The Fast Аnd Тhe Furriest

Chapter 9

I’d planned to stay and work on the metal cart but by the time we closed up I’d lost my enthusiasm for that idea.

“Let’s go home,” I said to Elvis.

“Mrr,” he agreed, heading for the back door.

As soon as I opened the apartment door Elvis retreated to his cat tower. I changed my clothes and went for a run. I remembered when Nick had come running with me. He was slow and his form was terrible but I’d laughed the entire time we were out. I wondered when I was going to hear from him. We were all working to prove Mac had had nothing to do with Erin Fellowes’s death. My stomach felt unsettled when I thought that maybe Nick was working to do the opposite.

When I got back to the house Liz’s car was parked out front. I stepped inside and she poked her head out of Rose’s apartment. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes,” she said.

I turned to look at her. “It’s Saturday night. Maybe I have plans.”

Liz rolled her eyes. “You’re hilarious,” she said. She looked down at her watch. “Dinner’s in fourteen minutes.” She closed the door again.

I had a shower, put on a T-shirt dress and flip-flops and went out into the living room to find Elvis waiting by the door. “How do you know we were invited for dinner?” I said. “Were you over here with your kitty ear pressed to the door, listening?”

He put a paw on the door for a moment, then looked at me and meowed loudly. Sometimes I got the feeling the cat was messing with me—and enjoying it.

As always dinner was delicious—chicken with leeks and tomatoes, new baby potatoes and green beans. “How was your manicure?” I asked Liz over a second helping of green beans.

She held out a hand. She had a pretty pink French manicure. “Channing was correct,” she said. “Everything he found out about du Mer is true. Six or seven months before Leila’s accident there were rumblings that the product quality had gone way down. I talked to Elspeth.”

Elspeth was Liz’s niece, her brother’s daughter. She owned Phantasy, a spa and hair salon and a pretty good source of North Harbor gossip.

“She confirmed that the products haven’t been the same since.” Liz reached over and swiped a green bean from my plate.

I made a face. “Then either Leila knew what was going on or . . .”

Rose finished the sentence. “Or her sister was defrauding the company. Given that Mac knew nothing about the problems at du Mer it’s not too much of a stretch to think maybe Leila didn’t, either.”

“You think it was Natalie,” I said, gesturing with my fork.

Liz held out a hand and admired her nails. “‘Blood is thicker than water’ doesn’t always mean a damn thing,” she said.

I was restless and up early the next morning. I made breakfast, checked the store’s Web site and cleaned the bathroom all with Elvis’s supervision. I still had energy to burn. I decided to head over to the shop and work on my table for a while. I grabbed my keys and bag and turned around to find Elvis waiting by the door. “You don’t even know where I’m going,” I said.

“Mrr,” he said. I got the feeling he didn’t care.

The cat was almost always up for going out. He was very social, I’d discovered. He’d quickly made himself at home in the shop, charming customers—even those who weren’t cat people.

I’d had Elvis for over a year now. He’d just appeared one day, down along the harbor front, managing to get fed at several different places, including The Black Bear. Sam and his pickup band, The Hairy Bananas, were doing their Elvis medley when Sam swore he saw the cat sitting just inside the front door of the pub. He claimed Elvis stayed put through the entire set and left only when they started on “Satisfaction.”

No one seemed to know who owned the small black cat. Sam had named him Elvis because he seemed to like the King’s music. On closer inspection he’d discovered a scar that sliced diagonally across the cat’s nose, and a couple of others hidden by his black fur.

Sam had managed to convince me to take the cat and it had been hard to say no once Elvis had climbed in my old truck and settled himself behind a guitar case. I grinned at the memory.

I leaned into the truck to grab him, but he slipped off the seat, onto the floor mat. With the guitar there I couldn’t reach him.

Behind me, I could hear Sam laughing.

I blew my hair out of my face, backed out of the truck and glared at Sam. “Your cat’s in my truck. Do something!”

He folded his arms over his chest. “He’s not my cat. I’m pretty sure he’s your cat now.”

“I don’t want a cat.”

“Tell him that,” Sam said with a shrug.

