Paper-Thin Alibi (18 page)
“Indeed. I was deliberately aggravating him to see what he might blurt out. But I didn’t expect him to go that far.”
Jo glanced back, thinking about how Linda Weeks had goaded Ewing. Had she pushed him even further?
Chapter 18
After Harry dropped her off, Jo felt too keyed up to stay put. She grabbed her just-delivered mail, shoved it into the side pocket of her purse, and took off for Carrie’s place, certain she’d find a receptive ear—and a calming cup of coffee—there.
Carrie, eager to hear all, set down her basket of folded laundry and pulled Jo into her kitchen, which happened to have a pot of freshly perked hazelnut coffee, a blend she favored lately and which Jo sniffed at appreciatively. As Carrie filled two mugs, Jo began her account of her morning’s adventure. By the time Carrie had stirred cream and sugar into her mug her eyes were popping.
“He threatened you?” she cried.
“That he did. I was sure glad to have Harry with me.” Jo took a long, soothing drink of Carrie’s tasty brew.
“You’re going to report this to that sheriff, aren’t you?”
“Sheriff Franklin?” Jo set down her mug. “I don’t know.”
“Jo! Ewing had major problems with Linda Weeks, then was furious when you brought it up. He obviously has a guilty conscience. The sheriff should know about it.”
Jo shook her head. “Franklin probably knows about the blowup Ewing had with Linda by now. I think he would have arrested Ewing already if that were enough. Just as he would have already arrested me if bad blood between people were enough to warrant a murder charge.”
“But you haven’t threatened people with bodily harm.”
“Ewing could say he was protecting his expensive camera equipment, which actually is what he
did
say as he chased us off.”
did
say as he chased us off.”
Carrie raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Protecting it from a dentist and craft shop owner?”
Jo laughed. “We didn’t exactly hold up ID badges for him, you know. We could have been anyone as far as he knew.”
“So now you’re defending him?” Carrie slumped back in her chair, looking exasperated.
Jo sighed. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to look at it from all angles, I guess. This is tough, Carrie. A murder like this, where the murderer didn’t need to be present, means that no alibi is necessary. The candy could have been bought and doctored up at almost any time. So neither I nor Sheriff Franklin can point to any one person and say, Aha, you were spotted at the scene of the crime when you claimed to have been at such-and-such place. Therefore,
you
must have done it. The best we can probably do is look for motive.”
you
must have done it. The best we can probably do is look for motive.”
“And with someone like Linda Weeks,” Carrie said, “a lot of people might have wanted her dead.”
“Exactly. I have to admit the thought even crossed my mind, although never seriously.”
“So Linda’s murderer will be the one person who did take it seriously, who wanted her dead enough to actually kill her. So far, you’ve looked at her ex-husband and a very angry fellow craft show vendor. Which one looks most likely?”
Jo shrugged. “Patrick Weeks obviously knew about Linda’s allergy, and he definitely didn’t want his daughter to live with her. But would he cause that daughter the pain of losing her mother completely by killing Linda?”
Jo took another sip of coffee. “Bill Ewing was furious with Linda about what she was doing and how badly it impacted him. But with a temperament like his, would he be more likely to do something quick and violent like a shooting or stabbing, rather than an underhanded kind of murder like this?”
“Maybe you could ask that friend of yours from the craft festival,” Carrie said. “The one who called you about Ewing. Get his input.”
“Gabe Stubbins? Good idea.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse and found his number. She greeted him when he answered, then asked, “Mind if I run something by you?”
“Sure, Jo. What’s up?”
Jo told Gabe about her encounter with Bill Ewing, hearing grumbles and grunts coming from his end as she did. She pictured Gabe shaking his head disapprovingly.
When she finished, he said, “I’m appalled, Jo! If I’d known something like that was likely, I’d never have sent you off to find him.”
“What I need to know is, if Ewing had been furious enough with Linda to kill her, would he have been more likely to do so by attacking her quickly, while in the heat of the moment? Would he have been at all capable of the calm, controlled planning that needed to go into sending her the peanut-filled candy?”
