Puzzled Indemnity Page 15
“If your husband blew himself up so you could collect the insurance money, he killed himself for nothing.”
“You mean if he was trying to rig the bomb to kill me and it went off and killed him, they wouldn’t have to pay?”
“No, it’s still an accidental death. They don’t have to pay if it’s a suicide. If he meant to kill himself.”
“But he didn’t. The firebug blew him up with a remote device. And he killed himself, and now everyone knows I didn’t do it!” Brittany’s eyes gleamed as she warmed to the premise. “And I get everything! The house and the car—too bad there’s only one—and whatever money’s kicking around, and, oh, I get the bail money back! And then I’ll get the two million from the insurance company! What else? I was arrested and I didn’t do it—can’t I sue somebody for that?”
Cora didn’t wait to hear the answer. She turned and slammed out the door.
Chapter
49
Cora flounced into Cushman’s Bake Shop. Screw the diet. Screw the weight problem. Screw the fact that she’d already had breakfast. What difference would another latte and scone make?
Becky’s client was infuriating. Cora wanted to scratch her eyes out, even more than she wanted to scratch the eyes out of some of Melvin’s girlfriends, and that was a lot. A frightened Brittany Wells was just laughable. A triumphant Brittany Wells was insufferable. It was like listening to some moronic buffoon with an IQ of 67 crowing about how smart he was to have picked the numbers that won the $87 million lottery. Eventually someone wins, you idiot. Smart number picking had nothing to do with it.
The shop was crowded, and there were two women ahead of her on line. Cora was torn between elbowing the women out of the way and saying, “Screw it,” driving to the Country Kitchen, and ordering a double scotch on the rocks. Was there a 12-step program that covered this situation? There probably was. A support group for private detectives quitting smoking while dealing with murder/suicides.
Mrs. Cushman finished making a latte and rang the woman up. Now she was second in line. She could wait, couldn’t she?
“Cora Felton?”
Cora turned.
A plump, matronly woman barreled up to her. Cora instinctively took a step back. The woman was clearly distraught. She looked vaguely familiar, though Cora couldn’t place her. Could she be a remnant from her drinking days? An aggrieved wife whose husband she’d made a play for? No, the woman was too old. Though Cora winced at that glass house.
“Yes?” Cora said as tentatively and noncommittally as possible.
The woman’s face twisted and tears welled. “Can you help me?”
Relieved that the woman wasn’t attacking her and that the customer in front of her had only bought a cranberry muffin and was already done, Cora help up her hand. “Just a minute.” She turned to the counter, ordered a latte and a scone.
While Mrs. Cushman made the latte, Cora kept her back to the woman and tried to compose her thoughts. Could she take a case now? Yes, she could. Becky’s case was over. Brittany Wells was gone, and good riddance. It would be nice to have something new to tackle, even if this woman couldn’t pay, which it looked like she couldn’t. It wasn’t about the money right now, it was about hanging on to her sanity and not wanting to smoke or to stuff herself with scones until she looked like the Stay Puft man.
Cora paid her bill, picked up her latte and scone, turned back to the potential client. “All right, what do you want?”
“I’m Mrs. Wilson. Billy Wilson’s mother.”
Cora felt a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. And she had made the woman stand and wait.
There were no tables in Cushman’s Bake Shop, just counters with cream and sugar and coffee lids. In the summer there were benches out front. In the winter it was too cold. Women sometimes stood and chatted near the counters, but the shop was small. That wouldn’t do.
“Come outside,” Cora said.
That confused Mrs. Wilson. “Huh?”
“Come on.”
Cora’s car was parked in front of the library. She installed Mrs. Wilson in the front seat, started the car, and turned on the heater. She sipped her coffee, trying to think how to begin.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. “I don’t understand.”
Cora opened her mouth, closed it again. Realized the woman wasn’t responding to her remark. Once again Cora couldn’t think of what to say. She decided any prompt would do. “Tell me.”
“Billy wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. It doesn’t make any sense. He had a problem. A big problem. Everyone knew. But he beat it. Put it behind him. Been working ever since to live it down. Why in the world would he do something like that? It’s not like him. It makes no sense. He didn’t know anything about explosives. He set fire with sticks and gasoline. He poured gasoline on wood. He didn’t blow up cars.”
Cora suddenly realized they were sitting in a car in almost the same spot where Hank Wells blew up. An awfully tactless thing to have done to this poor woman. Was she commenting on it? No, the woman was oblivious, lost in her own train of thought.
“Billy wasn’t living with you, right? Hadn’t been for years?”
“Yes.”
“There might be things you don’t know about him. People can change.”
Mrs. Wilson snuffled. Stuck out her jaw. Looked at Cora. “You have children?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know. I’m a mother. I know my boy. He couldn’t lie to me. He still can’t.” She corrected herself. “Still couldn’t. It’s not like I didn’t see him. I saw him all the time. He came to dinner once a week. I always asked him, ‘How are you doing? Is anything bothering you? Is anything wrong?’ And there wasn’t. He could not have blown up that car.”
