The KenKen Killings Part 29

"Hey. I can fire you, you know."

"Not a good time in the midst of an alimony hearing. That's for starters. When you've just made your attorney an accessory to a felony, it's a very poor time."

"Okay, I won't fire you. But I might rough you up a bit."

"Also considered a poor tactic with litigation pending." Becky shook her head. "Cora, snap out of it. I need you sharp and focused. We have an advantage over the police because we know where you actually found the gun. Why was it there, and what does it mean? Which is probably the same thing. But at least we can ask those questions. The police can't, which is going to hamper their investigation. So we better come up with something fast, before you're put in the position where you have to confess that the location where the gun was found might not be entirely accurate."

"That would be very messy."

"No kidding. The gun was found next to Melvin's room. A KenKen was slipped under his door, indicating it was there. Does that mean he did it, or does that mean he didn't do it?"

"That means he didn't do it."

Becky threw up her hands in exasperation. "See? You can't think straight. You give me a snap answer just like that."

"I can think straight. It's not a snap answer. Melvin may be pond sc.u.m, but he's not stupid. He doesn't kill someone and then throw the gun in the motel room next door. I've married men who might do that, but not him. You throw in the fact he's got an insanely jealous woman who's watching him-"

"Or two," Becky muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"It's much more likely he's being deliberately framed."

"You think his wife did it?"

"That's one possibility."

"What's another?"

Cora pursed her lips. "Say you're a lawyer with a limited practice struggling to make ends meet. Perhaps still paying off your college loans."

"Have you been snooping through my mail?"

"Not you, goosey. Melvin's lawyer. What's-his-face. He's handling an alimony dispute. Strictly small potatoes. Say he wound up killing one of the witnesses."

Becky opened her mouth.

Cora put up her hand. "I know, I know. It makes no sense. There can be reasons in play we know nothing about. But take it as a premise: Lawyer kills witness."

"So he frames his client?" Becky said. "I'm already taking it on faith he kills his own witness for no reason, now I'm taking it on faith he frames his own client?"

"Not at all. He's got plenty of motive for that."

"Such as?"

"First off, he doesn't want to get caught. Self-preservation is always a motive. Second, it gets him work. That's where the poor attorney making ends meet comes in. By framing his client, suddenly he's an attorney in a murder case. With a big retainer and the whole schmear. And he'll have a wonderful advantage over the prosecution going in, because he'll know his client isn't guilty. Any theory the prosecution comes up with will be false, so he won't have a hard time poking holes in it."

"You make a strong argument. Maybe I should frame you for a murder rap."

Cora didn't even bother to acknowledge the wisecrack. "And I wouldn't trust that bimbo any farther than I can throw her." She frowned. "Actually, I could probably throw the skinny b.i.t.c.h pretty far. But you know what I mean. Girl comes to me with a KenKen, all doe-eyed and 'What am I to do?' Well, you can let go of someone else's husband for starters."

Becky smiled. "Oh, yeah. You're really over him."

"Shut up."

CHAPTER.

38.

Early next morning, Cora scrunched down in the front seat of her car and watched the motel with binoculars. She had no idea what she was going to do. Was that just because Melvin was involved? No. It was because nothing made sense of its own accord. It didn't require the return of a former husband clouding her judgment. Not that Melvin was clouding her judgment. Oh, G.o.d, what was it that man had?

The door opened and Melvin's wife came out. The current Mrs. Crabtree. Not the prospective Mrs. Crabtree. The potential Mrs. Crabtree. The Bimbo in Waiting. The Tramp Most Likely. No, this was the real McCoy. The scorned woman whom h.e.l.l hath no fury like.

The woman pushed a zapper and the lights on the car in front of her unit flashed.

Where the h.e.l.l was she going? Melvin and the bimbo were still in the love nest. At least, as far as Cora knew. What could be urgent enough to drive the stalker from their door?

Mrs. Crabtree came out of the parking lot and headed back toward town.

Cora hung a U-turn and followed.

