part0034

My dashboard displayed the name of the caller, but in the name of getting it over with and D-U-N-dun, I answered anyway. “Hello, Ian.”

“Don’t hello me. Where are you? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

I stated the obvious—that I hadn’t answered because I have caller ID. “And I’m driving, if you must know.”

“Over to your pal Pierpont’s.”

I took the ramp onto the interstate. “What can I do for you, Ian?”

“You can tell him why you lied to us, you scheming little—”

Oh, lucky me. Amanda had joined the conversation.

“What do you want?” I asked her.

“Your head on a platter would be nice. We saw your husband’s press conference last night. You were spying on us yesterday!”

I preferred sleuthing, but why quibble?

“You can’t blame this one on me!” Amanda continued ranting.

I reminded Ms. Fister-Crawcheck I hadn’t accused her of murder in well over a year, and for some reason she started cursing.

“We should sue you for defamation of character!” Ian said, and I suggested he get a grip.

“You saw the press conference, Ian. No one made any mention of you or your no-good wife.”

“No good!” Amanda shrieked. “I’ll tell you who’s no good! That little gold-digging hussy friend of yours. I bet she just loves all this attention.”

I bit my lip and refused to point out that Karen’s name was another which had come up not at all during the press conference.

“You and your little friend must be hoping Jimmy goes national with this one,” she continued, “since it happened at Pierpont’s, and my cousin is famous! Wouldn’t your little gold-digging friend just love that? If she made the national news.”

I told myself to keep driving, and continuing to take the high road, refused to state the obvious—that no one in their right mind wants attention from Jimmy Beak.

“I bet she’s hoping for a second murder, even.”

I clenched the steering wheel and veered off the highway at the appropriate exit ramp. “There has only been one murder,” I said in a slow, steady, and almost un-shaky voice.

“Double murder!” Amanda kept at it. “Wouldn’t that be poetic justice! If your little gold-digging friend was the next victim!”

Luckily, I was off the interstate. I pulled over, put the Carrera into park, and did some deep breathing.

“Jessie?” Ian asked. “Are you okay?”

Proof that there is a God in heaven, I got another call.

“Karen!” I screamed and hung up on the Crawchecks.

“Karen!” I screamed again. “Karen?”

“Girlfriend,” she whispered, and I started crying.

“Karen,” I said.

“Girlfriend,” she answered, and we repeated this altogether dazzling exchange several times before my brain started working again.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Girlfriend,” she answered.

“Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay, Karen. I’ve been so worried. Piers has been worried. Candy, Wilson, Peter. Everyone. Everyone’s worried.”

“Girlfriend,” she said with a little more force. “I’m worried, too, girlfrie—”

“Karen!” I pounded the steering wheel. “Karen!!”

I had to get to Wilson.

A few deep breaths, and I was back on the road. And in few more miles, I was approaching Pierpont’s entrance gate.

Oh, and lucky me, the Channel 15 News van was parked outside. And lucky me again, Jimmy Beak and his cameraman stood like sentries in front of the intercom.

I weighed my options, and not for the first time, considered wrestling Jimmy into submission. I’m quite certain I would prevail, but his cameraman was another matter altogether. The man is huge and was doing a fantastic job of blocking any chance I had to reach that intercom buzzer.

I suppose I could have called Wilson, but I so wanted to be with him when I reported the good news. And speaking to Karen was good news, wasn’t it?

No, I didn’t run over Jimmy. But only because I would never get away with it. My Porsche is a known entity hereabouts, the cameraman’s camera was already rolling, and Jimmy, his ubiquitous microphone in hand, was already pointing. “Jessie Hewitt! Jessie Hewitt!” he screamed and jumped up and down.

My windows closed and doors locked, I gestured to the intercom tucked away behind the giant cameraman. What a surprise—Jimmy shook his head no. I pointed to the gate. Jimmy continued shaking his head and pointed to his microphone.

I mumbled a four-letter word and rolled down the stupid window.

“Move!” I said by way of greeting.

What a surprise—they did not do so.

Instead, Jimmy faced the camera and stated the basics. “Jessie Hewitt! Jessie Hewitt!” he shouted. “Captain Rye’s wife has agreed to an interview! Jessie knows what’s going on in there.” He pointed to the gate. “Jessie helps Captain Rye with all his most important cases, and this is his most important case ever! Pierpont Rigby is the key suspect in this heinous crime! The multi-billionaire has been arrested for murder!”

In case I really need to ease your mind, this was a complete lie. Jimmy Beak fabricates and hallucinates all kinds of ludicrous scenarios in the name of the public having the right to know. Yadda, yadda, yadda, I stared at the gate, so close, yet so far, wondered why I didn’t carry Advils in my purse, and endured a further onslaught of absurdities.

But proof positive there’s a first time for everything, I actually paid attention when Jimmy explained why he was outside, and not inside, the gate. Apparently Wilson—bless his cop-like heart—had threatened him with imminent arrest if he set so much as one foot onto the estate grounds. Something about trespassing, something about interfering with a police investigation.

“Captain Rye has banished the media! Which can only mean one thing!” Jimmy kept jumping and pointing. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire! No news is definitely not good news. The public has the right to know!”

Oh, for Lord’s sake! I did not have time for these inane clichés. I lay on the horn, and the cameraman shifted position just long enough for me to reach the buzzer.

“Rigby residence,” a voice decidedly younger than Gerald Witherspoon’s answered. “Who’s calling, please?”

I gave my name. Make that, I yelled my name, since by then the cameraman was back to blocking the intercom. “Let me in!” I begged whomever I was talking to. “Now, please!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I heard, and when the gate opened, I did not tarry.

I did not tarry at the front doors, either. Without bothering to knock, I leaned into one of the humongous contraptions with all my weight and rammed headlong into the chest of—

“Ms. Hewitt?” he said. “I would have let you in, ma’am. Gerald’s not— ”

“Where’s Wilson?” I took off in any old direction, willy-nilly. “Where’s Captain Rye?” I said over my shoulder.

“In the drawing ro—”

I turned, and sure enough, the police tape had been removed.

I did not tarry, and barged in. “Karen!!” I screamed as the grandfather clock chimed three.

Wilson stood up, Russell stood up, and Al stood up. But a young woman in a maid’s uniform remained seated. Everyone stared aghast.

“I’m sorry, sirs,” the footman said from behind me. “She got away from me.”

I spun around. “Where’s Piers?”

“In the library, Ma’a—”

“Go get him. I have news!”

“What the—” That was Wilson, who, I realized, was at my side and had taken a firm grip of my elbow. “Jessie?”

I spoke to the maid. “Are you Vicki?” I asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. I ordered her to leave. “Now, please!” I said.

She stood up, but Al had other ideas. “You!” He pointed to yours truly. “You’re the one who needs to leave. Now!”

Russell didn’t suggest I leave, but he did mouth a “Cool it, Jessie” in my direction.

I did no such thing. I did, however, apologize to Vicki for being so terribly rude and blunt. “But please do leave,” I added and turned back to Wilson. “News about Karen,” I mouthed.

The baby blues blinked. “You’re dismissed, Vicki.”

“What!?” Al just about popped an artery, but Wilson ignored him and shut the door behind the maid.

“This better be good,” he told me.

“It is good.” I raised two fists in triumph. “Karen called me, Wilson! She’s alive!”