“Could he have killed himself?” Cora said gently.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. He was very upset about that TV reporter. What he said to the police. Very upset. He went into his shell.”
“But the police said he didn’t do it.”
“Of course they did. Because he didn’t. Of course he didn’t do it. You know it; I know it; the police know it; everybody in the world knows it. The TV reporter probably knows it, but he wanted to get a good sound bite.” Mrs. Wilson spit the words out. “He was despondent. Can you blame him?”
“Do you think he hung himself?”
“No. He might have done it; he felt bad enough to. But he wouldn’t have typed that note. About the car bomb. About killing that man. Because he didn’t do it. So he couldn’t have hung himself. Because he wouldn’t have said he did. Unless he snapped completely. Unless hearing that TV reporter say he did confused him, made him think he was losing his mind, that he’d actually done it and just couldn’t remember. And he was losing his mind, only not that he didn’t remember, but that he thought he didn’t remember. That’s the only way it would make sense.”
Cora’s latte and scone were long forgotten. She heaved a huge sigh. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing can bring my boy back. But having people think ill of him is too much. Whether he hung himself or not, he didn’t set that car bomb. And the police aren’t going to do anything about it. They have his confession; what more do they want? But it’s not true. I’m telling you it’s not true. You’ve found things out before. I know you have. Things the police didn’t. Someone needs to stick up for my boy. Show he didn’t do this terrible thing. Can you do that? Not for me. For him. Because it isn’t fair. And life should be fair, shouldn’t it? I know it isn’t, but it should be. This is a horrible injustice that needs to be fixed. So can you do it? Please.”
Tears welled in Cora’s eyes. She felt like her head was going to come off. She wanted to tell the woman, yes, of course she’d help her. But she couldn’t lie to her. It was bad enough withholding the fact that she was responsible for Rick Reed’s question. She couldn’t compound the crime by promising something she didn’t think she could d
eliver.
Cora couldn’t meet the woman’s eyes. “I don’t know.”
Chapter
50
Becky came down the stairs from her office just as Cora emerged from the alley behind the pizza parlor. She looked guilty.
“What were you doing?” Becky said.
“I was just coming to see you.”
“You just left.”
“I was coming back.”
“In the alley?”
“I wasn’t in the alley.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I was in the pizza parlor. I know I shouldn’t eat pizza, but I can’t help myself.”
“Uh-huh,” Becky said. She pushed by Cora, looked down the alley.
Wisps of smoke hung in the air.
Becky wheeled on Cora. “You were smoking!”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Becky thrust out her hand. “Gimme.”
“Give you what?”
“Give me your cigarettes.”
“I don’t have any cigarettes.”
“You worked so hard. You were doing so well. You can’t blow it now.”
Cora scowled at Becky defiantly. She groped in her drawstring purse as if she were going to pull out her gun and shoot Becky in the face. Instead she yanked out a pack of cigarettes and slapped them into Becky’s hand. “Satisfied?”
“No, I’m not,” Becky said. “Come back upstairs and tell me what’s the matter.”
Cora glowered at her.
“What you gonna do, buy another pack of cigarettes? Either go see a therapist or talk to me. You can’t just hide and smoke.”
“Aw, hell.”
Cora turned and marched up the stairs like an unruly pupil on her way to the principal’s office.
Becky followed her in, sat her down, closed the door. “Now then, why are you smoking?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s a wonder I’m not drinking.”
“So Crowley’s got a girlfriend. It’s not like you’ve never dealt with that before. How long have you been smoking? Ever since you found out?”
“That’s not it.”
“So. What’s wrong?”
“I killed a man.”
Becky’s face softened. “Cora. That was a long time ago. He was an evil man. He deserved to die.”
Cora shook her head. “No, no, no. Not him. Don’t you understand? I killed Billy the Bug.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes.”
“I did. I got Rick Reed to ask Chief Harper about it on the air. That’s what drove the poor man over the edge. Hearing a TV reporter ask the cops if he was a suspect. I did that. Brought up his past sins and threw them in his face. Hounded an innocent man into killing himself.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t innocent,” Becky said.
“Which doesn’t make any sense. Why would Billy burn a car in broad daylight? He hasn’t burned anything in years.”
“He hasn’t been caught in years.”
“And he never used a car bomb before.”
“Changing his MO would be a reason he hadn’t been caught.”
“Stop it. You’re being me again. Countering emotional reactions with logic.”
“Someone has to,” Becky said. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“Out of proportion? Becky, the man’s dead. And then I have to listen to that looney tunes troop around your office like a demented diva.”
“I can’t even sort out that image. Calm down. Take a breath. Realize the whole world does not revolve around you.”
“That isn’t remotely what I was saying.”
“You’re taking credit for a sick man’s suicide.”
“If it was suicide.”
“What are you talking about?’
“What if he was framed?”
“‘Framed’? How do you frame a firebug?” Becky shook her head. “That sounds like one of those mysteries you read. The Framed Firebug.”
