour of his condo.

“It’s no shack,” I told him, and dare I admit, that was an understatement? The man had taste. My taste, to be specific. His place was furnished with sleek modern furniture which nicely complimented the open floor plans, brick walls, and humongous windows of our building. And, like me, he had also added some homey touches—an antique chest or two, and some colorful folk art .

He must have noticed me admiring a watercolor of a rocking chair. “My mom gave me that when she and Dad downsized a couple years ago,” he told me.

“It’s charming.” I turned around and gave the living room another once-over. “The whole place is very nice.”

He smiled. “Candy said you’d like it.” He ushered me to the couch. “Tea or Korbel?”

I chose tea, and while Carter put on the kettle, we discussed the day’s developments. He knew all the latest on Karen’s kidnapping and Wayne Stasson’s murder from Candy, but he had yet to hear about my visit to Ian and Amanda. I filled him in on that unpleasant experience.

“You’ve had a rough day,” he said. “You sure you don’t want champagne?”

I declined since I would be driving later, and explained Wilson’s rationale for staying at the shack. “It’s closer to the scene of the crime.” I frowned. “Make that, crimes, plural.” Another frown. “I suppose we’ll be there indefinitely.”

“Optimism,” Carter said confidently. He came over with our tea and sat down. “Maybe we should talk about Princess Destiny,” he suggested. “Did she have a good day?”

“Hardly.” I shook my head and reported all the harrowing news emanating from Griffondale Castle, and that time Carter frowned.

“Where will the gardener go?” he asked.

“That, Mr. O’Connell, is the million-dollar question.”

Mr. O’Connell considered the dilemma. “I guess he could work for Prince Drake’s family.”

Now I ask you. Why the heck was I wasting these intricate and complex plot details on the dreaded Carter O’Connell?

“Carter.” I spoke firmly. “That is absurd. It makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Jessie.” He spoke firmly. “Where’s the one place King Cedric is sure to avoid making any mention of Mars Covington?”

“It’s called irony,” he said. “Does Adelé Nightingale like irony?”

Adelé Nightingale sat up straight and considered irony. “Discussion of the overly amorous gardener would lead to some rather awkward questions,” I ventured.

Carter nodded. “So King Cedric has to keep his daughter’s love affair a secret, right? It’s old-fashioned, but we’re talking about the thirteenth century, right?”

“Or sixteenth.” I waved a hand. “Adelé Nightingale doesn’t get too wrapped up in specific dates.”

“Specific? That’s a span of three or four centuries. Jessie.”

True, but I insisted historical accuracy was of no concern. “Adelé’s fans care about—” I skipped a beat “—other things.”

Carter winked and got up to find the remote.

Oh trials and tribulations—the beak of my least favorite person filled the TV screen. “Jimmy Beak, reporting live from the Rigby Estate!” Jimmy shouted excitedly. “Murder!” he shouted ominously. “The public has the right to know!” he added gleefully.

“Why does he bother using a microphone!” Carter imitated Jimmy’s tone. “Murder at the Rigby Estate!” Jimmy repeated as the camera scanned Pierpont’s entrance foyer. “I’m here with Captain Wilson Rye, who has agreed to answer all—all!—my questions regarding this heinous crime!”

The camera focused on a podium which had been set up in the shadow of the grand staircase, and sure enough, there was Wilson—surrounded by a few far more sedate reporters and some other cops. I didn’t see Russell Densmore, but I did see—

“Al Kapinski!” I shouted almost Jimmy-Beak style. I turned to Carter. “Everyone knows he’s the kidnapping expert. Jimmy cannot be told about Karen!”

Carter patted my knee and suggested I try to have some faith, and Wilson did begin with an explanation for Al’s presence. “You all know Lieutenant Kapinski,” he said, and several people in the foyer nodded. “It’s been a slow week for kidnappings, so the Lieutenant has agreed to help in this investigation.”

“Wilson lies well,” Carter observed.

“One of his many skills,” I agreed as we watched Captain Rye and Lieutenant Kapinski shake hands.

Al took a step back, and Wilson began fielding questions. He focused first on the more staid and sane reporters, and thus we learned the bare bones basics about Wayne Stasson’s murder and the ongoing investigation.