I stuck my head back through the open driver’s door. “I don’t want a cat,” I said.

Ensconced out of my reach in the little lean-to made by the guitar case Elvis looked up from washing his face—again—and meowed once and went back to it.

I looked down at the cat now. “I think you and Sam were in cahoots,” I said.

Elvis seemed to shrug. It was as close to an admission as I was going to get.

As I came level with the shop I caught sight of a man in the parking lot, leaning against a red SUV. “Is that a customer or is that TV crew coming back to try to hijack our parking?” I said to Elvis. He craned his neck to see out the windshield and made a huffy sound through his nose. Okay, his vote was the TV crew.

I took another look at the man. He was a couple of inches shorter than Mac, which put him at maybe five ten or so, with the same dark skin and cropped dark hair, plus a closely trimmed mustache and goatee. He was wearing a lightweight, gray summer suit and was a little heavier than Mac, with broader shoulders.

I parked by the back door. “Stay here,” I said to Elvis.

His ears twitched but he sat down on the seat again.

I walked over to the mystery man, who had pushed away from the car and straightened up when I’d pulled in. “Hello,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Sarah Grayson, aren’t you?” he said. He was wearing a white shirt with the gray suit. The top button was undone and he didn’t have a tie.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You have me at a disadvantage. Should I know you?”

He extended his hand. “I’m Jackson Montgomery. Mac and I are friends.” He had gorgeous blue eyes and a ready smile. The gray suit was expensive. Thanks to Liz I could recognize quality when I saw it. But I noted that he was wearing an inexpensive Timex on his left arm.

“I came to see Mac,” he said. “Is he here?”

“I’m sorry, Mac isn’t available,” I said. Just because the man said he was a friend of Mac’s didn’t mean he was. “Would you like me to give him a message?”

“It’s okay, Sarah.” Mac was standing in the garage doorway. He walked over to us.

Jackson Montgomery smiled at Mac. “Man, it’s good to see you. I heard about Erin. I was in trial or I would have been here sooner.”

So he was a lawyer. That explained the expensive suit and the inexpensive watch. Together they said successful but not elitist.

“Why are you here at all?” Mac said. “I’ve been in North Harbor for more than a year and you haven’t made any effort to contact me. Go back to Boston, Jackson.”

“I can help,” Jackson said. His eyes didn’t move from Mac’s face.

“I have a great lawyer and friends I can depend on. I don’t need anything from you.” Mac’s tone was cold, his body tightly controlled. “I have work to do. Excuse me.” He headed across the parking lot.

Jackson exhaled loudly and pulled a hand down over the back of his head. He swore softly just under his breath. I stood silently watching him. He glanced at me. “Mac’s angry,” he said.

I folded my arms across my body. “What he said was true,” I said. “Are you really surprised? Mac has been here for over a year but this is the first time I’ve seen you.”

He looked away for a moment then faced me again. “You’re right. I should have come sooner—a lot sooner—but I’m not leaving town now that I’m here.” He pulled his keys from his pocket. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Sarah.”

I watched him drive away, then I collected Elvis from the car and went inside. Mac was at the workbench. “He’s gone,” I said, setting the cat down.

Mac didn’t look up. “He’ll be back. Jackson doesn’t take no for an answer the first time he hears it—or the second or third time.” He set down the screwdriver he’d been holding and finally faced me. “I’m sorry for just walking away. I didn’t want to say something I’d be sorry for later.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “You should know that he said he’s not going anywhere.”

Mac gave me a half smile. “That doesn’t surprise me. Jackson has a bullheaded streak I always half admired. Now I’m seeing the other side of it.” He gave his head an abrupt shake as though he were trying to get rid of the feelings the conversation had stirred up. “You’re up early,” he said.

“You know what they say; the early bird gets the worm.”

He made a face. “No worms, but how about coffee?”

“Even better,” I said.

“I haven’t made any coffee here but I have a pot in my place,” he said. “I should warn you, it’s strong.”

I shot him a look.

He laughed. “Right. I forgot who I was talking to.”

Elvis followed us into the shop. We started for the stairs. He went to nose around a collection of baskets Charlotte had arranged by the front door.

