Apples For Vinegar Read online

  “Couldn’t the police get a warrant and do the same search legally?” Helen asked.

  “I don’t know. A defense lawyer would probably argue it’s fruit of the same poisonous tree. Even if it’s legal, they’d still bump into the same problem: the withdrawals don’t prove where the money came from.”

  “What’s this got to do with Ajnabee’s murder?” Frank asked.

  “Nothing, maybe. It could be just a coincidence that one of Ajnabee’s neighbors was involved in some shady deal involving murder, but I don’t believe it. Even if it isn’t related to Ajnabee’s murder, there could be a story in it for me.”

  “But what can you do with it?” Frank asked. “Not only doesn’t it prove anything, it wasn’t obtained legally. You don’t have a story.”

  “I told him that. He said there’s more. He’ll have someone call me in a few days.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know, but he asked how my Spanish is. I told him I could arrange for an interpreter if he gave me a heads up when the call was coming in.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait,” Frank said.

  NINE

  Delyth couldn’t allay her unease about Robert. Why did he call her and why did he tell her about Foley? Did he want to deflect suspicion for Ajnabee’s murder to Foley, in the same way Foley had pointed the finger at Jerzy? Except, he hadn’t even mentioned Ajnabee’s murder. The information he provided involved a three-year old kidnapping, and the printout he’d given her proved nothing. Ambiguous at best, it all seemed too removed from the Ajnabee murder to be relevant. So why did he call? She felt the tentacles of a plot of his making encircling her, but she had no idea what it was or where it would lead.

  It could be too big a story for her to pass up, one that begged for more of her attention, but she didn’t dare get her editor involved. He’d tell her Keir Foley was a big fish and her “proof” too flimsy, and that she should forget it. Or worse, he’d assign it to a more experienced reporter—to Vickie—who would get all the kudos. Prudence seldom led to the kind of scoop that established a journalist’s career. She had to run with it herself. But she could use some advice about how to proceed, and Josh was the first person who came to mind. As it wasn’t about the Ajnabee case, at least not as far as she could tell, she could ask him without his stamping it classified police business.

  They were going out to dinner that evening. She called and offered a drink at her place beforehand. That would give her time to explain the situation without the risk of being overheard in a restaurant.

  Delyth straightened her apartment—a studio, really, which was all she could afford on a cub reporter’s salary. Less than five-hundred square-feet, the small space encouraged neatness, so it didn’t take long to make it look presentable, even to Josh’s exacting standards. There was plenty of time left for a slow shower and careful consideration of an outfit.

  A bottle of wine and two glasses were waiting on the kitchen counter when Josh got there.

  He gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “You look nice.”

  “You too.” And he did. He tended to choose his outfits based on how expensive the restaurant was going to be. The camel sports jacket over a rust-colored polo indicated it would be good but not outrageous. Which Delyth preferred: outrageous would make her feel uncomfortable. Even so, she thought of changing to something dressier, but she needed to tell Josh about Robert first, carefully editing out some of the iffy details.

  He picked up the bottle and studied the label. “Greenway. What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s a gift. From Helen and Frank.” She looked him in the eye for a second before focusing on his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he sipped his wine. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  “We should sit down.” She motioned toward the sofa, the only seating in the room other than two chairs on either side of a small table.

  “Oh, oh! It’s not the talk. You’re breaking up with me.” His smile belied real concern.

  “No.”

  “You want to know where our relationship is going.”

  She did, although it seemed a question he should be asking her, not the other way around. And this definitely wasn’t the time for that discussion. “No.”

  “You’re not pregnant?”

  “No. I need your advice. Now shut up and sit down.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He followed her to the sofa. “What is it?”

  She couldn’t look at him. “I have some information from an anonymous source.” Which wasn’t a lie; she didn’t know who Robert was, and could only speculate about his connection to Ajnabee and drugs. “I don’t even know if it’s true.”

  He edged forward in his seat.

  She went on. “You were the one who told me about Keir Foley paying a million-dollar ransom. Well, he may have paid it to himself.”

  “He what? Wait.” He paused. “Didn’t he pay in Bitcoins? All that’s supposed to be completely anonymous.”

  “Turns out not completely. Even if Foley used a tumbler”—she hesitated long enough to be sure he understood the term—“to hide where the coins came from, there are ways to track transactions.”

  “First, I’m impressed you know so much about Bitcoins. Second, how does your… er… your source know about Foley?”

  She gave him the printout she’d placed on the coffee table before he got there. “These are Foley’s PayPal transactions for the three months after he paid the ransom.”

  He scanned through the two pages. “How did your source contact you?”

  “He called me.”

  “You know Foley is a neighbor of a recent murder victim. Right? Does this have something to do with that? If it does, you know I can’t talk about it.”

  Josh seemed to immediately make the connection between Foley and Ajnabee’s murder. Did that mean Foley was a suspect? Delyth shrugged. “Not that I know of. At least not directly.”

  “Why did he contact you?”

  She shrugged again. “I have no idea. I’m no longer the crime reporter, and he didn’t seem to know about you and me.”