“It’s not funny, Becky. I may not be functioning at full capacity, but I look at this case, and everything about it reeks to high heaven. A guy who used to burn buildings inexplicably firebombs a car. Coincidentally, killing the husband of a woman who just found out he has a two-million-dollar life insurance policy on his head.”
“You think my client planned this?”
“I don’t think your client could plan a dinner party. But she’s the one who profits most from his death.”
“You think she killed her husband?”
“Or tricked Billy the Bug into doing it.”
“Which you don’t think she’s smart enough to do.”
“No.”
“So how does it work?”
Cora glared at Becky. “I can’t do this without a cigarette.”
“Then you can’t do it at all. Consider yourself fired.”
“Becky.”
“You want to talk this out, fine. You’re not smoking in my office.”
“Fine. All right, here’s the deal. If Billy the Bug was set up—boy, I never thought I’d hear that line outside of a forties noir movie—it happens one of two ways. Either he has nothing to do with the bombing and was framed, or he was duped into setting the bomb with no idea anyone was going to be killed.”
“Which conspiracy theory do you like?”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“You’re ridiculing anything that helps my client. You expect me to sit and applaud?”
“No, but I’d like you to listen. Or let me go back to the alley.”
“Go on.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as too pat? The murderer confesses and kills himself, conveniently leaving the murder weapon in plain sight. The suicide note is not handwritten, but sent e-mail. E-mail, for God’s sake.”
“So the police would find him and cut him down. Or he might have hung there until he began to rot.”
“What does he care? He’s dead. He killed himself in a fit of remorse after blowing someone up when all he meant to blow up was a car.”
“When you put it like that, it sounds stupid,” Becky admitted.
“Well then, you put it so it doesn’t. The problem is I can’t figure a scenario that works. The Bug’s in cahoots with your client and blows up her husband as part of some prearranged plan, then has a change of heart. The Bug kills her husband by mistake, the odds of which happening are only slightly worse than those of winning the New York Lottery. The Bug’s in cahoots with the husband, kills him accidently, and kills himself. The Bug’s in cahoots with the husband, who kills himself accidently, and kills himself anyway.” Cora waved her hands alongside of her head. “It’s hard to imagine which of those are worse.”
“No kidding.”
Cora spread her arms. “So there you are. Logically, Billy the Bug was framed. In which case he was also killed.”
“I like that theory,” Becky said.
“Why?”
“Because my client didn’t do it. She was with you when it happened.”
“I suppose.”
“What do you mean, you suppose? Did you ever let her out of your sight? Long enough to drive into town and kill someone? By standing him on a chair and putting a rope around his neck? And writing an e-mail on his computer?”
“No, but—”
“There’s no buts about it. She couldn’t have done it.”
“She could have stood him on a block of ice that melted and hung him while she was with me, giving her a perfect alibi.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Yes. There was no water on the floor. She also would have had to arrange it so that in falling he hit the Send icon on the computer, e-mailing his confession to the cops.”
“So my client is cleared.”
“Of killing Billy the Bug, I should say so. Her husband is another matter.”
“If she killed her husband, who killed the firebug?”
“I did.”
“Cora.”
“Well, that’s what makes the most sense. She tricked the
firebug into killing her husband, and I pushed the poor man into taking his own life.”
“You’re determined to take the blame.”
“I’m not. I don’t think that happened, either. It’s just the most likely of a bunch of unlikely possibilities.”
“What’s a likely possibility?”
“There are none. The only thing that makes sense is that the husband planned the crime.”
“What?”
“Only it doesn’t make sense because, A, the insurance policy wasn’t on his wife, and, B, he’s dead.”
“What if he blew himself up trying to kill her?”
“Then the insurance policy would be on his wife. The only way it works is if the body in the car wasn’t him.”
“But it is.”
“I know. I had hope when it was just a charred body in a car. But dental records don’t lie. Hank Wells is no more. Brittany Wells is a widow. Unless she happened to kill Hank, what’s his is hers. Not to mention the two-million-dollar pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
“Brittany didn’t kill anyone.”
“I can see why you’d like to hold on to that theory.”
“Cora. You were with her all night when Billy was killed. And you were standing next to her in the police station when her husband blew up. You still think she did it?”
“No. But I don’t think Billy did, either. Someone else did. It’s up to us to find out who.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“The police aren’t going to investigate. They think the case is closed.”
“Cora. If the case is closed, my client gets two million dollars. Do you know what a third of two million dollars is? My fee.”
“If Billy didn’t do it, it will be a huge miscarriage of justice.”
“I got news for you. They happen all the time. I can’t automatically reject one because it happens to be in my favor.”
“Fine.”
Becky studied Cora’s face. “You don’t think it’s fine, do you? You’re gonna go off and work the case yourself. You can’t do that. You’re working for my client. Your work may be done, but that doesn’t mean you can rush out and do something that would undermine her best interests. Do you understand? It would be unethical. It’s a type of thing that would keep you out of the PIs’ Hall of Fame.”