“Wilson’s cagey,” Carter said.

“He has to be,” I said. “He can’t give any information to the bad guy, since the bad guy still has Karen.”

And speaking of bad guys, Jimmy was jumping up and down and thrashing his microphone about in a wild, Jimmy-Beak sort of way.

“You have a question, Mr. Beak?” Wilson asked.

“I do! You can run but you can’t hide, Captain Rye! One of the nation’s most prominent citizens has been murdered, and I demand to know what you intend to do about it. The public has a right to know!”

Wilson, who has dealt with Jimmy many a time, took a deep breath and commenced correcting him on several fronts. “First of all,” he said, “I’m not running, I’m holding a press conference. And let me add, the Clarence PD considers every citizen of our town prominent, but I remind your viewers the murder victim was Wayne Stasson. Mr. Stasson worked in the stable here at the Rigby Estate.”

“Rigby! So you admit Pierpont Rigby is your prime suspect!” Jimmy swung around to face the camera. “You heard it here first, folks!”

“No. You didn’t.” Wilson waited for the camera to find him, and used his most authoritative cop-like voice to inform us it was too soon to name suspects.

“But you’re not ruling out Pierpont Rigby!” Jimmy shouted gleefully.

Wilson refrained from answering and moved on to Jeff Smith, a reporter for the Clarence Courier . Mr. Smith asked about motive.

“Unknown at this juncture,” Wilson replied.

“Cagey,” Carter mumbled .

“Cautious,” I argued. “The public can’t be told Wayne discovered the kidnapper,” I said. “And they can’t know he got himself murdered because of it. Wilson cannot mention Karen’s kidnapping.”

“But that’s not why Wayne got killed.”

I turned from the TV screen. “Excuse me? What are you talking about?”

“Motive,” Carter said. “I bet the horse guy was in on the kidnapping.”

“You mean like a partner in crime?” I shook my head, and when I tuned back in, Jimmy was still harping on the ludicrous Pierpont Rigby as the prime suspect theme.

“No one can deny it!” Jimmy said. “The multi-billionaire himself—”

“Is giving us his full cooperation,” Wilson interrupted. He motioned to Piers, who was waiting in the wings, and the multi-billionaire took the podium.

Piers began with a statement about Wayne Stasson’s dedication to animal welfare, and mentioned our local animal shelter. “I will match any contributions made in Mr. Stasson’s memory,” he promised the TV audience before turning to the reporters. “Now then, are there any questions for me?”

“He’s slick,” Carter observed, and Piers did indeed seem comfortable in front of the cameras, even while answering some awkward questions regarding Rigby Enterprises. Apparently shares in the corporation had taken a sharp and sudden hit when news of the murder had reached the New York Stock Exchange.

“A temporary and reversible blip,” Piers said. “To be expected, under the circumstances.”

“Expected?” Jimmy Beak shoved Jeff Smith aside. “You mean you knew Wayne Stasson was about to die? Are you confessing to first degree murder, Mr. Rigby!?”

Carter and I both spat out four-letters words, but Piers didn’t even flinch. “No,” he answered calmly .

“What about all the work you’re having done around here?” Jimmy asked, and that time Piers did flinch.

“Come again?” he asked, and Jimmy said something about the “dozens and dozens of unscrupulous workmen” Piers was allowing to “traipse” in and out of the estate.

“You had to know that would lead to trouble, Mr. Rigby.”

“You have no right to destroy the historical significance of this house!”

Piers blinked. “I’m having the plumbing updated.”

“And the roofing!” Jimmy accused. “And the electricity! I’ve spoken to your staff, Mr. Rigby. You can run, but you cannot hide!”

Carter shook his head. “What is he talking about?”

“Karen,” I said. “He doesn’t know it, but Karen.” I glared at the TV screen. “Change the subject,” I ordered, but in case you are wondering, Jimmy Beak never listens to me. He again insisted the household remodeling must have been the root cause of Wayne Stasson’s demise.

“Mark my words!” he said, and Piers tapped his chin, seeming to do just that.

“I’ll leave it to Captain Rye to decide,” he said. “But I don’t believe my house renovations had anything to do with Mr. Stasson’s murder.”