“Nonsense.” The smile on Gabby’s face was most disconcerting. “It’s only for one course, for one school term,” she informed me. “As superintendent I have the authority to make an exception.”
“But, umm. But what about the school board?” That sounded good. “They didn’t even want me to judge a writing contest, correct? So they definitely won’t want me to teach in the public schools.”
I shook my head and tut-tutted. But much to my chagrin, Gabby’s smile faded not at all. If possible, she smiled even more enthusiastically and told me she had learned her lesson about bowing to the whims of the school board.
“School board-schmool board,” she said to prove her point. “Never again will I let those fools intimidate me when it comes to what’s best for our students.”
“But,” I sputtered. “But.”
“But nothing.” She was back to her speaking-to-a-truant-teenager voice. “You’ll be an exceptional teacher. The students will listen to you.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because of your notorious reputation! You’re the Queen of Smut, herself!”
The Queen of Smut appealed to the royal cat for help. But Snowflake was otherwise occupied, merrily playing with what was fast morphing into my permanent hall pass.
“You have an opportunity to do our young people some good,” Gabby continued. “Therefore, you will.”
She informed me I would start after Labor Day, which would, evidently, give me plenty of time for something called “prep.” She scowled at the stack of
Sensual and Scintillating
collecting dust on my coffee table. “I’ll provide you with a suitable textbook,” she promised.
“Now I see why they call you Dr. Yikes,” I said.
***
Call it determination. Call it desperation. But somehow I steered Gabby off the topic of what I would be teaching in the near future, and onto the topic of what she had taught in the distant past.
She was arguing her subject had been European history, and I was arguing that she still had to know something about the ins and outs of ranching in the Wild West, when Wilson walked through the door.
He immediately noticed Superintendent Yates, and the bag of groceries he held would have slipped to the floor had I not rescued it.
“Wilson!” I said brightly. “What are you doing here?”
“I promised you dinner tonight, remember?” He pointed to the groceries I had set on the kitchen counter, but kept his gaze fixed on Gabby.
“I think you know Gabby?” I said. “I mean Dr. Yates.” I gestured to Gabby. “And Gabby, you know Wilson.”
Gabby stood up and waved her empty champagne glass Wilson-ward.
“Uh,” he said, and then remembered his manners. “You’re welcome to join us, Superintendent.” He again pointed to groceries. “I’m making risotto.”
“It sounds delicious,” she said as she walked over. “But I was just leaving. You have a lovely fiancée, by the way. Jessie is beautiful, smart, and intuitive. I approve.”
Wilson looked back and forth between the two of us. “Umm,” he said.
“Say thank you, Captain Rye,” Gabby told him.
“Thank you Captain Rye.”
She patted his hand, winked, and was gone.
He frowned at me. “You sure you don’t have any bourbon in this place?”
Chapter 27
I peeked in the grocery bag and counted at least six different vegetables. “Captain Rye must have a lot on his mind,” I told Snowflake.
“What do you mean?” Wilson asked.
“I mean, your cooking.” I shooed the cat off the counter and started unloading the veggies into the sink. “Whenever a case is causing you trouble, you plan a meal that involves much, much chopping.”
He denied it, but I insisted it was true. “I play pool to solve problems, you chop celery.”
“Risotto doesn’t have celery. And besides, you like vegetables.”
I set the cutting board in front of him and handed him the onion. “Enjoy!” I stepped away to work on the champagne, and Wilson started chopping.
“Is Dr. Yikes making a habit of visiting you every day?” he asked.
“Every other day.” I set a glass in front of him and took a seat at the counter. Snowflake hopped on my lap, and we watched him chop asparagus. “She’s anxious we find the killer.”
“You tell her your theory?”
“I hope that’s okay?”
Wilson agreed the superintendent of schools probably needed to know.
“She promised to keep it to herself,” I said. “And she really helped me with Jimmy Beak. We put on quite a performance for the killer.”
“You mean live performance.”
“Excuse me?”
Wilson pointed his paring knife at the kitchen clock. “She timed her visit here just right for the five o’clock news. Don’t you think Beak included it live?”
“Good point,” I agreed and watched as Wilson laid into a whole plethora of mushrooms. There had to be at least four varieties. “I imagine my showdown with Alistair earlier also made the news,” I said. “You’ll be happy to know I over-acted that performance also. The killer must think I’m a complete lunatic.”
