Hit and Run (27 page)

‘Has it occurred to you that she could be lying?'

‘Who?'

‘AnnaLise, who have we been talking about, Snow White? Little Debbie Dobyns, the Bimbette Chef.'

Brightening a bit, AnnaLise said, ‘You're right. If Debbie did kill Dickens, of course she'd have to cover her butt.'

Only now Joy was frowning. ‘However, am I remembering right? As we arrived back here with my snubbie earlier today, didn't you tell me a bullet broke Hart's window on Wednesday night?'

‘I did.' AnnaLise was surprised her friend remembered, given all the water – and now Scotch – under their bridges since this morning. ‘Boozer found the slug in the Lake Room and showed it to me.'

‘Interesting. Could you tell what kind of gun it was fired from?'

‘Me? No chance. Boozer seemed to think it might have been a deer rifle, though, so I paid a visit to Roy Smoaks at Bradenham.'

‘Bradenham?' Joy repeated, looking across the lake toward the mini-estate in question.

‘Yes. Smoaks was on the deck target shooting Thanksgiving morning.' AnnaLise shaded her eyes. ‘Did you see that just now?'

‘What?' Her friend took a belt of her Scotch.

‘A glint of light from over there. Like a mirror or—'

‘Laser sight!' Joy snapped, gesturing at AnnaLise's forehead. ‘The red dot – duck!'

The journalist did, only to be rewarded by the other woman's raucous laughter. ‘Oh, that's just hilarious.'

Straightening back up, AnnaLise started, thinking she'd caught movement again, this time on the near side of the lake in the trees masking the pier.

Watching her, Joy said, ‘Jesus, AnnaLise. Are you OK?'

‘I'm a nervous wreck, thank you. And you're part of the problem.'

Looking ashamed, Joy knocked a cigarette from her pack on the table. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd honestly believe old Roy Smoaks was about to shoot you.'

‘Says the woman carrying a concealed weapon.' AnnaLise rearranged the blankets that had slipped to the floor when she'd reacted to Joy's warning. ‘But it does seem strange that he chose Thanksgiving to visit Bobby. They didn't even have turkey.'

‘And this … offends you somehow?'

‘Roy Smoaks offends me. He seems to hate everybody in Sutherton, including Dickens for having had a hand in Rance's losing his job. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the old man chose a time when he knew Chuck – Rance's successor – was going to be gone just to fly up and cause trouble.'

‘Seems like you're giving this Roy Smoaks an awful lot of credit for being Machiavellian. Besides, Chuck's been in office for more than two years now
and
Rance is dead. Why,' finger quotes, ‘take revenge,' finger-quotes closed, ‘now?'

AnnaLise ignored the sarcasm in Joy's digits and in her voice itself. ‘Maybe
because
Rance is dead. Roy just snapped.'

But Joy still looked skeptical. ‘What does Bobby say about all this?'

‘Not much,' AnnaLise admitted. ‘He seems to be self-medicating with alcohol to get through the weekend.'

‘Can't say I blame him.' Joy finally lit her cigarette, drew in, and then let out a stream of smoke before continuing. ‘Did you share your theory with the police?'

‘I told Charity about Smoaks being here, as well as how the window was broken. She doesn't think there's any connection, though she did make a note of it.'

‘Charity makes a “note” of everything, in case you hadn't “noted it.”' Joy was thinking. ‘I will give you that Hart wandering among his guests in that well-lighted room would be an inviting target. But from across the lake it'd be one hell of a shot.'

‘And one that he missed. Dickens
wasn't
shot and the only person hurt was Eddie Boccaccio, who was cut by flying glass.' Then AnnaLise frowned. ‘Though, as Boozer said, that's unusual in itself, given that it was tempered.'

‘Kind of like cutting yourself with a spoon – you'd really have to work at it. Are you sure Boccaccio wasn't faking to get “Daddy's” attention?'

‘No, this was genuine. Eddie was circulating drinks and greeting people—'

‘You mean like a … host?' Joy asked.

‘More a waiter. But what are you thinking?'

