Mr. Black pushed the door closed, then sat across from me in the overstuffed recliner. Perched on the edge of the seat, he leaned forward, and laced his fingers. A heavy sigh shook his entire body. “So what do you know about Angelica’s murder?”
Although the question was not unexpected, I didn’t know where to begin. It was strange being in such close proximity with someone I had once suspected of murder. I placed my purse in my lap, the weight of my weapon a comforting reminder that I was not alone. But I felt safe with Mr. Black now. His defeated demeanor indicated that he probably wanted the killer brought to justice as much as I did.
Suddenly I didn’t know how to respond. Everything I had planned to blurt out now sounded foolish, irrational.
“I’m not sure I know anything,” I finally admitted. “You see, I saw Angelica here in your house the day she died.”
The fact that he didn’t appear surprised caused a flicker of alarm to shoot throughout my body. I took a deep breath and continued, deciding that if I’d been wrong, I was already in too deep. “You left your wallet in the diner the previous night,” I told him. “My boss, Harry Winslow, suggested I drop it by your house on my way to work the next day.”
I watched his face for a reaction when I mentioned my boss’s name. If Mr. Winslow had a connection with Michael Black’s fiancée, he might have known about it. But his expression didn’t change. He remained seated in the same position with his head hung low.
I continued. “I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. But when I tried the back door, it opened easily. That’s when I walked in and found your fiancée sitting in that chair.” I pointed to the chair he was sitting in.
He flinched suddenly, as if a spring had suddenly popped up in the cushion. My heart went out to him. The sudden realization that he was sitting in the same chair his fiancée had died in, had obviously made him uncomfortable. His face paled to a whiter shade than before. For a moment, I thought he might actually pass out. Combing his trembling hands through his thick dark hair, he finally looked up. “Go on,” he told me, swallowing hard.
I nodded. “At first I thought she had just fallen asleep because the television was on. But when I touched her and called out her name, I realized it was something worse.”
His eyes narrowed. “But how did you know her name? Did you know her?”
“No,” I answered. “I just assumed she was your wife since she was in your house. It wasn’t until later that I found out that you had never remarried after the death of your first wife ten years earlier.”
He looked up suddenly, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. “You thought I killed her, didn’t you?”
I felt the blood drain from my face. How could I respond to such a question? I couldn’t just lie and say the thought had never crossed my mind. Besides, he already knew the answer to his question. He just wanted me to confirm it.
My fingers traced an imaginary circle on my purse as I searched my brain for the right words. After a lengthy pause, I finally answered. “I honestly don’t know what I thought at first,” I said. “Once I realized she wasn’t sleeping, I didn’t have a lot of time to react. I heard someone upstairs and assumed it was you. After all, this is your house. It wasn’t until later that I learned that Angelica had actually died of cyanide poisoning. Then I found out that your first wife died from the same thing.” I laced my fingers and placed my chin on my hands. “Well, you have to admit, it does sound pretty incriminating.”
“I guess it does.” Michael Black leaned back in the chair and stretched his fingers across his stomach. His eyes were hollow slits. “So why didn’t you go to the police?”
His question came as no surprise to me. It would have been the logical thing to do. But then, nothing about these past few days had been logical.
“I did phone them when I left here,” I finally answered. “But when they didn’t find anything, someone convinced me that it had just been someone’s idea of a practical joke.” I didn’t want to bring up Justin’s or my uncle’s name. The less anyone knew about them, the better for now, I thought.
Reaching across the chair, he picked up a picture of Angelica from the coffee table and brushed his finger along the frame. “What changed your mind?”
“When I saw Angelica’s picture in the paper the next day and realized she was really dead, I knew it was not a joke.”
The next question was hard for me to ask. I didn’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion as I had when I was convinced that Michael Black was the murderer. But there had to be a connection between Mr. Winslow, Angelica, and Michael Black. Otherwise, there was no motive. I asked it anyway, deciding if I was wrong, I had already gone too far to stop now. “Mr. Black,” I said, looking up. “Do you know Harry Winslow?” It was the only thing that made sense.