Mrs. Crabtree parked in front of the library, got out, and crossed the street.

Cora's pulse quickened.

Was she going back to the police station?

No. She went right on by.

And into Cushman's Bake Shop.

Cora face fell.

The woman wasn't hot on the trail of some new indiscretion of her wayward husband. She'd merely been seduced by the lure of the Silver Moon m.u.f.fins that Mrs. Cushman pa.s.sed off as her own. Cora had to admit they were d.a.m.n good. She wished she had one now.

Melvin's wife was out minutes later with a cup of coffee and a pastry bag. She got in her car and drove straight back to the motel.

The car in front of her husband's unit was gone.

Mrs. Crabtree stood staring at the empty parking s.p.a.ce.

Cora could understand the woman's frustration. She's gone fifteen minutes and the bird flies the coop. Tough luck, dearie. That's how it is with surveillance jobs. You sit on a place twenty-four hours, nod off for a moment, and you're screwed. Welcome to the club.

Mrs. Crabtree seemed torn between driving around to look for Melvin, and waiting for him to return. She chose the latter. Her car lights flashed as she zapped it locked. She opened the door to her motel unit and went in.

Cora had had it with surveillance herself. She drove up to the unit, parked beside Mrs. Crabtree's car, and knocked on the door.

There came the sound of footsteps.

The door opened a crack.

A voice said, "Who is it?"

Cora put her shoulder into the door, pushed with all her might.

The door flew open.

Mrs. Crabtree went over backward and wound up in a heap on the floor.

Cora stepped into the unit, slammed the door shut.

"Let's you and me have a little talk."

The woman gaped up at her.

"I know, I know. I should say 'you and I.' After all, I'm the Puzzle Lady. But there's no one here but us chickens. Or is it we chickens? h.e.l.l, I don't care. The point is, things are gettin' rough. The question is whether you have the stomach for it."

Melvin's wife struggled to a sitting position. "Get out of here!"

"That's going to be your talking point? Not particularly helpful. So, did you get me a m.u.f.fin?"

"Huh?"

"I'm partial to the blueberry ginger, but I also like the cranberry scones. Did you get me one at Cushman's Bake Shop?"

"Are you following me?"

"Are you following Melvin?"

"Was he in the bakeshop?"

Cora smiled. "You're quick on your feet. Or should I say, on your bottom? You're not exactly on your feet, are you?"

The woman got to her knees, pushed up off the floor.

"I should warn you," Cora said, "I'm a master of some martial art or other. I can tie you up like a pretzel."

"I don't want to fight you."

"Glad to hear it. I was bluffing. So let's talk. If you're not going to throw me out physically, you don't have much choice."

"Why should I talk to you?"

"We have something in common. Wouldn't you like to compare notes?"

"No, I would not."

"That's understandable. You're still married to the guy. The wounds are fresh. But trust me. I've been there, done that. I could probably help you out."

"What do you want?"

Cora reached in her purse for her cigarettes. "Do you smoke?"

"No."

"Too bad. Anyone married to Melvin should have a hobby." Cora held a match to her cigarette. "Any ashtrays around here?"

"This is a no-smoking room."

"Just my luck." Cora lit her cigarette, pulled over the wastebasket to use as an ashtray.

"Are you always this rude?"

"Absolutely not. When I married Melvin, I was sweet as could be. So, what's your game, sweetie? You getting evidence for a divorce, or you want him back?"

"What makes you think I want him back?"

"So you do. You think you can beat the bimbo's time?"

"Bambi?" She snorted. "The poor girl hasn't got a clue."

"Oh?"

"She's just the flavor of the month. And not even this month, either."

"Really? So who is?"

"You don't know? She testified for him in court. At least, she tried to."

Cora frowned. "The teller? Melvin hit on the teller?"

"He called on her in the bank and took her out to dinner."

"You're kidding! What did Little Miss Hotpants have to say about that."

"She wasn't here."

"What?"

"She came up and joined him for the hearing."