There was a long silence on Gabe’s end of the phone, and Jo waited. “That’s a difficult question, Jo,” he finally said. “Sort of a ‘lady or the tiger’ kind of choice, isn’t it? Either one makes Bill a murderer, and that’s something I don’t like to contemplate. But I understand why you need to know, so I’ll do my best.”
Gabe cleared his throat. “The Bill Ewing I know had his temper flare-ups, but they were always brief, blowing over in minutes. But he was a professional photographer, remember. Think about the patience his work must call for, having to search for the ideal light and angle, waiting for everything to come together for the perfect shot. So yes, Bill is definitely capable of controlling himself enough to do long-range planning. And his anger toward Linda has apparently remained. So, everything put together, I’d have to say he could have handled the murder in the way it happened. I hope to God, though, that he didn’t.”
“Thank you, Gabe, for your thoughtful input. I’m sorry if it distressed you, and I won’t keep you. You must be getting ready for Richmond.” Jo remembered that Gabe was taking Linda’s vacant spot at the Michicomi show there the coming weekend.
“I’m nearly packed up. Had to plan enough for two weeks. They offered me the spot that was open at Rocky Mount the weekend after, and I won’t be able to head back home in between.”
“Rocky Mount?”
“Nice little town in North Carolina. Call me if you need me. I’ll always have my cell phone at hand.”
Jo thanked him for that and disconnected, thinking Gabe was certainly keeping busy, and thank heaven for cell phones. She filled Carrie in on what he’d said about Ewing.
“So does that put Bill Ewing ahead of Patrick Weeks in your mind?”
Jo ran her fingers through her hair and rubbed. “Maybe,” she said. “It’s still hard to say.” She looked at Carrie. “The problem is there just isn’t enough on anyone. Maybe it’s someone we don’t even know about. Maybe we’ll never know who did it.”
“Don’t say that! That would be terrible.”
Jo nodded, fully aware of what the consequences of that would be. Besides having a murderer at large, the cloud of suspicion hanging over her head would never be fully dissipated. She leaned back and sighed, the movement of her feet knocking over the pocketbook she’d set on the floor, which spilled the mail she’d stuck in the side pocket. Jo bent down to gather it up.
She flipped rapidly through the envelopes, wincing at the high number of bills, fully aware that another set would be waiting for her at the shop. Would her shrinking checking account be able to cover them all? she wondered. The electric company and her craft suppliers wouldn’t be terribly sympathetic to the fact that her business had dropped considerably in the last few days.
One envelope, hand addressed in block letters, stood out, and she separated it from the others. She studied it curiously for a moment, then slipped a finger under its flap to open it. A single sheet of paper lay folded within. Jo pulled it out, and as she opened and scanned it, a low groan escaped her throat.
“What?” Carrie asked. “What’s the matter?”
Jo held the sheet of paper out to Carrie, whose jaw dropped in shock as she read.
Jo MCALLISTER: WE DON’T NEED YOUR KINDIN
ABBOTTSDVILLE.
get OUT!
Carrie stared at Jo, her mouth working soundlessly. Finally she asked, “Who could have sent such a thing?”
Jo reexamined the envelope. “There’s no return address, and the postmark says ‘Abbotsville.’ ” Her mouth twisted wryly. “Spelled correctly, I might add. Oh, Carrie,” she said, dropping her face into her hands. “It’s coming to this.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Carrie cried. “Don’t take it seriously, Jo. It’s just some stupid person’s idea of a joke.”
Jo looked back at the to-the-point message, written in ballpoint with all the letters neatly spaced and even. She looked back up at Carrie.
“Maybe, but I’m not exactly laughing.”
Back home, Jo dragged herself out of her car and through the connecting door from her garage to her kitchen. She dropped her pocketbook and mail—including the hurtful anonymous letter—on the kitchen counter and continued on to her living room, plopping herself down on her shabby, broken-springed sofa. She laughed grimly, remembering how recently she had entertained hopes of replacing the dilapidated piece with something that had never been owned before, whose upholstery she herself had chosen, and which—wild and crazy dream—might even be comfortable. That desire had been replaced with hopes of retaining a roof over her head.