“When I was a kid I’d sneak tastes of my grandmother’s coffee,” I said. “I think I was about twenty years old before I figured out that not everyone made it as strong as she did.”

Mac’s apartment was on the second floor overlooking the old garage. This past winter the building where he’d rented an apartment had been sold. We’d ended up renovating part of the second-floor space and now he had a small apartment with its own private entrance at the back and I worried a lot less about security for the store. Not to mention that most mornings the coffee was on when I arrived. It seemed to be working out well for both of us.

“Have a seat, I’ll get the coffee,” Mac said, gesturing at the round, wooden table by the window. We’d found the table in an old barn. It had been painted a bilious shade of olive green. Mac and I had removed all the old finish, Avery had helped with the sanding, and a rich walnut stain had brought out the wood’s natural beauty.

I ran my hand over the gleaming wood surface. The table was one of my favorite projects. Mac and I worked well together.

He set a mug in front of me and took the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Did Jackson say anything to you?”

“No,” I said. “Just that he needed to talk to you.” I picked up my cup and took a sip. As promised it was strong and hot, just the way I liked it. “I take it you and Jackson used to be close.”

He nodded. “We were. Jackson was like Jess is to you.”

I couldn’t imagine not being in contact with Jess for more than a year. Even when I’d been working in other parts of the country we’d always stayed in touch. “What happened?”

He looked past me for a moment then his gaze came back to my face. “Hypothetical question?”

“Okay,” I said, folding my hands around my mug.

“What would happen, what would Jess do, if someone suggested that you’d tried to kill someone?”

“You know Jess. She’d be all over the person. You know how loyal she is. I could rob a bank and Jess would say, ‘Well, what did they expect, keeping all that money in it?’” As I said the words I knew where the conversation was going.

“I would have said the same thing about Jackson,” Mac said, slowly turning his cup in circles. “And I would have been wrong.”

“He sided with Leila’s parents.”

“He did more than that. He helped them when they sued to take over Leila’s care. How am I supposed to forget that?” He sighed. “Erin, I get. She and Leila had been friends since they were kids. But Jackson?”

“Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe that’s why he’s here now—to try to make up for that,” I said. I held up both hands. “I’m not taking his side. I’m not taking anyone’s side other than yours. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. You know I haven’t always been the best friend to Michelle. I know what it’s like to screw up and not be able to fix it.”

Michelle Andrews and I had been fast friends until the summer we were fifteen, the same summer her father had been sent to prison for embezzling money from the summer camp run by the Emmerson Foundation, the charitable trust set up by Liz’s grandparents. Michelle had suddenly stopped speaking to me and I’d spent years not knowing why. It wasn’t until the Angels had gotten involved in the murder of Arthur Fenety that I’d learned that Michelle had overheard me talking to Nick the night of my birthday. She’d been sick with chicken pox but she’d snuck out of bed to bring me my present and she’d heard me tell Nick that it wasn’t fair that her dad was still here and my father was gone. “I wish he was the one who was dead!” I’d blurted. A minute later I’d taken it all back, but she hadn’t stayed around long enough to hear that. And then a couple of weeks later, her father was dead.

“It’s not the same thing,” Mac said. “You said something stupid because you were a teenager. And you never stopped trying to fix things. Don’t compare yourself with him.” His dark eyes flashed with a spark of anger. “You’re nothing like Jackson.” His expression softened a little. “Jackson is nothing like Jackson—he’s not the friend I thought I had.”

He picked up his mug, took a drink and set it back on the table again. “Tell me what your day looks like,” he said. It was a clear signal that the conversation about Jackson Montgomery was over. “It’s Sunday. Don’t spend all of it working.”

“I’m not,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m meeting Jess later. What about you?”

“I’ll be out on the water,” he said.

“Have fun.”

He nodded. For a moment I thought he was going to say something but the moment passed.

I decided to head out to the old garage to work on my table project for a while. I’d been at it for about an hour when Dad called.

“What did I take you from, my girl?”

“I’m trying paint samples on a table.”

“Green,” he immediately said.

“You don’t even know what colors I’m trying.”

