Every Trick in the Book (24 page)

WHEN I ARRIVED
at the police station, I had little sense of how long it had taken me to drive from
Inspiration Valley to Dunston. My mind had been consumed with replaying the brief
but pleasant moments I’d spent with Tilly. Over and over again, I pictured her face
and the way her expression had vacillated between anxiety and then, upon seeing her
children, joy.

I was still caught up in reflections of that afternoon when the police officer manning
the front desk gave me a sober greeting and then told a pretty female cop standing
nearby to take me back to Sean. She led me through a warren of corridors and dropped
me off in a small conference room. A computer and a mug of black coffee were the only
objects on the surface of the table, and sitting in a corner on the floor was a cardboard
file box. I had just taken a seat and dug Vicky’s file folder from my bag when Sean
entered the room.

He looked terrible. His hair was uncombed, his cheeks and chin were dark with stubble,
and his uniform was wrinkled. I wondered if he’d slept in it until his eyes met mine
and I saw how bloodshot they were. He probably hadn’t had a wink of sleep last night.

Murder weighed heavily on this man. And he saw all angles of it from the bodies stretched
out on a coroner’s slab, to the effect it had on loved ones, to the ripples it created
in a community. He faced the ugliest parts of human nature without backing down. I
was ashamed that I’d been feeling
neglected because of Sean’s job. What choice did he have with killers on the loose?

“Let me see what you’ve got,” he said, wasting no time on pleasantries.

I showed him the address West had printed on his registration form, and Sean hurriedly
examined the paper and then stuck his head into the hall and shouted, “Hastings! I
need you to run an address for me!”

The other cop took the sheet, gave me a curious glance, and then said, “You want me
to bring this joker in?”

Sean shook his head. “T. J. West isn’t his real name. Get me that first. And let’s
see if he has any priors. I want an idea of what we’re dealing with here. There’s
no telling if this is even our guy, so we’ll spend a few minutes on a background check
before we kick his front door down.”

“Got it,” Hastings said and hustled off.

“Now.” Sean pointed at the short stack of papers I’d placed on the conference table.
“Read me the murder scene.”

I did as he asked, and while I read, he compared the details of T. J. West’s fictional
killing with the photographs and written reports from Tilly’s real-life homicide.

“We’ve got a dead mother and a teddy bear. It’s suspicious, but not enough to make
me surround this guy’s house with a SWAT team,” Sean said when I was done. “West’s
victim was struck on the head by a blunt object. Mrs. Smythe was strangled.”

I grabbed the pages and clutched them tightly in my hand. “But
Melissa
was hit with a brick. This description might not be a perfect match for Tilly’s death,
yet it fits Melissa’s. West has been around both women. And the teddy bear? That can’t
be pure coincidence.”

“We can’t assume that Melissa and Tilly were murdered
by the same person, Lila, not without solid evidence, although it is certainly suspicious
that two real-life murders as well as a fictional one involve a child’s toy. We’re
going over to West’s place, don’t you worry. Still, I prefer not to charge in, guns
blazing, without having all the facts first.” His tone was patient, yet tinged with
a hint of reproof.

But my guilt over possibly being complicit in Tilly’s murder only served to increase
the urgency of the situation. My hands clenched into tight fists around West’s manuscript
and I was on the verge of losing my composure and balling up each and every page.
Luckily, Hastings burst into the room and waved a printout at Sean.

“Guy’s real name is Thomas Jefferson Wipple and he’s in a town house by the movie
theater. One moving violation. That’s it.”

Sean raised his brows. “Thomas Jefferson Wipple? No wonder he used a pseudonym.” Turning
to me, he said, “We’re going to pay Mr. Wipple a visit. Do you want to wait for me
or go back to Inspiration Valley?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. Sean dipped his chin in acknowledgment and strode
out of the room.

Left to my own devices, I spent the time rereading West’s first fifty pages. It certainly
didn’t seem like the prose of a coldhearted killer. Even though my opinion on the
author was completely tainted by this point, I still found his writing skillful, amusing,
and entertaining. Could West really be capable of this kind of duplicity? It was hard
to imagine that someone who could draw the character of the plucky widow with such
sensitivity also harbored the ability to commit murder.