Wilson stopped chopping and spoke to Snowflake. “Whereas some of us know for sure.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I pointed back to the clock. “Should we at least watch Dee Dee’s report?”
Wilson slid the last of the mushrooms into the sauté pan and found a towel to wipe his hands. “You’re on, Jessie.”
“Literally,” I grumbled.
***
“Coming up!” Dee Dee Larkin’s photogenic face filled my little TV screen as the three of us settled ourselves on the edge of my bed, and the screen shot changed to the Capitol building.
Jimmy Beak likely disagreed with their priorities, but evidently Channel 15’s national affiliate considered the latest Congressional budget impasse more newsworthy than the trials and tribulations of Adelé Nightingale. Wilson had plenty of opportunity to run back and forth to the kitchen to stir the risotto before the segment on yours truly aired. In fact, he was in the kitchen for the beginning of what ended up being a very brief report.
“What’s going on?” he asked as he came back to the bedroom.
“Same old, same old.” I pointed to the screen, where Alistair Pritt was performing one of his usual rants about the Queen of Smut and borderline pornography.
“At least they’re showing both sides,” Wilson said as the image shifted to Roslynn Mayweather expounding the cause of free speech and freedom of expression.
“Louise will love it,” I said. “I mean, who would you listen to? Roslynn or Alistair?”
“Roslynn,” Wilson stated the obvious.
As always, Ms. Mayweather was well-turned out. Trim, fit, properly lipsticked, and dressed to the nines in her pink ensemble, she was coherent and articulate. As compared to Alistair, in all his corpulent glory.
Dee Dee Larkin seemed rather unimpressed and impatient with everyone. Indeed, we only got a chance to hear Roslynn read the briefest of excerpts from
The Debutante’s Destiny
before Dee Dee interrupted. The anchorwoman allowed us one more glimpse of Alistair as he raised a fist and repeated some nonsense about my undue influence on society, then she closed the segment without further ado.
“My undue influence on society?” I said as Wilson turned off the TV. “Don’t I wish.”
***
“I wonder what they did with Jimmy?” I asked as we sat down to dinner. I was thrilled Dee Dee Larkin hadn’t included him in her national report, but one had to imagine Jimmy was mighty disappointed.
Wilson agreed. “I have no idea where he was when that was shot.” He raised an eyebrow. “But I do know where he was Saturday.”
From the look on my beau—make that my fiancé’s—face, I surmised Jimmy had an alibi. “What earth-shaking event did he and Joe cover that night? Do tell.”
“Joe?” Wilson asked, and I reminded him how my mother had deftly uncovered the cameraman’s name.
“She charmed him with a cup of green tea, remember?”
“Leave it to Tessie. Speaking of tea parties—that’s Jimmy’s alibi for Saturday. He was covering a tea party.
“Excuse me?”
“Things got a little out of hand. Violent, even.”
“At a tea party? Jimmy was at a raucous Saturday night tea party?” Needless to say, I was incredulous, but Wilson explained.
It seems the tea party—an early evening bridal shower—had started out innocently enough. “But then two of the bride’s aunts gave her the same set of stemware, and all hell broke loose about who was going to return what.” He shook his head. “Have you heard about this wedding, Jessie? Fister and Bickerson?”
It was my turn to shake my head. “It’s a small world,” I said. “Or at least Clarence is small. Believe it or not, there’s a Mrs. Marachini connection.” Wilson looked puzzled, and I reminded him of Candy’s polka-dot bra lady.
“A lot of kooky families are connected with this wedding,” he said. “Someone at the shower dosed up everyone’s tea with bourbon. And the booze made all the gift-givers—” he searched for the right word, “—passionate about their stemware.”
I put down my fork and had a good laugh.
“Don’t laugh,” he stopped laughing to tell me. “The department had to send out Leary and Romero to break it up. There was glass everywhere. Piles of broken coffee pots, blenders. Torn sheets and towels. Unbelievable.”
“What’s unbelievable is that Jimmy Beak was called out.”
Wilson reminded me the Fisters were a prominent family in town. And evidently Saturday had been a slow news day. “The bridal shower was the best story Beak could find, but then he had stories coming out his ears.”
I got serious. “First the bridal shower brawl, then the murder.”
