“I thought you were planning to spend some time with Leslie before you came home,” said Cordelia as she rooted through the take-out sacks Jane had brought back to the lake house.
“What are you wearing?” asked Jane.
“Oh these?” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Chest-high duck waders. Bought them at the local Ben Franklin. They’re made of mesh and nylon and are supposed to trick water fowl into thinking they aren’t being covertly observed.”
“Water fowl. Are you planning to go duck hunting?”
“Heavens, no.”
Her hair was stuffed up under a blaze-orange boonie hat. “The hat kind of ruins the intent of the pants, unless water fowl can’t tell one color from another.”
“Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative. Oscar Wilde. Back to Leslie?”
“We both thought we’d have some time this afternoon,” said Jane, getting down two plates from the cupboard. “Her meeting ran late. And tonight’s that planning-commission thing, which will probably go long.”
“A busy woman,”
“And then some,” said Jane. “But I did talk to her. We’re getting together for dinner tomorrow night. There’s a new Moroccan restaurant in town she thinks is fabulous. The Red Fez.”
“You’d think the only ethnic food you’d find in this berg would be Swedish meatballs.”
Jane had given Kurt a ride back to the meat market after their conversation by the river. Since she had a little extra time, she decided to go in and look around. Seeing the rotisserie chickens, the potato salad, coleslaw, beans, and cornbread muffins, she knew she had dinner nailed.
“Hey, this all looks delicious,” said Cordelia, taking a taste of the baked beans.
“How was your afternoon at the junior high school?” asked Jane, carrying everything over to the kitchen table.
Cordelia removed a couple of beers from the refrigerator.
“Oh, you know,” she said. “One tries ones best to be engaging, even when the kids are squirming with boredom because they’re being deprived of social media for a few hours. They’re not my best audience.”
“I’m sure you left a lasting impression. Years from now, they’ll all be saying, ‘Oh my gosh, that woman who just won the Pulitzer and the Indy 500 spoke at my school once.”
Cordelia sighed. “If it gets posted on Snapchat. Otherwise, forget it.”
As they ate, Jane filled Cordelia in on the information she’d gleaned in the Romilly case, with the identity of Becca Hill’s rapist being the most stunning revelation.
“That man really is slime.”
“So it would appear.”
Spreading honey butter on her cornbread, Cordelia continued, “So, I have to ask. After everything you’ve learned, what do you think happened to Sam?”
“I may be wrong, but at the moment I believe the catalyst was the rape. I know Becca must have had her reasons for not going to the police, and none of this is her fault, but I think that’s where it all began. The first night we were here, Emma told me that Sam believed in revenge. He called it justice, though Emma saw it as something darker. In the light of Becca’s decision not to report her rape to the police, I think Sam may have decided to extract payback himself.”
“How?”
“That’s just it. I was confused about the two handguns found in Sam’s grave. Two matching revolvers with two cartridges each still in the cylinders, one spent, the other unspent.”
“And?”
“Remember, Sam had written that paper on dueling for his junior-year history class. If you take a duel as the focus of his revenge, it might account for the two handguns and the two cartridges. I spent some time this afternoon reading up on duels. They were fought to retain honor—not necessarily to kill. Each man walked an agreed-upon number of paces away. The distance meant they were less likely to do serious damage. Of course, lots of men died.”
“Like Alexander Hamilton.”
“Exactly. Each man had a friend with him called ‘a second.’ The second was there to ensure the duel was honest and aboveboard and that the weapons were equally deadly. The seconds were chosen by each man. In Tamborsky’s case, I would assume he picked his best friend, Monty Mickler.”
“And what about Sam?”
“Emma told me she was Sam’s best friend, though her participation seems unlikely.”
“Because she was female? Come on, Jane. That’s not a real reason.”
“Okay, maybe she was there. But if she was, she sure is a good actor because I’ve never once sensed that she knew anything about what happened to him. We know Sam had a lot of friends. Maybe he chose Darius. Or Kurt. Or Jim Hughes. Or it could be somebody we haven’t met yet. But I’d bet money that at least four people were there that morning.”