Joy knocked an ash off her cigarette and onto the patio. ‘Just that maybe Eddie wasn't cut from glass, but grazed by a bullet meant for—'

‘Dickens?' AnnaLise absently picked up her Scotch and sipped. ‘They do have similar builds.' Setting her drink back down jogged a memory of Dickens Hart going to place his own champagne flute on the fireplace mantle. AnnaLise had assumed the flute fell, but it had still been there when Boozer showed her the bullet the next morning. In fact, she'd watched him carry it to the bar. ‘The richochet.'

‘What?' Joy was understandably looking puzzled.

AnnaLise was trying to get the sequence straight in her own head. ‘Just as Dickens was putting down his champagne glass to speak, there was a thud and Eddie called out. As I turned toward him, I thought I heard Dickens' glass fall.'

‘So the bullet hit it.'

‘No, the glass was still there and intact the next morning. The “ping” I thought was fine crystal hitting the floor might, though, have been the bullet richocheting off the fieldstone.'

‘I suppose in the confusion it could have sounded like that.' Her expression added:
To somebody who didn't know any better
.

‘It all happened very fast,' AnnaLise said in her own defense. ‘The thudding sound at the window and Eddie's exclamation—'

‘When he was shot—'

‘The pinging of the richochet from the same bullet as it hit the fireplace and Eddie's tray falling to the floor. Then—'

‘The waterfall of tempered glass.'

‘Exactly.' AnnaLise was thinking furiously. ‘The problem is how does this tie into Dickens being beaten with a champagne bottle? Besides, how would Smoaks even know—' She stopped, remembering her shiver at the thought of the man watching them from across the lake.

‘Know …?' pressed Joy.

‘That he missed Dickens, I was going to say, but I just answered my own question.'

‘Not aloud, you didn't. Dish, my friend.'

‘Binoculars. Smoaks showed them to me on Wednesday and said he would enjoy watching the “soap opera” over here.'

‘Well, he had that right, I guess. But like you just asked, what then? Smoaks shows up here in the dead of the night to finish the job like a caveman with a mammoth club? How would he even get in?'

AnnaLise felt the adrenaline that her theory had sent through her veins start to wane. And any hope along with it. ‘I don't know.'

‘For God's sake, don't give up so easily,' Joy chided. ‘Think.'

OK. ‘Maybe Smoaks …' AnnaLise was searching for something, anything, ‘… has an accomplice?'

‘Good girl.' Joy sounded like a first-grade teacher encouraging the class slacker. ‘And who …?'

‘Debbie Dobyns? In cahoots with Roy Smoaks?' AnnaLise perked up, given she didn't like the latter and scarcely knew the former. ‘But why?'

‘That I don't know.' Joy let loose a column of smoke that would have shamed the chimney of a coal-burning power plant. ‘But even if they're not working together, you say Smoaks is keeping an eye on this house. Maybe he saw something that could help you.'

AnnaLise sat forward in the chair, her blanket forgotten. ‘I bet that was the glint coming from over there – sunlight off the lenses of his binoculars. He's probably watching us right now.'

‘Who?' Patrick Hoag had come out behind them, holding a drink of his own.

‘A nosey neighbor,' AnnaLise said, not having the energy to lay out her not-yet-fully-formed theory only to have the lawyer poke holes in it. She waved Hoag into the seat next to her. ‘So, Patrick, what did you find out? Did Charity and Coy tell you why they believe Debbie? It's my word against hers and they
know
me.' Even to herself, AnnaLise sounded pathetic.

‘They're not saying much but, then again, that's not surprising.' Hoag settled into the cushioned seat, before leaning to set his own sampling of ‘top-notch' Scotch on the table. ‘They already have you right where they want you.'

‘Scared shitless?' AnnaLise covered her mouth. ‘Uh, sorry.'

Joy rolled her eyes. ‘Your “mamas” aren't here. Besides, you're suspected of committing patricide. That kind of entitles you to have a potty-mouth.'

‘Surprisingly, it doesn't make me feel any better, though I am impressed by your vocabulary.'

‘Potty-mouth?'

AnnaLise shook her head. ‘Patricide. And you, pretending you didn't know what “putative” meant. Shame on you.'

‘Oh, lighten up,' Joy said. ‘What do you say we take a spin around the lake and see Bobby this afternoon? It'll do you good.'

‘Didn't you hear what Patrick just said?' AnnaLise asked. ‘I'm going to be formally accused of
murder
.'