“The timing’s clear,” Wilson said. “Beak went straight from the tea party to the school. Dozens of witnesses saw him at both places.” He took a deep breath. “Which brings us to the alibis of two other people who might have it in for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess. The Crawchecks were at the tea party.”
“Amanda’s the bride’s second cousin.”
“Leave it to Amanda to be related to kooks.”
“You’ll be happy to know your ex has an alibi also.”
“Let me guess again. Ian was out with the bride’s kooky uncles, drinking bourbon or something.”
“Close. The men were downstairs in the den watching the Braves game. Had the TV on so loud, they didn’t even hear the commotion from above.”
I recollected how often I had watched TV over the past few days and asked why none of the bridal shower brouhaha had been on the news. “For instance, Candy assumes all those shower gifts were lost in a fire.”
“Money,” Wilson said. “The Fister family paid our good friends at Channel 15 to sit on this story.” He grinned. “Seems you weren’t the only one to get in touch with Cal Ransom that night.”
We agreed Jimmy Beak must have been exceedingly frustrated. First he was kept from reporting on the bridal shower of the century. Then he was forbidden from accusing me of murder. All on the same night.
“Yet another reason he’s latched onto Alistair with such gusto,” I said.
***
“What about you?” Wilson asked as we got up to clear the table.
“Oh, I’m frustrated, too,” I said. “I know it wasn’t my fault, but I still feel guilty about Ms. Jilton.”
“No, Jessie. I meant what did you find out today. Who’d you talk to?”
“Only everyone and his brother.” I loaded the dishwasher and tried not to forget anyone. “Mother, Candy, and Louise.” I rinsed some silverware before sticking it in the basket. “Then Roslynn, Alistair, and Jimmy out on Sullivan Street this afternoon.”
“Dr. Yates,” Wilson added, and I nodded.
“I think that’s it. Karen’s busy building who knows what, so she wasn’t available.” I shrugged. “And I’m rather surprised Rita Sistina hasn’t called again.”
Wilson suggested I count my blessings. “What did Alistair and Roslynn have to say for themselves.”
“Alistair hates me. Roslynn loves me.”
“Let’s start with Alistair.”
“I thought we ruled him out? He didn’t need a dead body to begin his protest.”
“Maybe.”
I stood up from the dishwasher and squinted. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the timing still bothers me. I brought him down to the station for questioning.”
“This morning!? Then that explains his newest kick, claiming I have undue influence over you.” I winked. “I do believe he called you my hero, Captain Rye. What did you say to him?”
“I asked him his whereabouts on Saturday. But Pritt must have taken a lesson from Rita. He claimed police brutality. Claimed I was trying to shut him up to protect you. He claimed all kinds of garbage.” Wilson groaned. “The interview took forever.”
“But you persevered.”
“Yep, and Pritt has no alibi. Says he was home alone reading.”
“Was he?”
“I have no idea. But you’re right, Jessie.”
I went back to the dishes. “He didn’t need a dead body to start calling me the Queen of Smut.”
Wilson worked around me to run water into the tea kettle. “What did Roslynn Mayweather have to say?”
“Now there’s someone who appreciates the Queen of Smut.” I giggled. “I’m Roslynn’s hero. Or at least Adelé Nightingale is.”
“That’s what I heard, too.”
I closed the dishwasher and stood up. “Please tell me you didn’t drag Roslynn down to the police station.”
“I didn’t.” Wilson informed me he sent Sergeant Tiffany Sass out to do his dirty work. “Sass is a good sport,” he said. “She even agreed to wear a light blue skirt suit to fit in with the Romance Rockettes.”
“That’s perfect,” I said, and I meant it. Sergeant Sass and Roslynn are about the same age, and both are beautiful and ambitious young women. And apparently they had an informal, no-stress sort of chat—right there at the corner of Sullivan and Vine—while doing the “Rockettes Routine” as Wilson called it.
We took our tea over to the couch and sat down on either side of Snowflake. I asked what Tiffany Sass had learned, but Wilson wanted to hear about my encounter first.
“For instance,” he said. “Did Roslynn mention where she was Saturday night?”
“She was with Billy Joe Dent. They met at Hastie’s Diner of all places”
“That’s what Sass heard, too.” Wilson frowned until I frowned also.
“I admit it’s not the most wholesome of alibis,” I said. “But at least it’s an alibi.”