His smile appeared so slowly, I felt my heart beat against my chest. Keeping my gaze straight, I slid my hand into my purse feeling the comfort of my weapon.
“How did you come to that conclusion?” he asked.
I swallowed hard, reclaiming my composure. I had no doubt I was onto something with my line of questioning. But right now, I wasn’t sure who to trust. “That night you came into the diner,” I began. “You didn’t order much, but you still would have had to pay for your purchase when you left. But you couldn’t have done that without your wallet.”
He remained silent as he stared at the photo in his hand. I watched his chest expand, then quickly deflate as he breathed out a gust of air.
“You didn’t leave your wallet behind, did you?” I asked softly.
He shook his head, still staring at the picture. “No, I didn’t.”
It was my turn to exhale. “I didn’t think so,” I admitted, combing my hand through my hair, “which means someone who wanted me to deliver it to your house that morning planted it there.” I paused briefly to make a point before adding, “Someone who wanted me to discover Angelica’s body and call the police.”
His eyes closed, he swallowed hard. I continued my explanation, anxious to make him understand what I was telling him. “Mr. Black, if the police had found the body when I called, you would probably be their number one suspect right now.”
“Except that I have an alibi.”
“Do you also own a red Toyota?” I hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. His dark eyes suddenly narrowed into cold, sinister balls of fire, reminiscent of that night in the diner. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
Looking at this man now, seeing him as I had that night in the diner, I could almost believe he was capable of murder.
Had I made a mistake? I suddenly wondered. Sucking in a deep breath, I decided to continue. I’d gone too far to back out now. “That morning there was a red Toyota parked out back,” I finally managed to say. “But when I came back later, it was gone.” I looked up meeting his gaze. “So my question is, do you own one?”
His eyes narrowed again. He straightened in the chair and leaned forward. If he was trying to intimidate me, it was working. “I do,” he answered. “I drove it to the airport that night and left it in their parking lot.”
I refused to lose my cool. I’d come here for answers and I intended to get them. “Someone driving a red Toyota has been following me,” I told him. “Someone driving a red Toyota tried to run me down the other night.”
A cynical smile curved his mouth, causing me to squirm in my seat. “And you think it was me?”
“No,” I answered quickly. “I think Harry Winslow got your car from the airport that night. And he is either trying to kill me or, at least, scare me into going to the police.”
His vacant expression didn’t change. “Lots of people own red Toyotas,” he said flatly.
“Yes,” I said, my voice rising. “But most of them don’t have a reason to stalk me.” For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Michael Black would want to protect the man who may have killed his fiancée. Was I wrong about all of this? And if so, then who planted the wallet?
My head was beginning to throb. I reached up and gently massaged my temples with my fingertips.
“Mr. Black,” I began, my patience waning.
“You’re right,” he answered suddenly. “I’ve known Harry Winslow for years.” He met my gaze with a stern look. “But I can assure you, he had no reason to kill Angelica.”
This conversation was getting me nowhere. I stood up and wrapped my purse strap over my shoulder. “But somebody did kill her,” I reminded him. “And I think that same person set me up to find the body and implicate you in the murder.”
“But it wasn’t Harry Winslow!” He bolted from the chair so fast it made a snapping sound.
I jumped back, but quickly regained my composure. “Who else but Mr. Winslow could have planted a phony wallet at the diner?” I asked him with a heavy sigh. “Don’t you see it had to be him? He already knew who the wallet belonged to before I told him.”
Mr. Black had already crossed the room and pulled the door open, when he suddenly spun around. His eyes were wide. “What?”
I joined him at the door, meeting his stare. “That second night at the diner, Mr. Winslow asked me if I had returned your wallet. He actually used your name, but I had never mentioned it to him.”
His eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, young lady. You need to let it go and let the police handle this.”
It almost sounded like a threat. He started to say something else, but I brushed past him. I’d said and heard enough. Nothing I had told him seemed to make a difference.