“Did I ever tell you one of my ancestors was a gypsy fortune-teller?” Dad asked. “I have some psychic ability.”

Grinning, I walked out of the garage work space into the sunshine. “I thought one of your ancestors was a French pickpocket.”

“What? I can’t have more than one ancestor?” I could hear the laughter in his voice.

I laughed as well. “So I take it you’ve found some information about Mac’s wife,” I said.

“I did,” he said, his tone turning serious. “But there really wasn’t anything to find. There’s no scandal around Leila’s family other than the birth of her half sister, Natalie—she was the product of a brief affair Leila’s father had and she was a secret until she was a teenager. I did learn that it seems for at least a short period of time Leila and her father were estranged, but from the beginning she insisted that people treat Natalie with respect.”

I thought once again that Leila sounded like someone I could have been friends with.

I heard Dad shuffle some papers on the other end of the phone.

“A colleague of mine covered the investigation into Leila’s accident,” he continued. “I talked to him last night. It was eventually ruled an accident but the police did look pretty closely into Mac and his movements. In the end they concluded the timing wasn’t right for Mac to have tried to kill Leila. And they couldn’t show for sure the heating system had been tampered with.”

I rubbed the back of my neck with my free hand. I thought about what Mac had told me about Jackson. “Do you have any idea why so many people were unconvinced?”

Dad sighed softly. “It’s pretty clear that Leila’s family didn’t like Mac. Apparently he and Leila met at a fund-raiser for a charity that provides scholarships for low-income inner-city kids.” I remembered Stevie saying Mac and Leila had literally seen each other across a crowded room. The story had seemed very romantic.

“Both Mac and Leila’s great-aunt were on the charity’s board,” Dad said. “It seems her family had a bias against Mac from the beginning.”

“Why?” I said.

“I don’t know.” I pictured my dad shaking his head. “I don’t think it helped when Leila’s great-aunt replaced her father with Mac as her financial adviser. She disapproved of his affair, although she was welcoming to Natalie.”

I had a feeling I would have liked Leila’s great-aunt as well.

“Sarah, what do you know about Mac’s family?”

The sun was warm on my arms and the back of my neck. I moved back to the garage doorway, where there was some shade. “I know he has a younger brother, Jameis, and their parents are dead. His brother’s a nurse. He’s working in Central America with some organization that provides medical care in remote places that don’t regularly see doctors or nurses—Honduras, I think.”

“Did you know that Mac was in college when his parents died?”

I glanced over at the shop. “I didn’t.” There were still so many things about Mac that were a mystery.

“Mac became his brother’s guardian. Raised him through the rest of high school. I can’t find anything that says he was involved in what happened to his wife. Mac’s a good guy.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I appreciate this.”

“Anytime, sweetie,” he replied, and somehow I could feel the warmth of his smile through the phone.

“Love you,” I said. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

I worked on the metal table for the next hour or so, smiling when I realized that Dad was in fact right: Green was the best color choice.

Jess and I spent the afternoon driving around to flea markets. She found some bolts of vintage cotton prints and a couple of jean jackets to refurbish. Jess had a great sense of style. All she needed was her sewing machine, some thread and a pair of scissors and she could make magic out of just about any old item of clothing she found. What she didn’t keep to wear herself ended up in the funky little used and vintage clothing shop along the waterfront that she was part owner of.

Jess wasn’t the only one who found some treasures. I bought a box of glass fishbowls, some copper baking dishes and an old metal nursery cart. We had supper at a little mom-and-pop restaurant just this side of Rockport and I felt that my batteries had been recharged when I got home.

Monday morning Mr. P. and Rose drove to the shop with Elvis and me.

In the backseat Mr. P. was humming to himself. I glanced in the rearview mirror at him. “You’re in a good mood,” I said.

“Does that mean that sometimes I’m not?” he countered with a twinkle in his eye.

I smiled. “No. But you do seem a little like the cat that swallowed the canary this morning.”

Beside me Elvis meowed and looked around, seemingly puzzled.

Everyone laughed.

I glanced down at him beside me on the seat. “I wasn’t talking about you,” I said.

