“Who can blame you?” Candy said as she gestured me inside.
It wasn’t the same as leaving the building, but Candy’s place was a nice change of scenery. She has the same brick walls and huge windows as I do. But her condo is half the size and boasts a small black dog instead of a large white cat. The bright pink sofa is also fun to visit.
We broke open the champagne and cookies and found our spots on the couch, all the while marveling at how much worse the situation had become since we had spoken earlier—back when we thought we had only Jimmy Beak and a mere murder to contend with.
“But now we have Alistair, too.” I pointed to the windows and told my friends how I actually knew the man from my previous life. I explained the history, they demonstrated adequate indignation, and Candy turned on her TV.
“Tonight’s top story!” Anchorwoman Belinda Bing’s face filled the screen. “Jimmy Beak reports, live from Sullivan Street! Home of the Queen of Smut!”
“I can’t believe he’s still out there,” I said as Channel 15 cut to a commercial.
Candy hopped up to check. “Everyone’s still there,” she said from the window. “Jimmy’s combing his hair.”
“Getting ready for the live report.” Karen handed me another cookie, and we were soon treated to a close up of Jimmy’s well-combed coif on the huge TV.
“Jimmy Beak, reporting live from Sullivan Street! Where a large group of concerned citizens has given up their entire Sunday to come out and voice their objections to Jessica Hewitt.”
The camera shifted to Alistair Pritt and his cronies.
“Where did Alistair get all those people?” Karen asked as we listened to the various chants.
I suggested she check again. “It’s mostly just onlookers,” I said, and Candy confirmed there were only twelve actual demonstrators.
“Puddles and me counted,” she said. “And I bet most of them are related to Alistair.”
“Good guess,” I said as the enthusiastic face of Ms. Bing returned to the screen.
“Looks like Jimmy and Alistair had a busy day!” she said. “Let’s take a look at the highlights!”
“Let’s!” I said as a montage of images from the day’s festivities began rolling.
I can’t speak for everyone, but the true highlight for me had to be Jimmy’s impromptu interview with Roslynn Mayweather. I reminded my friends who she was as Roslynn’s perfectly-polished figure appeared on the screen.
“She was here earlier to help me with
A Singular Seduction
,” I explained.
“How did it go?” Candy asked, but Karen shushed us in order to hear Roslynn touting the virtues of yours truly.
Roslynn reached into her briefcase and pulled out a copy of
The Sultan’s Secret
. “I am proud to say Jessica Hewitt, a.k.a. Adelé Nightingale, is my mentor,” she told Jimmy.
She held her masterpiece to the camera, and we were treated to a close up of the semi-nude sultan and his equally undressed lady friend, entangled in an altogether passionate embrace.
“Oh boy,” Karen said, and Candy wondered if Channel 15 could get in trouble for showing that kind of stuff on TV.
Roslynn continued, “
The Sultan’s Secret
would never have been published if Jessica-slash-Adelé had not given me her expert advice.”
“You’re a writer also?” Jimmy asked.
“For Perpetual Pleasures Press,” Roslynn said. “Jessica Hewitt is their most-seasoned author. And I, Roslynn Mayweather, am their rising star!”
I rolled my eyes. “Put the book down, Roslynn,” I said.
She lowered
The Sultan’s Secret
and smiled demurely for the camera.
***
I was still rolling my eyes when Jimmy Beak returned after a brief message from his sponsors.
“Our protesters are packing up for the evening,” he announced. “But Alistair Amesworth Pritt has graciously agreed to answer a few questions.” He frowned ominously. “Because the public has the right to know what is lurking in our midst.”
“Did he just call me a ‘what?’” I asked.
“Maybe he’s talking about your book.” Candy pointed, and sure enough, Alistair was displaying
Temptation at Twilight
for the camera.
“Temptation was my first hardback release,” I said as Alistair opened the book and turned it toward the camera. “He’s tearing the dust jacket.”
“What’s all that yellow?” Karen asked.
“I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting all the pornographic parts.” Alistair answered and flipped through the pages.
“That’s a lot of yellow,” Karen said.
Alistair began reading one particularly well-conceived passage as someone off-camera handed Jimmy a stack of my paperbacks. This third invisible person handled the microphone. And one-by-one, Jimmy held up each book for the camera, displaying each cover—each pair of semi-nude lovers in various stages of impassioned ecstasy.