I kept walking until I reached the end of the driveway. Across the street, I spotted Alley the Snoop sitting in her rocker, sipping a soda in the hot sun. I fought the urge to race across the street and take comfort in her presence. But I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t take the chance of involving another person in this nightmare. Michael Black knew more than he was letting on. I was more certain than ever that I had been the victim of a setup. Harry Winslow was definitely smart. It was obvious he could be dangerous as well. After talking with Michael Black, I realized it was time to confide in Justin and Uncle Bob.
Without looking back, I continued my trek down the road toward my own home.
“Where have you been?”
Justin’s Malibu was parked in my parents’ driveway when I finally reached my destination. Of course, I’d realized he’d already be there waiting for me. Leaving work ten minutes early only assured me that I could slip away without being seen. I’d spent at least twenty minutes at Michael Black’s house trying to convince him of Harry Winslow’s guilt. I could only imagine the thoughts that were going through Justin’s mind.
With Justin in my sights, I braved a glance behind me. When I realized no one had followed me, I breathed a sigh of relief, then raced toward the house. Justin’s comforting arms wrapped me in a tight embrace before he suddenly held me at arm’s length. “Where have you been?” he said again. His blue eyes raged with something between anger and concern.
I knew he’d be mad when I told him, but it was a chance I had to take. I was even more convinced than ever that I had been set up. I just didn’t know how I was going to prove it.
I swallowed hard, ready for his wrath. “I went to talk to Michael Black,” I answered.
Justin’s jaw dropped. “You what?” He held his head back and combed his hands through his hair. “Denise, this isn’t a game. Someone is already dead. And whoever killed her may be trying to kill you. And right now it appears that Michael Black is the best suspect!”
But was he? I wondered.
Justin leaned over the car and drummed his fingers on the hood. “Denise, you promised not to go anywhere. You promised you’d wait until I got to the diner!”
I couldn’t blame him for being angry. I did promise. But I also knew he wouldn’t have left me alone if I had confided my suspicions to him.
“I know, Justin,” I said. “But this was something I had to do on my own.”
I glanced around the street. Several neighbors had stopped what they were doing, focusing their attention on Justin and me. I leaned into Justin’s face. “This isn’t the place to discuss this,” I whispered to him. “We’re causing a scene out here. Let’s go inside,” I suggested, taking his hand. “I promise I’ll tell you everything.”
The stifling hot air slapped me like a heated iron when I opened the front door.
“You could roast a chicken in here,” Justin complained. “Why is it so hot? Is the air conditioner broken?”
“I didn’t want to run the air conditioner when there’s nobody home,” I told him. I flipped the switch on the ceiling fan. “We won’t stay long. But I need something to drink. Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll find us something while I tell you about my visit with Michael Black.”
Justin straddled a kitchen chair. “Yeah, I can’t wait to hear about that!”
I set two cold cans of soda on the table before taking a seat in the opposite chair. “I don’t think Mr. Black is the killer,” I said, taking a long sip.
Justin rolled his eyes, then popped the top of his can. “Look, I know you’ve been having doubts about this guy, but until you can come up with a better one, he’s still number one in my book.”
I swallowed a mouthful of my soda, then set the can down. “I think Harry Winslow might have killed Angelica.”
“Winslow!” Justin spewed his soda onto the table, then reached for a napkin. “And just how did you come to that ridiculous conclusion?” He wiped his mouth before cleaning the table.
I leaned forward, placing both arms on the table. “Remember the afternoon we went to the diner for apple pie?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Mr. Winslow asked me if I had returned Michael Black’s wallet to him.”
“So?” He took another slow sip. “What’s wrong with that?”
I leaned over even further. “Justin, I never told him who the wallet belonged to. So how did he know who the owner was?”
Justin squinted his eyes, obviously digesting this new bit of information. “Heather could have told him, couldn’t she?”
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. I’d known that convincing Justin would be hard. But I also knew things weren’t adding up the way they should be. “But there are other things,” I continued, determined to make him understand. “For example, when I finally made it to the diner after finding Angelica’s body, Mr. Winslow wasn’t there. And he’s always there!”