When I’d finished reading, I helped myself to the desktop computer and did a Google
search on Thomas Jefferson
Wipple. There were very few results. One was from the white pages and displayed his
age, address, and phone number. For an additional fee, I could acquire his email address
as well. I shook my head. There was no such thing as privacy anymore.

Another page listed forty-nine-year-old Thomas Jefferson as an active member of the
Dunston Rotary Club, and a third site showed a photo of him participating in a walkathon
benefiting the Make-A-Wish Foundation along with a group of other Dunston General
Hospital employees. This led me to a search of the hospital’s staff page, and I was
able to locate Thomas Jefferson within a few clicks of the mouse. He was a registered
nurse.

I sat back in the chair, confounded. Could this male nurse who wrote cozy mysteries
and worked to improve his community truly be a murderer? It seemed impossible, and
yet I knew it wasn’t. Over the summer, I’d learned firsthand about the masks people
wear and how there are those among us who are masters at the art of deception. Victor
Hugo had once written, “Virtue has a veil, vice a mask,” and while we all try to conceal
our faults behind a façade, West had adopted a public life that made him look like
a saint. But behind the polished veneer, he could very well be a killer.

A cop with a shock of red hair suddenly appeared in the threshold, thankfully keeping
me from waxing philosophical any longer. “Griffiths here?” he asked.

“No, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back,” I said.

“I’m collecting cash for pizza. It’s almost lunchtime and I know he hasn’t eaten a
thing since last night.”

No wonder Sean looked so peaked. He’d had neither sleep nor food for far too long.
Grabbing for my purse, I handed
the redheaded officer a twenty. “Please get him a whole pie. And maybe a salad?”

The cop’s mouth fell open in surprise, as if I’d ordered something utterly foreign.
“A salad? Uh, yeah, I guess I can do that. Anything for you?”

I gave him a wan smile. “No appetite right now, but thanks.”

Sean returned before I could make additional headway in searching for tidbits on Thomas
Jefferson Wipple. I found nothing to connect him to Melissa or to Tilly. Only Dunston
united the three people.

“It’s not him,” Sean was quick to assure me. He sank down into a chair, his face ashen
with exhaustion. “In fact, Mr. Wipple is as nice as they come. And he was quite disturbed
to hear about the murders. Says he works with women all day and couldn’t stand the
thought of something happening to one of them. He was in the middle of a twelve-hour
shift when Mrs. Smythe died and was at the book festival’s costume party with a group
of friends when Ms. Plume was murdered.” Sean rubbed his eyes. “And it would have
been difficult for him to sneak out seeing as he was dressed up as the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

It was hard for me to contain my relief. The man I thought of as T. J. West hadn’t
been stalking Tilly. He wasn’t a killer, but a kind and sensitive writer and caregiver.
I no longer had to bear a feeling of responsibility for Tilly’s death. I could also
direct my anger where it belonged. “Kirk Mason.” I spoke his name with loathing.

“The phantom festivalgoer who seems to have dropped off the face of the earth!” Sean
threw out his hands in exasperation. “I’ve had men watching his house for days and
there’s no sign of him.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Wait, are you telling me that you’ve identified Kirk Mason?”
Picturing his long, lean body, the dark eyes, and his silver piercings winking in
the light, fear fed my anger.

Sean shifted uneasily in his chair. “Yes, but there was no sense in sharing that information
with you. I didn’t want you to be alarmed that we’d found his residence unoccupied,
indicating that he was still at large.”

Indignation uncoiled within me. “I had to read about Tilly’s death in the paper and
now
this
? I’d rather you were more forthcoming instead of trying to keep me in the dark. You
think you’re protecting me, but not knowing what’s going on makes me feel much more
vulnerable. Kirk Mason’s probably killed two women, Sean. I don’t want to be in the
dark when it concerns him!”

“I read you loud and clear, but we don’t have any evidence that the two murders are
connected,” Sean replied hastily, and then he took a deep breath and reached for my
hand. “You’re right, Lila. If Mason is the murderer he poses a threat to you. After
all, you know what he looks like. That drawing you worked on with the sketch artist
has been distributed, but no one we’ve spoken with has seen him. The guy doesn’t have
a driver’s license. I have no idea how he gets around, but, unfortunately, if he was
the shadow outside Tilly’s house the day you were there, he might think that you’re
hunting him. Which, in a way, you are.”

I tried to keep my alarm in check, but my fingers started trembling and Sean gripped
them tighter.