‘Umm.' Patrick lifted his glass. ‘I didn't mean to convey that, exactly. In fact, I have a feeling Coy is keeping both you and Debbie – through the Las Vegas police – on ice until the county gets here and decides who it wants to charge.'

‘What'll they do – flip a coin?' AnnaLise caught her own grousing tone, then looked up at Patrick. ‘By the way, thanks for your support in Hart's office just now. Does that mean you're my lawyer now?'

‘Sorry, but no can do. As you said yesterday, it'd be a conflict of interest, given I'm the victim's attorney. Besides, I don't do criminal law. I can refer you to someone who does, though.'

‘A referral, how professional of you,' Joy said. ‘But in the meantime, why the hell are you parading around acting like you
are
her lawyer?'

Patrick shrugged. ‘Can't hurt to let the police know that
some
professional's watching after AnnaLise's interests.'

‘And, like I said, I'm truly grateful,' AnnaLise assured him. ‘I'd also appreciate that referral to a … defense attorney.' The last two words were barely audible.

‘If you want,' Patrick said gently, ‘I can give her a call first and explain the situation in legalese.'

‘That would be even better.' AnnaLise thought she'd even managed to summon up a smile. ‘Thank you. Again.'

Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She should be relieved that Patrick would make sure she was properly defended. But instead AnnaLise felt like a passive target. Weak, even.

And that's not the way to win. Hell, that's not even the way to fight.

AnnaLise opened her eyes and gave Hoag a flinty look. ‘OK, enough self-pity. Patrick, is it your impression that the Pitchfords don't necessarily believe Debbie any more than they do me?'

‘Well, yes.' Patrick had been holding his drink but now put it back on the table without AnnaLise seeing him take a drop. ‘The problem, though, is the call from here to her cellphone on Thanksgiving morning.'

‘There's no getting around that?' Joy asked. ‘Nothing Chef Debbie could have done to the phone to make it just
appear
that way?'

‘I don't see how,' Patrick said. ‘The cell company records registered a call from this landline at five fifty-seven a.m. to Debbie Dobyns' cellphone at the Sutherton Inn.'

‘Before dawn, even.' Then AnnaLise Griggs sat up straight. ‘But … are we sure that she – and her cellphone – were
at
the Sutherton Inn?'

J
oy Tamarack's eyes were big and round. ‘You're saying Chef Debbie was still here in this house?'

‘Maybe even still in Dickens' master suite,' said AnnaLise. ‘Is there any way of knowing which room the landline call was made from?'

‘There's just the one line,' Joy offered. ‘When I lived here we had a dedicated number for the fax machine and another for dial-up internet. But I'm sure not anymore.'

‘How sure?' Patrick Hoag asked.

‘Hey, your client might have been rich, but he was also cheap. Hart told me he was even thinking of doing away with the one landline remaining, given there was only Boozer and him here, both with cellphones.'

‘So,' AnnaLise was picturing the layout of each floor, ‘Debbie could have made the call to her own cell from any room with a landline extension.'

Joy frowned. ‘Can't the police tell where the cellphone was at the time the call came into it?'

‘But that's just what I mean,' AnnaLise said. ‘They should check the GPS records. Right, Patrick?'

The lawyer was rubbing his chin. ‘I presume the Pitchfords – or the county sheriff or prosecutor, more likely – will do just that, but only eventually. They'll need a court order first.'

‘Another complication,' Joy said, hand in the air, ‘is that GPS isn't very accurate in the mountains.'

‘True,' the lawyer concurred. ‘My map app leads me astray more often than not.'

‘But there are cell-towers, too,' the prime murder suspect said. ‘You know, that the call has to pass through.'

Joy still looked skeptical. ‘Given the short distance between the inn and here – or here and here, if you're right – would the towers even—'

‘Problem is,' Patrick cut in, ‘we're theorizing without the most basic of knowledge. Either about cell and GPS technology, in general, or Debbie Dobyns' phone in particular.'

Nonetheless, AnnaLise was starting to feel better. ‘The point is that the authorities need to get a court order and check, not just
assume
Debbie's telling the truth when she says she received the call at the inn.' She turned to Joy. ‘Do you remember what time she told Sheree she was checking out?'