“What are you doing here, Claudine?” I marched toward her, the flashlight held straight out to blind her. Just like I’d seen on cop shows. The temporary vision loss would stop her from making a break for it.

  She covered her face with her hands and crouched down, angling herself away from me to ward off the light. She was facing the trailer, though. There was no escape.

  I stepped forward until I was practically on top of her. With the bat raised above my head, ready to come down on her if needed, I lowered my phone.

  “Why were you breaking into my home?”

  She winced at my shout. To be fair, it had been booming with fury.

  “Please don’t hurt me.” She scuttled away a few feet, then stood. “I—I thought you were asleep.”

  “No kidding, Captain Obvious.” I shook the bat at her. “Now talk.”

  “You won’t hurt me.” A touch of the Chef Claudine haughtiness had returned to her voice. She reached for her back pocket. “I’ll tell the police you attacked me.”

  “Don’t move.” I used my height and reach advantage to snatch her phone away. “I’ll tell the police I heard a prowler and responded in self-defense. The mayor will probably award me with a medal of valor.”

  “Fine. I’ll talk. Do we have to do it here? And will you put that stupid baseball bat away before someone gets hurt?”

  The ferocious Claudine the world knew and feared as much as loved was now back in all her glory. I couldn’t help but smile at the woman’s audacity.

  “It can’t be said I’m not a gentleman. We can talk on the patio.” I motioned her forward with the bat. “If you try to run, you’ll end up with a bonk on the head. It can’t be said that I’m a sucker, either.”

  When she was seated, I took a risk by reaching back inside and turning the security lights back on. With a wave of Thunder, the light above the door blazed to life.

  “Now, spill it.” I didn’t take a seat. Though I did lower the bat. It was the best I could manage.

  “You’re investigating Cohen’s murder. Our conversation the other night, shall we say, raised my curiosity.”

  “And?” I wasn’t in the mood for games, but I also wasn’t going to give away the info I had on her.

  “By now, you probably know that wretched man kept track of every slight, every perceived insult, real or imagined, every misstep someone made that involved him, even tangentially.”

  “Something like that.” She didn’t know the half of it.

  “Your questions gave me the impression you knew something important. I wanted to know what that was, so I followed you that night.”

  “You were tailing me all day. How long have you been keeping track of me?”

  “I saw you and your girlfriend—”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.” I winced. The words were a little too forceful to be convincing.

  “You’re so cute.” She laughed. “When you and Nicola left the restaurant, I followed you. As I was about to say before you so rudely interrupted me, I saw you go into Cohen’s condo.”

  “So? I was doing a follow-up animal inspection for Mr. Raines. If you don’t believe me, ask him or Chief Eikenberry.”

  “No need. I like a good cover story as much as the next person. I found it intriguing that you tracked down Sybil so soon after being in Cohen’s place.” She got to her feet. “You found something in his condo. Something important. I wanted to see it.”

  Dang. She’d been following me for three days and I didn’t catch on until today. So much for my status as being a real-life version of Shawn Spencer from Psych. This discussion wasn’t about me, though.

  “And that made it okay to break into my home? To go through my stuff?”

  “Well, I thought perhaps we could come to some kind of accord.”

  In reaction mode from the moment Oscar woke me, I hadn’t thought about the motivation for Claudine’s actions. Now that the adrenaline surge was playing itself out, my brain had started pondering that very issue.

  What if Claudine was, in fact, the one responsible for Fran’s murder?

  She had the wealth to hire someone to commit the act. I’d have to double-check, but I was pretty sure the notebooks confirmed Fran’s extortion scam.

  The motive and means were enough for me. I dialed 911 and reported that I’d apprehended someone trying to break into my home.

  “You may be a world-famous chef. You may have enough money to buy everything and everyone in Paradise Springs. That doesn’t give you the right to break into my home just because you think I might have something you want.”

  She brushed some dirt from her gray chinos. Then she looked at her watch. After that, she let out a world-weary sigh.

  “You realize, of course, that your choice to call the police was rash. It limits my choices. I don’t like it when that happens.”

  “Are you going to fire me? Go ahead.” It’s not like I wanted to be associated with her if she was the one who had Fran murdered.

  “Oh, I’ll do much worse than that. I’ll simply tell the police my car broke down and I knocked on your door asking for assistance. Instead of helping me, you went into a rage and almost bashed my head in with that baseball bat. Who do you think they’ll believe?”

  The rumble of a police cruiser turned our attention toward the road. A moment later, we were bathed in the vehicle’s headlights as it turned into my driveway. Claudine got to her feet.

  “Where were you the night Cohen was murdered?”

  She furrowed her eyebrows. I’d caught her off guard.

  “At the restaurant, of course. Fridays are my second busiest night.”

  “You weren’t there the whole time. I know for a fact you were gone long enough to oversee his murder and get back to work. That should interest the cops. Unless someone else can give you an alibi.”

  “I hope you’re finished. You may have won this battle, Simpson. You started a war, and not just with me. I won’t stop until I’ve taken you apart limb from limb, roasted your remains on a pyre, and scattered your bones in the Gulf, where they’ll never be seen again.”