“Following your reasoning,” said Cordelia, “that means Dave Tamborsky and Monty Mickler probably aren’t happy you’re in town digging into it.” She repositioned her boonie hat. “Tell me more about duels.”
“Some men used swords, others pistols. The location for the duel varied. Some were let loose in a park or wooded area, where there were plenty of places to hide. Some were the standard kind of duels we’re more familiar with.”
“But what would Sam get out of it?”
“I’m not sure, but both Sam and Dave must have agreed on terms—what would happen depending on who won.”
Cordelia snorted. “What would winning look like? Not dying?”
“Possibly. Or maybe it depended on who was hit.”
“What if neither was hit?”
“Honestly, Cordelia, I have no idea. But there must have been something in it for both of them, otherwise they wouldn’t have agreed.”
“If they did agree.”
“I realize it’s just a theory, but for the moment, it explains more about what I’ve learned than anything else. Then again, all of it is rendered moot because the cartridges in those revolvers were all blank. Makes no sense.”
“Sam was shot in the head. That’s how he died. How do you kill a man with blanks?”
“I’m obviously missing something.”
Cordelia lifted the beer to her lips, but instead of taking a sip, she asked, “What about Carli Gilbert? Do you still think her death is connected to the discovery of Sam’s remains?”
“I haven’t followed up on any of that. I was thinking we should drive by what’s left of the house tonight. Maybe talk to a few more of her neighbors. Oh, and there’s a place I want to see—an antique/junk/second-hand shop out past Castle Lake.”
Cordelia’s ears pricked up. “Do they have costume jewelry?”
“Very likely.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?”
“For you to change clothes.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Another question Jane couldn’t possibly answer.
“So many people dress in hunting clothes up here. Maybe I want to fit in.”
“You never want to fit in. Your whole métier is to stand out.”
“Okay, okay. How about this? Since we’re going hunting tonight, I might as well dress for it.” She grinned and socked Jane’s arm. “Let’s go bag ourselves a couple of mock ducks. They must have a few of those around these parts.”
The light was fading by the time they made it to Lowry Antiques & Treasures, a one-story white clapboard building that sat about thirty feet back from the county highway. Even in the growing darkness, Jane could see that the roof sagged and the siding needed a good paint job. A brightly lit sign hung above the door, intended, no doubt, to catch the eye of potential customers as they sped past. There were also several long tables loaded down with housewares—plates, crockery, serving dishes, cups, and glassware.
What the parking area lacked in grass, it made up for in potholes. Cordelia rubbed her hands together eagerly as she exited the truck. Jane joined her as they made their way inside. The interior of the building was even more disheveled than the outside. It was also crammed to the rafters. It wasn’t Jane’s cup of tea, but Cordelia was in her element. Like a heat-seeking missile, she found a display case filled with gaudy costume jewelry and called a woman over to help.
After a few minutes of uninspired wandering, Jane’s nose began to itch. There was no use in trying to hurry Cordelia, so she went back outside to get some fresh air. Floodlights mounted on the building lit up the exterior tables, so she began, once again with little enthusiasm, to look through the offerings. That’s when her cell phone buzzed.
Taking it out of her back pocket, she saw that it was a text from Kurt.
Becca will talk to you. She has time tomorrow morning at 10 am. Will that work? If so, send me your Skype address. Hers is below. Hope you find what you want.
BHL.99w02
Jane couldn’t believe Becca had responded so quickly. She was lucky that her meeting with Wendell Romilly was scheduled for nine. She doubted it would last very long.
Directly across the highway from the antique shop sat the Avalon Motor Inn, the motel Monty Mickler managed. As she poked through the dishes, she glanced up every now and then to watch the place. What she really wanted was to run over and take a closer look.
