Here Lies a Wicked Man-Snippet 13
CHAPTER 8
They sped along the winding road to Lakeside Estates, the Wrangler’s headlights bouncing off trees and fence posts as Emaline took each curve at a near miss.
“You sure are quiet, Booker,” she yelled. “Supper backing up on you?”
“Why didn’t you tell me Roxanna was a showgirl who knows how to shoot a bow?”
“What, and spoil a good joke?” She snorted. “Tell it straight, she was a stripper. Anyway, I knew you’d spot those pictures. Roxanna’s not a bit shy about ‘em.”
“Since an arrow killed Fowler, you know she’ll be suspected.” Booker had wanted to remove the blatant evidence from the wall and shove it under the nearest chair cushion until the real story of Fowler’s death was sorted out. He refused to believe the innkeeper’s involvement, no matter how good a marksman Pocahontas was. “You didn’t tell the sheriff, did you?”
“He’ll find out soon enough. You can bet we’re not the only snoops who’ve seen those pictures.”
Booker groaned. “We’re in bow-hunting territory, as you say, so there must be other crack shots around.”
“Dozens. You gotta admit, though, if anyone has the looks and charm to win over a jury, it’s Roxanna.”
“Jury? You already have her on trial?” Yet, hadn’t he been treading the same water himself? If his own thoughts strayed so easily in that direction, how could he expect the sheriff to think otherwise?
The truth was, he didn’t want Roxanna mixed up in Fowler’s murder because he’d decided right there in the inn tonight to do some old-fashioned courting. Four years was long enough to be alone. Back in the city, buried in work, he’d enjoyed being free of Lauren and was in no hurry to suffer another mistake. A few brief romances—nothing serious. Yet shouldn’t a new life include a new love? Meeting Roxanna Larkspur had ignited a spark even before those pictures turned up the heat.
Neverthless, knowing her all of two hours, could he be certain she wasn’t a charming murderess? What did TV cops always look for? Motive, means, and opportunity.
“Roxanna’s been in Masonville only a few months,” he mused aloud. “She probably didn’t know Fowler. Wouldn’t have any reason for killing him.”
“Then again, maybe she did.”
Waiting for Emiline to put more bait on that hook, Booker gritted his teeth. For a woman with opinions covering every occasion, she was being infuriatingly close mouthed.
“What reason might that be?” he said, finally.
“During your chat tonight, did Roxanna tell you about falling in love with the old house, then seeing the For-Sale-By-Owner sign and deciding Providence must have guided her?”
“Something like that.”
“Apparently, she left out one part. Chuck owned the house. He’d been buying properties around the county for years.”
Booker stifled another groan. Had the innkeeper omitted that detail on purpose? “I suppose Fowler carried the note.”
“Yep. Easy terms, too, but I heard talk that he was pushing Roxanna to fork over the balance of her down payment.”
Hmmm. Down payments were usually paid in full. “Any money she owed Fowler will still be owed to the estate.”
“Probate takes time, Booker. She needs the inn to turn a profit soon.”
“You think she killed Fowler to buy time? I can’t believe she’s that cold-blooded.”
“Why not? Never mind, it’s written all over your face. Anyway, money is power, and Chuck had plenty but wanted more, especially when Mars squared his Saturn in Taurus. If they argued over money—”
“All right, she had means and motive. What about opportunity? Running that inn must keep a person tied down. Did the M.E. speculate on time of death?”
“Like we already figured, sometime between Sunday, after Chuck’s golf game, and early Monday morning.” In the darkness of the Wrangler’s interior, Emaline’s face was only a pale shadow, but he could hear the grin in her voice. “Masonville Bed and Brunch closes early on Sundays.”
“Sounds like you want to pin this murder on Roxanna.”
“I want it pinned on whoever did it, before everybody in town starts suspecting everybody else. Nothing like misplaced suspicion to make people edgy, seeing trouble where it doesn’t exist. Not the best disposition for golf, either, I can tell you. Nervous people make bad golfers. Leave divots on the tee boxes, nick up my putting greens—”
“What were you and the sheriff so cozy about tonight?”
“I told him you wanted to help with the murder investigation.”
Booker couldn’t suppress this groan. “Ahhh, Emaline, why would you tell him that? I never said that.”
“The sheriff needs your experience, Booker. Ringhoffer’s a good man, but he’s saddled with youth and that Leo impetuosity. He’s already champing to arrest somebody. You wouldn’t want it to be the wrong person, would you?”
Meaning Roxanna. Booker’s mind wrapped around the memory of his last investigation. Even when evidence started piling up against the bank’s chief financial officer, Booker hadn’t recognized any personal risk. Pressed for a rapid report of findings, he’d worked late into the nights, his laptop computer taking him deep into departmental records and finally to an ingenious scam no one in the bank suspected. Even now, Booker could feel the old surge of excitement. He loved the game. He couldn’t deny he loved the equipment and credentials that enabled him to snoop into the most private files. Only when he found himself staring into the black hole of a .22 revolver had he recognized the physical danger.
Booker’s mind shied from the memory, and he wiped a slick of sweat from the back of his neck. No way he could nose around in a murder investigation. Yet, something about the innkeeper brought out the Galahad in him. She seemed to need protecting.
Then again, recalling the way Roxanna handled the snake and lasso in those photographs, not to mention the bow, maybe she could take care of herself. Many a murderer had possessed striking blue eyes and a winsome smile. “Do you think the sheriff will seriously consider Roxanna a suspect? Is he the sort to focus on a newcomer instead of the people who elected him?”
“You’re a newcomer, too, Booker. About the same age as Chuck. Maybe you two had a run-in somewhere, and you decided to settle an old score.”
He gaped at her. “That’s crazy.”
“No, it’s the way people think. See, these folks have known one another for years. Some of them grew up together. Why would a person who knew Chuck all his life pick last Sunday to murder him?”
Good question. “Something must’ve changed. Or somebody got fed up with things not changing and decided Fowler was an obstacle.”
“Saturn and Uranus. Any time a stable situation takes a quick and sudden turn, you can bet your nine-iron those two planets are in the picture. Look for a natal chart with Saturn and Uranus conflicting and you’ll have your murderer.”
“If that’s all it takes, why don’t you gaze into your crystal ball and reveal the killer’s name?”
She sighed as if weary of lecturing an idiot.
“It doesn’t work that way. Probably thirty percent of the county residents have Saturn and Uranus in conflict.”
Booker decided to ignore that tangle of logic. Money or passion, that’s what drove people to crime. Gary Spiner would likely gain from Fowler’s death: partners usually carried insurance on each other.
“There you go, being quiet again,” Emaline said. “So quiet I can hear the gears grinding away in your head. Mercury in Scorpio, Booker Krane. You’re compelled to root around in a problem until you dig it out in the open where you can pick at it.”
He couldn’t deny the urge to probe at a knotty situation, and no one would have to know he was poking around. He could be discreet. After all, how could he pursue a…friendship…with Roxanna without knowing for certain she was innocent? A stab of adolescent longing told him the right woman might have finally strolled into his life. He
wanted to grab her and hold on.
“Emaline, you’re acquainted with everybody. Who else would have reason to kill Fowler?”
“I’d be happy to run down the list for you, but here we are at your house, and my bedtime’s calling.” She brought the Wrangler to a jolting stop beside his Buick.
“It’s not that late. How long could it take?”
“Long enough that I’m not letting you talk me into it. But the sheriff told me Sarabelle and the boys are driving out tomorrow to identify the body and record their statements.
Betcha a nickel they stop at the Lodge for breakfast. Isn’t the victim’s family always at the top of the suspect list?”
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