He stared at me unblinkingly for a moment and then went back to watching the road. Elvis took his backseat driver status very seriously. Rose reached over and stroked his fur.

“It’s possible that I may be onto something.” Mr. P. put his hand on the back of my seat and leaned forward. “But I don’t want to jinx myself.”

Rose turned partway around to look at him. “Is it what we were talking about?”

“It is,” he said.

She clasped her hands together like a little girl. “Splendid!” she said.

“Bring me in the loop when there’s something to share,” I said. As usual I didn’t have a clue what was going on, which experience told me might turn out to be a blessing—or might turn out to be a curse.

The shop was very busy for a Monday morning, probably because the sky was dull and cloudy and rain was threatening. I sold a mandolin and a small shopping cart I’d repurposed into a plant stand and house numbers display. The woman who bought the refurbished cart offered twenty dollars for the three pots of geraniums I’d used for display in the cart. I immediately said yes, tucking the two tens she gave me into my pocket to give to Charlotte, who had grown the plants and who I knew would argue that they hadn’t cost anywhere near that much to grow. Since my thumb was more black than green it was an argument she was going to lose.

Avery sold a small rectangular table to a tourist Sam had sent over. I had stripped and whitewashed the top, but painted the legs a creamy off-white. The woman decided she wanted to buy the dishes that Avery had used to set the table as well. I eavesdropped as Avery made several suggestions for tablecloth and napkin combinations. After the woman left, the table padded with old blankets and secured in the bed of the enormous half-ton crew cab she was driving, I put my arms around Avery’s shoulders and hugged her. “Good job,” I said.

She grinned with pleasure. “You don’t think I was being pushy when I told her having everything matchy-matchy is kind of 1980s, do you?”

I shook my head. “No. She asked what you thought. By the way, I like your idea of using one main color to pull it all together.”

“Yeah, that stuff always seems kind of obvious to me but I get that it’s not like that for everyone.” She slid the stack of bracelets she was wearing up her arm. “You know, I might be a designer after college.”

Avery was wearing a funky jungle print sundress from Jess’s shop with a lime green dyed denim vest over the top and the ubiquitous stack of bracelets on one arm. “I could see you doing that,” I said.

She nodded. “Yeah, that or nuclear physicist. I haven’t decided yet.”

It was the first time she’d mentioned either occupation. “I, um . . . I’m sure you’d be good at both.”

She smiled and gestured at the empty place on the floor. “Which table should come in to fill the space?”

Tables were very popular with our customers so as quickly as we sold one I tried to get another in its place.

“You and Mac can decide,” I said. “Go see what he says.”

Avery headed for the old garage, where Mac was working, passing Rose and Mr. P. coming in from the back. “I sold that table,” she said to Rose.

“Wonderful!” Rose said. They exchanged high fives as the teen went by.

Mr. P. smiled as they joined me. He still had a bit of a self-satisfied gleam in his eye.

“You’re ready to share?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded. “Yes, I am, my dear.”

“You’ve found something.”

“Security footage,” he said.

“Of?”

“Of Mac at four different restaurants, looking for Erin Fellowes, just as he told the police he was, just when he said he was. Depending on the timeline the police have established, it might help show that Mac couldn’t have had anything to do with her death.”

I felt like doing a little victory dance but I settled for grinning at both of them.

“I’ve already left a message at Josh’s office,” Rose said.

Now Mr. P.’s expression grew serious.

“Is there something else?” I asked.

He nodded. “I did a little more digging and it’s possible that Stephanie Carleton wasn’t at the hydroponic workshop that’s her alibi for the time the heating system at Mac’s house could potentially have been tampered with.”

I sighed softly. I’d liked Leila’s cousin and I hated the idea that Stevie may have had something to do with Leila’s death. “So you think she wasn’t at the workshop at all, or that she just wasn’t there the night of Leila’s accident?”

“The latter, I’m afraid,” Mr. P. said, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I talked to several people who confirmed that she was there, but very quickly I realized how fuzzy they were on time and how big the seminar was.”

“And how much most of them had to drink at the hotel bar afterward,” Rose added with a roll of her eyes.

“They used swipe cards at the conference center,” Mr. P. continued.

“And?”

