Jessica Fletcher used to regularly help the cops set traps for suspects, usually to goad them into a confession. I didn’t get to be that close to the action, I got the story in pieces from Nate Dodson, Ian, and Jerry. Holly was caught pretty quickly, trying to charter a small plane. When she offered the pilot extra money not to file a flight plan, the pilot called the police.
Once I’d ID’d Jarrod Ketcham, Medical Examiner, as Holly’s accomplice, he rolled over like a puppy for treats. Holly didn’t go to trial, but took a deal and was serving time for two counts of kidnapping and one of attempted murder. Since she’d never actually filed the paperwork after Ian’s “death”, she wasn’t getting any time for insurance fraud. Still, we wouldn’t be seeing her for a while. The twelfth of Never would be too soon.
Talea Townsend stopped by Bloody Murder for coffee and a muffin one morning. I was right; she had been the source of the anonymous call saying, “He lied to you.”
“I had to stay anonymous until I found another job,” she said. “I was seriously pissed at Maurice. I’ve never known him to do anything like that. I thought him an honorable man, and here he was bragging about one night after closing.”
“Well,” I said, “He did stay bought.”
Talea gave me a look so sharp it would cut glass. After a moment, we managed to laugh about it. She invited me to The Purple Vase on Magazine Street the following weekend to listen to her play again.
Jerry, for his part, confessed to his wife that he had been cheating, as in working, but not at managing his firm. “I was just not meant to ride a desk, Zo. Helping you out was something Ally would understand.”
“Until it got to be too much,” I replied tartly, not too pleased at being used without my knowledge, never mind permission. We were eating at the Pelican Club Restaurant & Bar on Bienville, a place that hadn’t been around very long, but had already made a good impression, and not just because it shared a name with a place in some of Lawrence Sanders’ novels. It was Tuesday night, and for a change, Jerry was treating. I was hip deep into a sun-dried tomato crusted salmon that made the white wine I was drinking just burst with flavor. I’d forgiven Jerry, of course, but I would be giving him a hard time about it for a while. Feliz could get months of mileage out of something like this. I was good for at least a couple of weeks.
“Ally and I talked about it and she told me she could live with me taking a few cases on my own if I both found someone to manage the office and I kept her in the loop of what was going on.”
“That sounds more reasonable than you deserve. It’s also less painful than the alternative I had in mind.” That would have had to wait a few weeks anyway. I was still in a lot of pain, not able to do a lot of the receiving and stocking at the store without straining myself. James was getting a lot of hours. My bruises had faded, at least, and I could go out in public without strangers thinking my boyfriend had given me the black eye in question. My ribs would also take several weeks to completely heal.
Michael, for his part had been distant, both emotionally and physically. He’d come by if I invited him, but rarely stayed long and almost never the night. He canceled several dates by saying he had to go to a meeting. A few days after the meetings, we’d get together and things seemed to be fine, but he still wouldn’t talk about his past. After Ian left the hospital on that Sunday night, I’d tried to get him to talk to me, but all he could do was say things like, “Thank God you’re all right,” and “I was too ashamed of myself to tell you.” So very different from the confident, together man I fell in love with. We were in for a rough spot, if he’d let me close to him again. Everyone told me to give it time, give the man space, except, oddly enough, for Ian.
The real MacKay was out on bail and had been come by the store a couple times a week in the time he was waiting for trial or for his lawyers to negotiate a deal. Quick and speedy trials might be guaranteed, but the ways of legal procrastination are myriad, I was learning. “He’s embarrassed, he’s ashamed,” he said of Michael. “He might even be a little resentful that I was the one who found you. He’s really down on himself and he’s going to convince himself that you can’t possibly love him because he messed up so badly. Keep in contact with him, he’ll come around. It’s just going to take a while for him to believe you love him despite what he used to be.”
I was a tad frustrated with Mr. Woo right now. “I don’t get it,” I said one night after closing. Ian and I were drinking coffee by my fireplace while Maryam colored in a Power Puff Girls coloring book. “He’s seen me angry, scared, betrayed, paranoid, utterly freaked out, and he stayed with me, was there for me. Why won’t he let me close enough to do the same for him?” I didn’t love that he hadn’t told me about his past sooner. The more I thought about it, however, the more I understood his reasoning. If I met him today, would it be that easy to tell him my dad was a wanted felon? I couldn’t say yes or no to that.
“It’s a guy thing,” was all Ian could say to that. “It’s not fair, and it’s not reasonable and it’s something only another guy is going to understand.” Something I was used to hearing from James during our late night coffees at Café du Monde. Ian was a little closer to my age--two years younger--so that reply dashed my expectations of ever understanding the opposite gender. Marie got a big laugh out of that one when I told her.
So would I, eventually. At least that’s what I kept telling myself.