  “How would he know about me?”

  Delyth shrugged a third time.

  “Stop that. It’s very annoying.” Josh held up the sheets she’d handed him. “How did he get these?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have a suspicion?”

  “One might speculate it wasn’t legal.”

  “Jeez! You don’t know who gave them to you. You don’t know how he got them. You don’t even know if they’re real.” He indicated the sheets still in his hand. “These could be fake. The guy could have a vendetta against Foley, and wants your help to get him in trouble.”

  “That’s the thing. As far as I can tell, this alone may be suspicious, but it doesn’t prove Foley did anything wrong. These withdrawals could be completely legit.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Put these in the circular file and forget them.”

  She made what she hoped was an innocent face. “Because he offered more information. He said he would have someone call me with more dirt on Foley.”

  “Like what?” Josh took a swig of wine.

  “Why do you keep asking me stuff I don’t have the answers to? All I know is that whoever is going to call only speaks Spanish.”

  “Mexican?”

  “I guess.”

  “My advice is still the same: forget it.”

  She felt a familiar tightness grow in her chest. “I can’t forget it.” Her voice was pitched up several tones. “It could be a major story.”

  “What did Ted say about it?”

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’ll take it away from me.” It came out louder than she’d intended. She swallowed hard. “It could turn out to be nothing, but it could lead to the kind of story that…” She stopped short. She’d never articulated the goal of her ambition, not even to herself
. In her imagination it was more a matter of how it would make her feel when she attained it, rather than what it would be that she’d attained.

  He said it for her. “That could make you famous and land you a job on a major paper.” He looked away. “In a big city far from here.”

  The disappointment in his words pulled at her like an undertow trying to suck her under the waves. She resisted. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You know exactly what’s wrong with it.”

  “So I shouldn’t have a career of my own?”

  “What?” He set his glass down, the stem clanking as it hit the glass-topped coffee table. “Why do you always do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Accuse me of trying to sabotage your career. I couldn’t be more supportive of your career.”

  She pulled herself up to look him straight in the eye, ready to dredge up old arguments. Except, it wasn’t his support that was in question. Her voice low, almost sad, she asked, “If I did land a job in New York or LA, would you move with me?”

  “How could I? I have a career too.” His tone said he wasn’t ready to make peace. Not yet. “How about you? If I got a job in LA—” Without intending it, she tilted her head and pressed her lips together. “Come on. It could happen, you know. Would you move?”

  She would have to concede it could happen, but it wasn’t a likely career path for a county sheriff’s deputy. Still, it was a legitimate question. She drank some wine—a sip really—more to gain time rather than courage. Josh looked steadily at her, waiting. For what? Capitulation? Her glass made no sound as she returned it to the coffee table. “I was born in a small town in Wales. The people there were beyond conservative, like they were forever stuck in the nineteen-thirties. My mum was your stereotypical stay-at-home housewife. When my father left us, she was lost. She had no job and no skills she could fall back on. I promised myself I’d never let that happen to me.”

  He leaned closer, but didn’t take her hand or try to touch.

  She was glad; her words had made her as vulnerable as she could stand.

  “You could never end up like that,” he said. “You’ve got too much going for you.”

  “To me a career means independence,” she said without looking at him. “When anyone says I can’t do something, it feels like they’re trying to push me into a cage and slam the door.”

  “That’s…” The single word sounded like the beginning of a pep talk, but it didn’t continue. “I’d never do that to you,” he said instead, reaching along the sofa, his hand stopping halfway between them.

  She mirrored his gesture, her hand resting on his like the lightest of kisses.

  After a moment, he turned his hand to fold around hers. "I know an interpreter who’ll help us out.”

  “Us?”

  “I thought you might like me on the call, you know, to take notes and stuff. This can’t be official, of course. The sheriff would want to know what it was about, and I can’t get away with telling him ‘I don’t know.’ ”

  This was so against his straight-arrow self, and he was doing it for her. She restrained the urge to throw her arms around him, not wanting to underscore the variance from his norm lest he change his mind. “You sure?”

  “When’s he going to call?”

  She screwed up her face in apology. “I don’t know.”

  “God! What the hell do you know?”

  “He said he’d call with more details.”

  “Okay then. Now pour me some more wine,” he ordered. “You’re driving tonight.”

  ◆◆◆

  Before work on Monday morning, Delyth called Helen to tell her Josh had offered to help. She’d feared Helen might feel Josh’s involvement diminished the importance of their collaboration, but Helen reacted by saying, “Thank God. Frank and I talked about it, and we think the drugs side of the case is too dangerous for us. Leave it to the police.”

  “He’s not acting officially. He’s just helping me out as a friend.”

  “Well, he’s the right kind of friend to have. What does he think about Robert being a drug dealer?”

  Delyth was on her cell phone, using Bluetooth. As she talked, she slipped into her shoes, and pulled a jacket from the closet. “He doesn’t know. I mean, I don’t know for sure, so I thought it better not to bring it up.”