“Your covers look nice,” Candy said.
“That’s a lot of yellow,” Karen added as Jimmy flipped through the pages.
Meanwhile Alistair continued reading from
Temptation at Twilight
. But right as he came to the most inspired segment of Rolfe Vanderhorn and Alexis Wynsome’s most glorious romantic encounter, we were back to watching commercials.
“Darn!” Candy said. “He was just getting to the good part.”
***
“That was a lot of yellow.” Karen remained on topic even after Candy switched off the TV. “When did Alistair find time for all that highlighting? He’s been demonstrating all day.”
I suggested Channel 15 likely had a staff for that sort of thing. “They probably call themselves researchers.”
“That was a lot of research.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Candy said. “Them calling you the Queen of Smut even though you can’t write sex scenes anymore?”
“Temporary,” I said.
“What’s temporary?” Karen asked. “Your sex scene slump, or Alistair Pritt giving you a hard time.”
“Can I hope for both?”
“Maybe one problem will solve the other,” Candy said as she refilled our glasses. “As long as Alistair keeps you inside, you can concentrate on
A Singular Seduction
.”
I asked if she’d been speaking to Wilson and insisted Adelé Nightingale did not like being trapped.
“Well Adelé Nightingale better get used to it,” Karen said. “It doesn’t look like Alistair’s going to let up anytime soon.”
“Tough.” I took a defiant sip of my beverage and told my friends I refused to be intimidated any longer. “I’m venturing out tomorrow. I plan to solve this murder.”
Karen’s Oreo-bearing right hand hovered in midair. “Say what?”
I explained the logic. “Alistair only came up with this silly idea because of all the publicity Jimmy’s been giving me and my car. Once I solve the murder, Alistair will go away.”
“Try again, Jess.” Karen waved her Oreo at the TV. “They didn’t even mention the murder. And you already told us Jimmy isn’t allowed to blame you.”
I pursed my lips. “Nevertheless.”
“Won’t Wilson find the murderer?” Candy asked.
“I’ll help him.” I ignored the disapproving frowns and explained my vow to help Frankie, and my deal with Lizzie’s mother.
“Frankie’s depending on me,” I said. “And I definitely got the better end of the bargain with Rita. She’ll stop her accusations of police brutality and let Lizzie see Frankie. Meanwhile all I have to do is solve a murder.”
“Gosh,” Candy said. “You get in trouble just sitting around your house.”
“Wilson’s gonna kill you,” Karen agreed. She took a gulp of her champagne. “He’s gonna kill me, too.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“You have no car, girlfriend. The murder happened at the high school, right? So won’t you need a ride out there?”
Okay, good point. I hadn’t actually developed a sleuthing strategy, but luckily Karen was way ahead of me.
“Kiddo here has to work tomorrow,” she said. “It’s up to me to taxi you around.”
I reached out to hug her, but she pushed me away. “You’ll want to hug me again when you hear what else I have to say.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I have a hall pass.”
“Excuse me?”
“A permanent hall pass for all Clarence schools.”
“Gosh.” Candy was clearly impressed, but I was still confused.
“Earth to Jessie Hewitt.” Karen waved an Oreo at me. “This is the Twenty-First Century. You can’t just waltz into a school and start harassing people.”
“I won’t harass anyone. I’ll just ask a few questions.”
“But schools have rules now,” Candy said. She turned to Karen. “Why do you get a hall pass?”
“Maintenance.” Karen explained how she helped the custodial staff whenever something needed fixing at any of the public schools. In case I haven’t mentioned it, Karen Sembler is the all-around handy woman of Clarence, North Carolina. She builds custom furniture for a living. But she’s also the person to call when anything, anywhere, breaks.
“People will probably recognize you,” Karen told me. “But we’ll say we’re friends, which we are, and that I need an extra pair of hands.” She groaned at her own cleverness. “I even have an extra tool belt to loan you.”
Candy bounced a little. “You’ll look all handy, too, Jessie!”
“This will work?” I was skeptical.
“The high school always needs an extra pair of hands with their plumbing,” Karen said. “The situation in the boys bathroom is even worse than at Wilson’s cottage.”
“Shack.”
“Jack will be glad to see me,” she continued. “Jack MacAdoo’s in charge of the custodial staff.”
