Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (34 page)

    
“Actually the charge is Hindering Prosecution, for not turning over evidence. It’s a class C felony.”

    
I smiled, picturing my tiny mother in an oversized bright orange prison jumpsuit. But when the picture changed to me in a similar outfit, the image wasn’t nearly as amusing.

    
“It’s obvious what Jack’s thinking. Best defense is a good offense, right?” I checked my teeth for lipstick. Funny that I was so calm as our case fell apart.

    
“If so, he’s got a point. I gotta tell you, Chloe, I’m going with my gut on this one. I’m not ruling anything out, but I don’t think Jack’s our guy.”

    
I didn’t argue the point further and got off the phone to think about the case some more. The case that I had once thought might be fun to investigate. The case that had resulted in my being poisoned, my parent’s house being broken into and now the real possibility that, instead of clearing Angela, Mom and I could face criminal charges.

    
What was my gut telling me?

    
On our list of suspects, Jack hadn’t even been in the top five. I tried to imagine him calmly slipping poison into Saul’s drink or cruelly plunging an icicle into Oscar’s back. He was more the pistols-at-dawn kind of guy. I could see him defending a woman’s honor out of some misguided sense of nobility. But devious or violent? Not so much.

    
Frankly, I had to blame Mom for jumping the gun on this one. I had just gone along because she’d seemed so sure.

    
Now I was more at loose ends, with still a good hour left before my date. I picked up the TV remote and aimlessly started flipping through channels.

    
An infomercial for a Pilates video got me thinking about Nancy having a torrid affair with her personal trainer. What was her deal? Why men in the service sector? Pool boys, trainers, gardeners. Did she have control issues, or just like men who were good with their hands? And why was Oscar not only tolerant of her behavior, but secretly encouraging it? Pilates gift certificate, indeed.

    
I landed on a special about spiders. Which, of course, got me thinking about black widows, and in turn led me to Robin. On the one hand, a total bitch. Practically admitting to two murders and ruining the career of another man she supposedly loved.  On the other hand, there was something likeable and unpretentious about her. As murderers go, a charming woman. But was she audacious enough to kill her boyfriend in front of a room full of people? Could she drop her ice princess act long enough to stab someone in the back?

    
I flipped some more and came to a claymation Christmas special that reminded me of Oscar-Santa passing out presents to the naughty and the nice. The explanation we came up with for Jack’s juicy red apple made sense, but what about Angela’s handcuffs? Or Bunny’s Pilates gift certificate? Was there any special significance to Gavin Beaumont’s antique gynecological equipment beyond just the surface cringe factor?

    
And speaking of odd, what about Bunny’s outfit that day I had gone to her house? What a flake. But was she up to something that Saul had found out about? And besides being a crime of fashion, was that a secret she would kill to protect?

    
None of which even addressed the whole issue of Oscar fixing cases and Saul writing a tell-all book about his friends’ dirty deeds. The whole thing was maddening, and stressing over it was taking the bounce from my curls.

    
I threw the remote on the sofa and looked through my DVD collection for a movie, something I could watch for fifteen minutes to take my mind off both the murders and my love life. Something festive and familiar.

    
It’s a Wonderful Life
fit the bill. I could start anywhere, get immediately absorbed and then turn the familiar plot off at any point without regret.

    
Apparently that’s what’d I’d done last year, because when I hit play, the movie started in the middle, with the folks of Bedford Falls demanding their money. The scene reminded me of Cassie saying her dad was the president of an S&L, but in a good way, no scandals.

    
The movie was as relaxing as I had hoped, and I watched for a few more minutes before something trickled into my subconscious.

    
What was it? Bank runs? Bedford Falls?

    
Yeah, the name felt familiar.  Hadn’t Cassie said she was from New Bedford or something like that? I’d have to tell her that her dad’s life was a lot like the movie.

    
But then the trickle became a gush as I remembered other things Cassie had told us about her dad. That everyone in town loved him. That he had wanted to be an architect. That he was deaf in one ear. A litany of facts from the Christmas classic.

    
What the hell?

    
On our list of suspects Cassie wasn’t even in the top one hundred. But if you’ve got someone with access to two crime scenes, who has completely fabricated her background, that’s got to mean something, right?

    
Damn right!

    
But what?

    
I picked up the phone and dialed Margie Ryan’s cell. If anyone knew Cassie, it would be her.

    
“Margorie Ryan speaking.”

    
“Margie, it’s Chloe Carstairs.”

    
“Hey sweetie, whatcha need? I’m at the shop, so if your Mom’s wanting more poinsettias, now’s the time to ask.”

    
I laughed. “No, we’re good. If I don’t see another poinsettia for twelve months I’ll be ecstatic. I was actually calling…”

    
“Speak up dear, my cell phone’s not the greatest.”

    
No, you’re not wearing your hearing aids, I thought. But out loud, emphasis on the word loud, I said, “I was calling to ask you something about Cassie.”

    
“Cassie’s on a delivery. Two days before Christmas and still hard at work. Such a blessing to have an employee like that, especially this time of year.”

    
“I didn’t want to speak to her.” I was relieved the coast was clear. “I wanted to ask you something about her father.”

    
“I don’t know anything about her people, dear.”