  It was an impressive threat. The matter-of-fact tone of her voice made it all the more effective. And made it clear she’d delivered that kind of threat before.

  As the door of the police cruiser opened, I gave her a wide smile. She could threaten me all she wanted. I still had the notebooks. She wouldn’t touch me until she figured out what I had. And had her hands on them.

  Which meant I needed to solve this murder before she got a chance to do that.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By the time the police officer took my statement, had a look at the back door, confirmed the location of Claudine’s allegedly broken-down car, and told me someone would be in touch, it was after five.

  “So much for a good night’s sleep, buddy. Here’s your reward for being the best guard cat ever.” I gave Oscar some treats and plopped back down in the recliner.

  Unable to nod off just yet, I tried to make sense of Claudine’s actions. From a rational point of view, which was often in short supply in Paradise Springs, it made no sense. If she really thought I’d found information on her at Cohen’s place, it would be dumb to try to get it herself.

  It would be way more logical to have a lackey of hers keep an eye on me and go through the trailer when I out on my rounds. My job came with a decent amount of predictability. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out a two- or three-hour window when the trailer was empty. That routine thing cut both ways.

  Unless she was so desperate to find out what Nic and I had found that she couldn’t wait to make her move.

  That sounded like panic-level desperation. Especially with the whole threat of going to war, and not just with her.

  Then another thought came to mind. How was she so sure we’d found anything? There were only three people who knew what we uncovered. I hadn’t revealed anything. Nic hadn’t, either. I was sure of it. Seven could keep a secret as well as anyone on the planet. How I learned that was a story for another time, though.

  So, was Claudine simply playing a hunch? Or did she know about the notebooks’ existence and somehow had learned the police didn’t find them?

  Now that my brain was running at full speed, I flipped through the notebooks until I arrived at the Claudine entry. I’d scanned it before, but now I studied it in minute detail.

  The sun was up by the time I finished. Fran did, indeed, have an Everest-sized mountain’s worth of dirt on Claudine. Ninety percent of it was tabloid material. It was the kind of information I had no interest in, but TMZ or the National Enquirer would pay top dollar for.

  The other 10 percent seemed to be grounded in fact. The food poisoning episode wasn’t the only issue Fran had with Claudine. There were four other issues that someone in her position wouldn’t want to see the light of day.

  Including one involving a certain man of the cloth. Huh.

  Now that I gave it some thought, an affair with a minister seemed like it would be worth a whole lot more to a blackmailer than an isolated case of food poisoning. Could that have been the real reason behind Fran’s cash demands? It was something I’d have to give some serious thought to.

  My eyelids got heavy, and before I knew it, I was startled out of slumber by Oscar’s howls. I checked my phone. It was noon and my feline buddy hadn’t received his breakfast yet.

  “Hold on. I don’t think you’ll die of starvation anytime soon.” I gave him fresh water and more baked chicken morsels, his favorite. It was the least I could do after the events earlier in the day.

  With the Boss of the House attended to, I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pondered my next move. There was no doubt in my mind that Claudine had already been processed and released on her own recognizance. Here in the Springs, big shots tended to be given a level of deference average folks like me and Rambo didn’t receive.

  I had to move quickly. She’d chosen not to give me her alibi for the time of Cohen’s murder. Instead, she got angry at me. Was that the behavior of an innocent person? Maybe, maybe not. Regardless, like the real Mr. Spock, the logical thing for me to do was move her to the top of my suspect list. If she found out about that decision, she’d get angry again. And like a wasp, she’d strike back by stinging me.

  Hard.

  By the time I finished my sandwich, I’d arrived at an inescapable conclusion. Despite my desire to leave Minerva in peace, I needed to talk to her once more. She was as close to a firsthand witness as I was going to get. And she had a few secrets of her own that Fran had made note of.

  An hour later, I was knocking on her door. Thank goodness Tuesday was my day off.

  “Elmo, this is a surprise.” She’d opened the door but left the chain latched. “What can I do for you?”

  “After our chat yesterday, I thought this might help you relax in the evening.” I offered her a box of assorted flavors of herbal tea from Mary’s Treats & Sweets. “Mind if I come in?”

  After a look over her shoulder and then a glance over mine, she unlatched the chain. I followed her through the living area to the patio out back.

  A four-foot-deep by ten-foot-wide concrete slab made up the floor. On either side, pebbled walls painted seafoam green extended out from the building’s wall to provide Minerva privacy. A three-foot-high aluminum fence with a swinging gate completed the enclosure. From my current vantage point, I couldn’t see Cohen’s patio.

  Two white plastic chairs sat facing the ocean. They flanked a small round drink table. Above us, a ceiling fan hung idle, awaiting the hotter conditions to come. The little courtyard-like area was cozy. I liked it.

  “Would you care for a glass of water?” Her smile seemed forced for some reason as she gestured for me to take a seat. She was wringing her hands. If she was nervous, she was doing a lousy job of hiding it. Which seemed odd for an actor who’d performed on Broadway.

  Allegedly.

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to take up much of your time. I came by because I need your help.”