“The system keeps track of who has each card and every time it’s swiped.”

“I take it they store that information somewhere,” I said.

Rose smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful how much computers can keep these days? Just think how many trees have been saved.”

The conversation was about to veer off into the ditch. I eyed Mr. P. “I take it you’ve seen that information.”

“Only with respect to Stephanie’s movements,” he said, adjusting his glasses again.

“Freddie would never violate someone’s privacy,” Rose added.

“Freddie?” I asked. Despite my best efforts it seemed the conversation had gone off course.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember Freddie Calhoun?” Rose looked at me as though the name should have made sense to me.

Freddie Calhoun.

“Josh’s friend?” I said. I remembered a skinny, gangly kid, his blond hair buzzed close to his scalp, helping Josh Evans launch a rocket in the Evanses’ backyard. Josh’s mother, Jane, had had to draw eyebrows on Josh for the rest of the summer.

Rose beamed at me. I’d clearly given the correct answer. “He has his own cybersecurity firm now. Such a helpful young man.” Freddie had been one of Rose’s students. Pretty much everyone within ten years in either direction of my age had been one of Rose’s students. “Oh, and he goes by Ric now—no ‘k’—not Freddie,” she added helpfully.

“We know that Stephanie left early, in plenty of time to have tampered with that water heater,” Mr. P. said.

“You still think what happened wasn’t an accident?” I’d shared what my dad had confirmed—that the police couldn’t prove that the leaking water heater had been tampered with.

Mr. P. and Rose exchanged a look. He cleared his throat. “I managed to get a look at those reports as well. The police couldn’t prove the heater had been tampered with but they couldn’t say it hadn’t been, either.”

I nodded. “Okay.” I didn’t ask how he’d managed to see those reports. I looked at some of Alfred’s fact-finding the way I did Rose’s favorite breakfast sausage. I liked the end product but I was happier not knowing exactly what went into it.

I looked at my watch. “We can leave in about ten minutes,” I said. “I just need to call Clayton and tell him I won’t be there this afternoon.”

“We appreciate the offer, dear,” Rose said. “But Alf has something else he wants to try first. He’s set up a Skype session with Stevie in about fifteen minutes. He told her he wants to know more about Leila and Stevie’s great-aunt.” She looked at Mr. P., giving him a warm smile.

“You mean the one who set up the trust for them?”

Mr. P. nodded. “Leila and Stephanie are the only girls in the family on that side of the family and from that generation, aside from Leila’s half sister, Natalie. I really would like to know more about Marguerite Thompson-Davis. And of course I want to see Stephanie’s face when I tell her what I found out.” He hiked up his pants, which were already almost up in his armpits. “Not that I told her that, of course. You’re welcome to join us, Sarah, if you’re free.”

Could Stevie really have put her cousin in a coma over money? I knew it was possible; I just didn’t want to believe it had actually happened. Mr. P. wasn’t the only one who wanted to see Stevie’s face when he told her what he’d unearthed. “Thank you,” I said. “I think I just might do that.”

He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be at my desk. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Both Rose and I were in the Angels’ office when Mr. P. opened his Skype session with Stevie.

“What would you like to know about Aunt Margie?” she asked.

“She had no children of her own?”

Stevie shook her head. “My mother seemed to think that she’d lost a baby but it wasn’t something that was ever talked about.” She smiled. “She spoiled us—Leila and me. She paid for music lessons, she took us for long weekends in New York City and she encouraged us to go after our dreams.”

“She sounds like a very special person,” Rose said, leaning sideways so Stevie could see her.

“Hi, Rose,” Stevie said with a smile. She waved at her computer screen. “And yes, you’re right. Aunt Margie was special.” She turned her attention to Mr. P. again. “You knew she was pretty much a self-made woman.”

Mr. P. tipped his head to one side like a curious seagull. “I know that Marguerite and her husband ran their own business.”

Stevie nodded. “I’m not trying to imply that she grew up poor, but Aunt Margie’s father thought her only purpose was to be a good wife. The only reason he agreed to let her go to university was that he felt she’d meet a better class of potential husbands.”