The blink of the answering machine beside her caught her attention, and she pressed the message button.
“Jo, it’s Javonne,” the voice firmly stated. “Harry told me what happened! I can’t
believe
that man . . .” Javonne went on to rant and call Bill Ewing several interesting names, which brought a wan smile to Jo’s lips. Javonne wound up her message by saying she was extremely thankful that Harry had been along, and that Jo should call her as soon as she got home.
believe
that man . . .” Javonne went on to rant and call Bill Ewing several interesting names, which brought a wan smile to Jo’s lips. Javonne wound up her message by saying she was extremely thankful that Harry had been along, and that Jo should call her as soon as she got home.
The answering machine beeped off, and Jo sat for a moment, contemplating whether she was up to calling Javonne. As she thought, the phone rang, seeming to make her decision for her, and Jo picked it up, expecting to hear her friend’s voice. Instead, she heard a strange, raspy-sounding growl. “Jo McAllister. We don’t want you here. Go back where you came from.”
The phone went dead, and Jo held it out and away from her ear as though it would bite her, barely able to believe what she had heard. She might not have, if she hadn’t just read a letter that said much the same thing.
She dropped the phone back into its cradle and was staring at it numbly when the phone rang again. Jo jumped off the couch at the sound and backed away, unwilling to hear the same, terrible message again. It rang four times until her answering machine clicked on, and Jo’s hands flew up to her ears. She didn’t want to listen. But the voice from the machine penetrated and she quickly dropped her hands.
“Jo,” the voice said, “it’s Mark Rosatti. Russ has taken a turn for the worse.”
Chapter 19
The drive to the hospital through lunch-hour traffic took frustratingly longer than Jo’s previous late-night drives. Plus the hospital parking lot was more full, the lobby more crowded, and the elevators busier—all elements that combined to keep her from reaching Russ as quickly as she wanted.
Mark had said he’d be waiting outside the ICU, where Russ had been taken, and she spotted him as soon as she burst from the elevator. He was pacing, hands in pockets and staring at the floor.
Jo hurried up to him. “How is he?”
Mark’s grim look softened as he turned to her. “Fighting hard.”
“You said he developed an infection in his wound?”
“They’re going to have to do more surgery to clean it out. He’s back in the ICU because of a high fever and blood pressure problems. They’re pumping him full of antibiotics, trying to get him stabilized before the surgery. Right now he’s in and out of consciousness, so I don’t know if you’ll be able to talk to him. But I thought you’d want to be here.”
“Thanks, Mark. Can I at least see him?”
“I think so, but let me check.” Mark went off to talk with one of the nurses and came back nodding. “They said you can go in.”
Jo entered through the double doors into the room where Russ had been that first night, a room filled with quiet busy-ness as efficient nurses bustled about their seriously ill patients whose monitors beeped and IVs dripped. Jo approached Russ’s bed quietly, thinking how pale his face had been on the night of his surgery, but how flushed it looked now. She touched his forearm; it felt burning hot.
His head turned at her touch and his eyes opened. His dry lips stretched into a weak smile. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” She squeezed his arm, happy to find him awake and to hear at least that one word from him.
She brushed a few dark hairs away from his eyes, and he reached for her hand, holding it against his face. “Nice. Feels cool.”
“You can put this compress on his forehead,” a nearby nurse told Jo, handing it to her.
“Like the hand better,” Russ said, his voice getting weaker, but he allowed Jo to replace it with the cold compress. His own hand dropped back to his side.
“What is it with you, fella?” Jo asked, struggling to keep her voice light. “It seems I can’t let you out of my sight without you getting yourself into problems.”
Russ smiled. “Can’t leave me for . . . a . . . minute.” His eyes closed. Jo waited, but they didn’t reopen.
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