“An officer has been watching you from a safe distance since yesterday morning,” Sean
assured me softly. “No one’s getting near you, sweetheart.”

Nodding, I looked away. Didn’t Sean think I’d like to know that I was officially under
police protection? How many other secrets was he keeping from me? I peered at Sean’s
concerned face and realized my ire was misdirected. I should focus my anger on Mason.
If it weren’t for him, Sean and I wouldn’t be at odds and two women wouldn’t have
lost their lives. “What does Kirk Mason do? Does he have a job?”

“He’s a software engineer,” Sean said. “Apparently, he creates programs for smartphones.
Works from home and brings in a nice salary. He recently completed some big project
and informed his employers that he was taking the week off. He left his cell phone
behind, and the neighbors don’t know where he went or the names of any of his friends
or family members.”

“Can’t you search his house?” I asked.

Sean shrugged his shoulders and frowned. “We don’t have any evidence. I can’t obtain
a warrant without probable cause, and right now, all I have is a name.” He let go
of my hand and rubbed his temples. “I’ve called airlines, rental car companies, and
dozens of North Carolina residents with the last name ‘Mason.’ This guy is like smoke.
I can’t pin him down.”

We fell silent, and I sensed that Sean and I were both feeling angry, helpless, and
frustrated. It was the Information Age. People couldn’t just disappear, could they?
As I struggled over this question, the smell of hot pizza wafted through the air.
“Delivery for Griffiths!” The redheaded cop who’d taken my twenty carried a pizza
box in one hand and a plastic take-out bag in the other. “Meat lovers’ supreme and
a Greek salad, per the lady’s orders. Enjoy.”

Sean pried back the box lid and inhaled, his eyes brightening for the first time since
I’d arrived at the station. “You are a queen among women, Lila.”

He fell on his lunch, devouring a slice laden with sausage, ham, pepperoni, bacon,
mushrooms, and green peppers. Once his initial hunger had abated, he wiped his mouth
with a paper napkin. “Dig in,” he offered, sliding the box toward me.

“Maybe later,” I said. “While you were gone, I did a Google search on Wipple and I
also tried to come up with a list of things Melissa and Tilly had in common. They
were both involved in the world of books and they both had ties to Dunston.”

Popping open a can of Coke, Sean hesitated before taking a drink. “If the murders
are
connected, then there has to be something more linking the two women besides books.”

My mind rifled through the limited facts I had on the two women. “Tilly wrote books
about a kid in search of his parents,” I began. “And Melissa specialized in signing
authors who wrote about families. What if that’s the common denominator?”

He considered my theory. “So you think that an element in Tilly’s writing is pertinent
to Melissa in some way, and that this theme or subject matter led to both of their
murders? That seems a little dubious. We don’t have any evidence pointing to the fact
that their deaths are linked. The MO is different, the—”

“But the teddy bears!” I blurted.

Sean shook his head. “That’s not enough.”

I ripped off a piece of crust and absently nibbled at its crisp brown edge. “It may
not be enough to be conclusive, but I feel it in here.” I pointed to my chest. “Melissa
and Tilly
were murdered by the same person. I know it. We just need to dig deeper to find the
reason.”

Sean opened the salad container. “Many cases are solved because gut instincts lead
us to a discovery of the facts, Lila, and your instincts are better than most. I,
too, have a feeling there’s a connection between these women, but we need evidence
to solve cases, not just hunches.”

I sat on the edge of my chair and considered the possibilities. “The other day, Tilly
vaguely alluded to being a different person once. What if, in her past, she knew the
murderer? And what if Melissa had some kind of connection with him, too? Maybe, years
ago, the three of them were linked somehow.”

His lunch all but forgotten, Sean got up and brought the file box to the table. With
a fresh burst of energy, he lifted the lid. “When Melissa lived in Dunston twenty
years ago, she worked with the Department of Social Services. The person I interviewed
at the agency didn’t work there when Melissa did, so she couldn’t tell me much. I
do have an appointment to see one of Melissa’s former coworkers this afternoon, though.
In the meantime, I got these old case files, which I’ve been reviewing to see if I
might find something.” He indicated the box full of manila folders. “It appears that
Melissa had lots of high-risk kids in her caseload.” He lifted out a pile of folders.
“I still have to go through this bunch.”