Wilburn Lowry’s van pulled into the parking lot a while later. When he slid out, the pristine coveralls he’d been wearing that morning looked much the worse for wear. Seeing her, he waved and came over. “You decided to check us out,” he said, smiling broadly. For the first time, his head was bare, revealing a bald head with a dwindling halo of gray hair.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” said Jane, matching his smile with one of her own.
“That Mickler place is proving to be a treasure trove,” he said, wiping his face with a blue bandana. “Neither the owner’s daughter nor her son wants much from the house, so she’s giving most of it away. I said I’d help her if she wanted to have a garage sale, but she said I should just take the stuff to the garbage dump.” Stuffing the bandana back into his pocket, he added, “Tomorrow we start on the basement.”
A woman with curly brown hair and rimless glasses came out of the building. “I thought I heard your voice,” she said, giving Lowry a kiss.
He put his arm around her. “Jane Lawless, meet my gorgeous, amazing wife, Nancy.”
“Oh, go on with you,” she said, though she clearly loved it.
“Nice to meet you,” said Jane.
“You look tired, honey,” said Nancy, wiping a smudge of dirt off his face.
“I am. Is there any of my pop in the fridge?”
“Just filled it with Dr Pepper this morning.”
“Excellent,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek.
After he’d disappeared inside, Nancy and Jane were left alone. “Your husband is a very intriguing man.”
“He is,” said Nancy, still glowing. “He’s one-in-a-million. I got lucky.”
“I’m curious,” continued Jane. “Do you know the man who manages the motel across the street?”
“Monty? Sure, I know him. He does a good business over there, especially on weeks like this. It’s homecoming, you know. And there’s an art fest and a class reunion.”
“What do you think of him?”
She crossed her arms. “He’s always been a good neighbor. He’s got this commercial snow blower and usually comes over to help us dig out after a storm. I’ve met his wife and kids—he has a beautiful family. I mean, some people in town call that place the Bates Motel. Kind of looks like the one in that Hitchcock movie, doesn’t it?”
Jane had to agree.
“I’m not suggesting Monty attacks women in the shower, though I will say, and this is just between us chickens, he’s not exactly a model husband.”
“In what way?”
“He cheats. Women come to see him all the time. I’m not trying to be nosey, you understand, but it’s hard to miss what’s going on. There is one woman in particular that I’ve noticed a lot over the years. She never parks in the lot, but I see her car here and there close to the motel. Sometimes it’s in front of the rock shop down the way. Or it’s at the little strip mall.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“No idea.”
“What does she look like?”
“Oh, blondish hair. Kind of chunky. Always wears sunglasses. Her newest car is a red Chevy Cobalt. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen it for several days. But like I said, there are other women, too. He uses the room next to the office to … entertain, if you catch my drift. As far as I can tell, he rarely, if ever, rents it. Funny thing though, the women, they’re never in there very long. How fun could that be?”
“So you see a woman walking up and entering the room, and then he comes out of the office and goes in—or maybe he’s already in there when they arrive.”
“I’ve never actually seen him go in or out. I guess I’ve always thought he must climb through a window in the back. Probably doesn’t want people to catch on to his funny business. I told Wilburn that old Monty Mickler must be Castle Lake’s answer to Don Juan.”
“I feel sorry for his wife.”
“Me, too. It’s sad, you know? A human can be many things all at the same time, some of them good, some of them bad.” She unfolded her arms and looked around. “Well, I better get one of my daughters out here to help me cover the tables for the night.”
“You leave it all out here?”
“We’ve never had any problems, knock on wood. We close at nine, so I guess there’s no huge rush. But, if you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course,” said Jane. She spent the next few minutes leaning against the front of her truck, wondering if the woman Nancy Lowry hadn’t seen recently might be Carli Gilbert. That’s when a crazy idea occurred to her. She went back inside and drew Cordelia away from her jewelry search long enough to explain what she needed.
“Brilliant, Janey. I love it. And don’t worry, I can do it with my eyes closed and my brain tied behind my back.”
“Be sure to give me enough time to get it done.”
“No problem. Let’s hope he takes the bait.”