    
That old Southern expression. Who are your people, Cassie, I wondered.

    
“How did she come to work for you?” I asked.

    
“Just filled out an application one day. Was great with flowers.”

    
“The application. Do you still have it?”

    
“Of course. Chloe, what’s going on?”

    
“I need some information about her contacts. Next of kin, that kind of thing.”

    
“Dear, I don’t think we have a good connection, maybe tomorrow…”

    
“No!” I shouted. “I’ll speak up. I need you to tell me about Cassie’s contacts, her references.”

    
“I don’t feel comfortable giving out that kind of information,” Margie shouted back.

    
I was clutching the phone in frustration. “Margie, you don’t need to shout. I can hear you, but I need those numbers. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. Life or death.”

    
She coughed up the info. I almost wept with relief.

    
The third number I tried was one of Cassie’s references, a Ashley Brewer, working the evening shift at a veterinarian’s office in Metairie, Louisiana.

    
“Her father? Why would you bring all that back up? The holidays are hard enough for her without you talking about him,” Ashley chided.

    
“It’s just that I’m worried about Cassie. I think she may be having a nervous breakdown, and I don’t know how to help her without getting the whole story.”

    
“How long have you worked with her?”

    
“Long enough to really care about what happens to her.” I wasn’t lying about that part. “Just tell me what about her Dad.”

    
“He was convicted of armed robbery over there in your neck of the woods. Felony murder, too. He got the death penalty. Sandy’s never recovered. How could she from a thing like that?”

    
“Sandy?”

    
“Short for Cassandra. Her dad’s nickname for her. I knew the family, of course. Her mother died when she was a baby, and after that thing with her Dad, she lived here with relatives. Not much of a life for a girl, being raised by a couple that never had much use for her, I’m afraid.”

    
“Why did she come back to Birmingham?”

    
“I’m not sure. Just up and turned in her notice one day. Said it was time to go home. I tried to talk her out of it, but when Sandy sets her mind on something, that’s it.”

    
I sat in bewildered silence.

    
After a moment, Ashley added thoughtfully, “She told me once her last happy memory was of Christmases spent with her dad. They never had much money. He lived a hard life and ran with a bad crowd, always in one scrape or another, God love him. Still, he was devoted to his daughter and made Christmas special for her - just the two of them, decorating the tree, watching old movies…”

    
Like
It’s a Wonderful Life
.

    
“That’s what she was looking for,” Ashley said, her tone sad.  “That happiness again, even if it meant going back where she had also been the saddest.”

    
I thought Cassie had a more specific and far less innocent agenda, but I didn’t mention it. Instead, I thanked my informant and clicked off, still holding the cordless in one hand.

    
A father who got the death penalty. A daughter with access to the homes of the attorney who prosecuted him and the jury foreman who recounted the story in his first true crime book,
We, the Jury
.

    
Cassie.

    
It had to be.

CHAPTER 38

    
I clicked on the phone then clicked it off. The time was just a little before six. I knew I’d be cutting it close, but my parents’ house was on the way to the restaurant where Jacob and I were having dinner.  Why not go over there and see what Mom thought of what I had learned.

    
I grabbed my purse and jacket.

    
In the car, I called Jacob and told him not to pick me up. Instead we arranged to meet at seven-thirty at our favorite cozy café within walking distance of my parent’s house. Overstuffed cushions, wine in jelly jars, lighting that made everyone look like they were about fifteen. Love that place.

    
He agreed and sounded as excited about the evening as I was.

    
I screeched into my parent’s driveway, burst into the house and demanded Mom come up to her office. Dramatic as hell, but I couldn’t keep the information to myself a second longer. The stunned expression on Mom’s face told me I had been right to feel so anxious.

    
“Our Cassie?” Mom responded, when I told her what I had learned from Ashley in Metairie.

    
I nodded, feeling heartsick. She was our Cassie, wasn’t she? We didn’t hang out or double date, but I liked her, felt genuine affection for her.

    
Mom gaped at me. “So everything Cassie told us about her father was a lie?”

    
“Exactly. Her real father was the subject of Saul’s first book
We, the Jury
.”

    
“But she wasn’t even at Saul’s party.”

    
We were stumped on that one. Knowing who the killer was hadn’t filled any blanks. There was still the problem of all those locked doors, all that poison-free food and drink.

    
“Let’s look at the DVD Megan Taylor gave us again,” Mom suggested. “Maybe we didn’t see Cassie at the party because we weren’t looking for her.”

    
She tried to pop the DVD into her laptop, but there was already a CD in the slot.

    
“The
Twelve Days of Christmas
CD Saul gave me.” She tossed the disc on the desk and slid in the DVD. “I had expected the traditional rendition I prefer. Instead, it was Robin’s obscure ten ladies dancing, nine pipers piping, eight maids-a-milkin’.”

    
“What did Saul mean he liked this version better? Better than what?”

    
She shrugged. Tapping a few keys on the laptop, she got the DVD going. “Maybe the band played the traditional version, although I had specifically asked them to stick to the way Robin liked it.”

    
She began zipping backward through the DVD, which was still cued up on the death scene. Midway through the party, she let the scene run, turning up her computer speakers.