“And the janitor is a great place to start sleuthing! And you were right.” I reached out. “You do deserve another hug.”
She again pushed me away. “I was right about something else, too,” she said. “Wilson’s gonna kill us.”
Chapter 9
“I’m headed right back out,” I told Snowflake when I arrived home. “It’s time for a walk.”
Indeed, the evening was lovely, it was still light out, and Sullivan Street was blessedly free of Jimmy Beak and Alistair Pritt. But the intercom buzzed while I was lacing up my left sneaker. So much for being rid of Jimmy.
I clicked on the intercom. “Don’t you ever take a night off?” I asked. “Go away, Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?” an indignant female voice answered.
I blinked twice. “You’re not Jimmy Beak.”
“I most assuredly am not.”
I tried to place the voice. “Superintendent Yik—I mean, Superintendent Yates? Is that you?”
“Dr. Gabriella Yates, yes. I need to speak to you. Allow me entrance, please.”
“Umm.” I glanced forlornly at my sneakers. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Company-schmompany! This is important, Ms. Hewitt. And I am not accustomed to waiting.”
“Heavens, no,” I mumbled and buzzed her in.
***
“Gabriella Yates.” Dr. Yates had her hand extended as I opened my door.
“Jessica Hewitt.” I shook her hand. “Won’t you please—” my guest swept into the room—“come in.”
“Your shoelace is untied,” she informed me.
I thanked her for noticing and gestured her toward the couch. “Would you like some tea?” “This is not a social call, Ms. Hewitt. Now sit down.” She patted the seat beside her, and I had to work to remember we were in my home.
Feeling rather defiant, I took the easy chair opposite.
“I need your help,” she said as she reached for a copy of
Sensual and Scintillating
.
“Doesn’t everyone,” I mumbled and leaned over to tie my shoe.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Ms. Hewitt.”
Excuse me?
I took my sweet time with the sneaker. Then I looked up and told Dr. Yates I was not accustomed to being treated like a recalcitrant teenager. “Especially by someone who barges into my home on a Sunday evening.” I pointed to the manual she was holding. “Return the book and change the attitude.”
She skipped a beat. “What is wrong with me?” she asked. “I am so sorry! I know it is no excuse for my rude behavior, but I have just endured the most harrowing twenty-four hours of my life, Jessica. May I call you Jessica?”
“Jessie.”
“And I’m Gabby.” She tilted her head. “Forgive me?”
I pointed to the book she still held. “Be nice to me, and I’ll let you keep that.”
Was that a giggle?
“I’m married to Gordon.” Dr. Yates—I mean Gabby Yates—returned the book from whence it came. “Trust me. It’s hopeless.”
“Well then, at least let me get you that tea.”
“Tea would be lovely.” She hesitated. “But a bourbon on the rocks would be even lovelier.”
It was my turn to laugh. I informed the superintendent I don’t keep hard liquor in stock and suggested champagne instead. She told me she didn’t feel much like celebrating, I told her to trust me, and soon we were sipping some bubbly.
“Now then,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“You can solve this murder.”
I raised an eyebrow at Snowflake, who stood on the back of the couch, hovering over the superintendent’s left shoulder.
Gabby reached up and stroked the cat under her chin. “You don’t seem very shocked at my request,” she said.
“Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to ask.”
“Oh, I believe it. Everyone knows you have a knack for these things.”
“Everyone except Captain Wilson Rye.”
“Don’t be modest,” she said. “Your fiancé knows you’re talented, and this murder is right up your alley.”
I raised my other eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Many petty intrigues and jealousies. Ms. Jilton was an excellent educator, but.” Gabby paused. “But I’m fairly certain she was having an affair.”
“With someone at the school?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get a clear answer from my principal out there, and I doubt he’ll open up for your fiancé, either. That’s where you come in.”
“Oh?”
“You can talk to him, Jessie! His name’s Richard Dempsey. And while you’re at it, you can talk to the other faculty and staff. People will trust you.”
“Are you kidding? People will not trust me, Gabby.” I pointed toward Sullivan Street. “You do know about the demonstration today?”
“Which is exactly why people will talk to you. Educators disapprove of book banning. And no one likes the way you’re being bullied.”
“Oh great. So people will talk to me because they feel sorry for me?”
“What difference does it make why?” she asked. “Won’t you at least try?”