“Goodness,” Rose said softly, shaking her head in dismay.

“Her grandmother had what they called at the time ‘her own money.’ She left several thousand dollars to Aunt Margie and that’s what she and her husband used to start their business.” Stevie turned her attention back to Rose. “I don’t know if Alfred told you, but they took a small business teaching language and customs to businesspeople traveling overseas, and turned it into a multimillion-dollar corporation they later sold. Leila always said we got our business chops from Aunt Margie.” She looked away from the screen for a moment and closed her eyes briefly before turning back to the camera and pasting on a smile. “So, anyway, Aunt Margie became very much a philanthropist after the business was sold. She said it was more fun giving money away than it had ever been making it.”

Stevie leaned back and put both hands on the desktop next to her computer. “I heard from a couple of friends, Alfred. They said you’d been in touch to check out my alibi.” She made air quotes around the word “alibi.” “So now you know I had nothing to do with what happened to Leila.”

“On the contrary, now I’m a little suspicious because I know you lied about where you were. I know you swiped out of the conference center much earlier than you said you did.” His voice was as even and nonconfrontational as it would have been if he were at McNamara’s putting in a sandwich order.

Stevie pressed a palm to her forehead. “Big Brother is always watching,” she muttered, exhaling loudly. “I didn’t do anything to Leila,” she said, her expression pained. “I would never hurt her.”

“Telling the truth would go a long way toward making that seem credible,” Mr. P. said.

Stevie gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Fine,” she said. She reached for her smartphone. “I thought this might happen. I’m e-mailing you some photos. They’re time-stamped. There’s probably some way to show they haven’t been faked because they haven’t been. I don’t know how to do that kind of stuff.”

It was only seconds before we heard the ping of an arriving message. Mr. P. opened his e-mail. There were four photos attached. They were all of Stevie in a ’50s-style diner. She seemed to be eating some kind of sundae.

“Are those Pop-Tarts in that dish?” Rose asked, leaning closer to the screen to get a better look at the pictures.

Stevie hung her head. “Yes. And three kinds of ice cream plus strawberry sauce and whipped cream.”

“Where on earth were you?” Rose said. She and Mr. P. exchanged another look.

Stevie actually smiled. “This little place that serves the most amazing junk food I’ve ever had.”

“Why did you lie?” Mr. P. said. He frowned at the screen. “It appears that you have a perfectly good alibi. So why pretend to be somewhere you weren’t?”

“You have to understand that Davis and I are this close to signing a deal to see our organic apple butter and pear butter in a major, high-end department store chain.” She held up her right thumb and index finger about half an inch apart. “But part of the deal is our image as an all-organic, healthy-eating couple—not someone who scarfs down Pop-Tarts and whipped cream from a can. I couldn’t take the chance.” She shrugged. “No, I wasn’t at the seminar all evening but I wasn’t killing Leila, either. All I was doing was gumming up my arteries and sending my cholesterol levels through the roof.”

Mr. P. smiled and took off his glasses, pulling a small gray cloth out of his gold shirt to clean them. “As long as these photos check out, I don’t see any reason why we need to share your affection for whipped cream in a can.”

Rose leaned into the frame again. “Although I would like to suggest you try making your own whipped cream with the addition of a pinch of sea salt and tiny bit of vanilla bean paste.”

I pressed my lips together so she wouldn’t see the grin I was working hard to hold back. Rose thought basic cooking skills were as important as being able to read and write, change the oil in a car and curtsy—or bow if you were a man. The latter because you never know when you might meet royalty and one doesn’t want to look like an “uncouth hooligan.”

Mr. P. thanked Stevie for the photos and said he’d be in touch. He signed out of the Skype session and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m guessing you have some kind of software program that can tell whether those pictures have been altered,” I said, pushing away from the table where I’d been leaning during the conversation with Stevie.

He nodded. “I have a couple, but I tend to believe she’s telling us the truth. This time.”

“Why?” I asked.

“That day we went to visit her I noticed that she wiped her hands on her shorts before we shook hands. She’d been eating Cheetos and a bit of the orange powder was still on her fingers.” He smiled.“You might say her story has junk food fingerprints all over it.”