  Helen said nothing for several seconds. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking sort of along the same lines. I mean, what Robert told you doesn’t seem to have anything to do with drugs or the murder. Other than Suzanne, and that could be entirely innocent.”

  “Nothing that we know of.”

  “Okay, but as far as our investigation, I do think we should stick to the suspects who have possible motives that we know about.”

  “You mean the safe suspects.”

  “Yeah, other than the fact that any of them could be the killer.”

  Helen was right: at this point, Robert and Robert’s information didn’t seem connected to Ajnabee’s murder or the investigation Helen had agreed to. Still, she hadn’t considered not working together on it. She let a momentary disappointment pass over her, then focused on the suspects they’d identified. “Okay, but besides motive, a murderer needs means and opportunity.”

  “That doesn’t narrow down our list much, does it? Except Howard, everyone was supposed to know about the gun and the key. We don’t really know about Foley, but why wouldn’t he know as well?”

  “And why not Howard?” Delyth added.

  “I don’t see Jerzy inviting him in and showing him his gun collection. But okay, and Howard. We know Suzanne doesn’t have a good alibi, but what about the others? Where were they when Ajnabee was killed?”

  The weather forecast hadn’t predicted rain, but Delyth, conditioned by late winter storms, grabbed an umbrella on the way to her car. “I’m sure Josh asked all of them about that, and must have been at least somewhat satisfied with their answers, or one of them would be in jail by now.”

  “Maybe not. You know he likes to tie up all the loose ends before springing the trap.”

  “We can’t ask them where they were the night of the murder. We’re not the police.”

  “We could ask Bette about Suzanne and vice versa. It doesn’t appear there’s much love lost there, even if they weren’t rivals for Ajnabee’s affection. If one of them knows or heard anything about the other, she’ll spill it.”

  Delyth wasn’t sure how much time she could commit to questioning anyone other than Robert since she’d have to do it on her day off, but she couldn’t think of a better plan. “It seems a long shot.”

  “Bette wasn’t too cooperative with me. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  “Okay. I’ll stop by her office tomorrow. You hit up Suzanne.” Delyth started her car. “You know I still have to follow up with Robert. Even if it has nothing to do with Ajnabee, it could be a big story.”

  “I know. You be careful. And let me know if Robert calls, so I can worry.”

  ◆◆◆

  It was late afternoon of the next day before Delyth got to Bette Lee’s real estate office. A party was going on in a glass-walled conference room visible from the entrance. The receptionist was still at her desk with champagne in a stemmed, plastic flute and a slice of cake beside her phone. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Delyth read the name on the nameplate and opted for a friendly approach. “Hey, Anna, I was hoping to talk with Bette Lee, but I don’t want to disturb the party. Is it someone’s birthday?”

  “Actually, the party is to celebrate Bette’s first multi-million dollar sale.” She smiled as if truly happy at Bette’s success, although it might have been the champagne.

  “I’ll come back another time.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you. Your name?”

  “Delyth Bitersee, but we haven’t met.”

  “Can I tell her what this is about?”

  Delyth feared the truth would be enough for Bette to refuse
to see her, but being less than honest would make even more trouble down the line. “Tell her it's about Suzanne Dussault.”

  Anna conveyed the message, then told Delyth that Bette would be right out.

  When Bette opened the conference room door, the party’s buzz followed her like the cacophony of a trendy restaurant. It faded as the door eased shut. She crossed the room on somewhat wobbly spike heels. Delyth couldn't have managed those shoes sober. From the flush on Bette’s face, it seemed she’d had more than a single, celebratory glass of champagne. Bette was carrying a bottle and two glasses with her. “Would you like some champagne?” she asked without the slightest slurring of her words.

  “Thanks.” Delyth recognized the label—a cloying Australian bubbly that people bought at a supermarket to bring to large parties. She accepted a glass for rapport’s sake.

  Bette set the two glasses on a low table, poured until bubbles foamed to the brim of each, let the head diminish, then topped them off. She handed one to Delyth and held her own out for a toast. “Here’s to success.”

  After they’d both sipped, Delyth introduced herself and explained, “I'm a reporter for the Redwood Post.”

  “Oh.” Bette flashed a wane smile, then took a longer drink of her champagne. “And you want to ask me about Suzanne? I’m the last person to ask. I barely know her. Why Suzanne?”

  Delyth deftly ignored the question. “I understand you used to work together.”

  “You mean at the Haven? Ancient history.” She poured herself more champagne. “I never fit in there. I’m too short for the Gaia dresses they wanted us to wear. I looked like a kid wearing her mother’s clothes.”

  “She said you met Mr. Ajnabee there.”

  “She told you that?” Delyth didn’t bother explaining Suzanne had told Helen, not her. “Yeah, I did,” Bette admitted. She sat in one of the reception chairs. Delyth followed suit. “What a loser! Not my type really. Too short and too pale and too skinny for me, but there was something about him.” She laughed. “All his clothes were a size too big, which didn’t help. Hid the little he had.”

  It seemed the champagne was making her voluble, although Delyth feared Bette would soon descend into maudlin. Or throw up. Or pass out.