  “What is it?” Like lots of people, Minerva couldn’t resist the pull of being needed. She eased into the other chair. It was time for a little test.

  “You’ve lived here a long time. What’s your take on the new development efforts the mayor’s been getting behind recently?”

  “To be frank, I don’t care for them. One of the reasons I chose to live here was because of the peace and quiet. For most of the year, at least. By the time my career on Broadway came to an end, I was ready find a place where I could slow down.”

  “I hear you. That’s one of the things that I like, too.”

  It was also one of the things Fran was trying to change. Which might make for some uncomfortable moments for Paradise Springs’ preeminent thespian.

  “Do you know a woman named Cheryl Long?”

  Her eyes went wide for the briefest of moments. It was an almost imperceptible reaction that I caught only because of my days playing penny poker with my mom and grandmother. I lost a lot of change to those women growing up.

  “I’m afraid not. Should I?”

  “She’s from Allentown, Pennsylvania. Happens to have the same birthday as you. A devotee of the theater, too, I understand. Does any of that help?” I used air quotes when I spoke the word devotee. Member would have been more accurate, but I wanted to see her response.

  Minerva began chewing on the corner of her lower lip. She was busted. And she knew I knew it.

  “I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Simpson. I feel a headache coming on.” With her white frock billowing in the breeze coming in from the Gulf, she looked like a wisp of smoke as she rose from her chair.

  “I don’t care about your identity, Minerva. Or should I call you Cheryl?” I stayed seated. “Doesn’t matter to me. We all have a past. What does matter is that Fran Cohen knew about it, too. And he knew that Cheryl’s husband, your husband, died not long before you moved here. And left you quite a fortune. You spent time as an understudy for the real Minerva Longet back in the day. Is she still living a quiet life in the Adirondacks?”

  “What do you want?” She practically spat the question at me.

  “The only thing I want is to figure out who’s really behind Cohen’s murder. Somehow, he learned about your real identity. And your fortune. Those are a couple of pretty big secrets someone might want kept under wraps.”

  “I’m the one who called you. Why would I do that if I was the one who had him killed?”

  “Misdirection’s the obvious reason. You get out from under Cohen’s thumb and let Rambo take the fall.”

  “Except for the fact that I was at the theater all evening. I don’t have, nor have I ever had, a key to Cohen’s home.”

  “Maybe not. But you sure knew where he kept his spare key card.”

  She waved her hands in front of her like an umpire calling someone safe. “We’re done here. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”

  “There’s no need for that.” I stood. “Thank you for your candor. Was he blackmailing you?”

  She looked at the ocean. A tear ran down her cheek. “Not in the typical way. From time to time, he demanded other things from me, of a more personal nature.”

  Wow. I had thought Cohen couldn’t have gone lower than his extortion of Sybil. And Claudine. I’d been wrong. Cohen had been a cancer on this community, using his foul notebook to destroy lives bit by bit.

  With every day that passed, the argument that Paradise Springs was a better place without Fran Cohen became stronger.

  “I’m truly sorry, Minerva.” I made a motion of tipping an imaginary hat to her and made my way to leave. When my hand was on the door handle, she asked me to wait a moment. I turned to her.

  “When you catch the person who did this, do something for me. Will you?”

  “When? Don’t you mean if?”

  She shook her head. “I know things, too, Mr. Simpson. I know about your past. There’s a lot of sorrow there. And I know you won’t stop until the killers are caught. This mission of yours is a way for you to heal some of those emotional injuries.”

  After grilling the woman, the last thing I expected was a compliment. I was unable to speak, thanks to a dumb lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. The best I could do was give her a bow from the waist.

  “So, when you do catch the ringleader, before you turn them over to the police, please tell whoever it is thank you. From all the people Fran Cohen hurt.”

  It was a dark request. One born of pain and anguish and nightmares. It was one I could empathize with.

  Whether it was the kind of message I could live with delivering? At this point, I wasn’t certain.

  I was certain that I wouldn’t stop until whoever was responsible was behind bars. Then I was going to permanently delete the photos I’d taken of the notebook pages and toss those vile notebooks into a fire and watch them turn to ash.

  That way nobody would be hurt by the information they contained ever again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The result of the visit with Minerva had left my head spinning. Was she still a suspect? Yes. After all, the dirt Fran had on her gave him control over her as well as a source of income from extortion. When you add the horrific sexual assault he committed against her, she became an even stronger suspect.

  The same could be said, to differing degrees, for a lot of folks in Paradise Springs, maybe as many as a couple of dozen who were likely targets of his blackmail schemes. Who seemed to have more money than others, though? Who would he have kept bleeding if he hadn’t been murdered? Claudine, The Vampire, and Sybil were among that group, along with any number of big wheels in town like Jolly Roger and even Wendell. So, it seemed that it all came down to two issues—information and money.

  Cohen had information. The other folks had money. And Philly Fran wanted that cash.

  Which made sense, except for the fact that I had a handful suspects with plenty of motive to want the man dead, plenty of capital to make it happen, and plenty of opportunity with no witnesses to be found.

 

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