“At least Mrs. Miller was telling the truth about watching the Late Show when she heard him come home,” I said. “Whoever killed him must have come later, after she’d gone to bed.”
“Or she was waiting for him to come home,” Zachary said, “so she could go next door and kill him. Eleven-thirty’s a bit late for an old lady to be up, isn’t it?”
Maybe it was. I wasn’t old enough yet to know, although I tend to be in bed before that myself. I was glad to see that Zachary hadn’t lost his ability to think critically, anyway.
“Jacquie drives a dark blue Beetle,” I told him. “I don’t suppose you saw one of those? Or a white Bronco? New and shiny?”
Zachary opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Rachel frowned. “You don’t really think Kenny might have something to do with this, do you?”
“It isn’t impossible. He was certainly quite cozy with Jacquie last night.”
“That doesn’t mean he killed anyone. Kenny’s a lot of things, but I don’t think he’s a murderer.”
I didn’t necessarily think he was a murderer either, but— “You’re defending him?”
“I’m saying he’s less immature than he used to be. He’s been working on the bar with Daniel, and he’s been showing up on time, putting in real effort. Daniel says he’s impressed.”
I snorted. “Daniel’s impressed by anyone who shows up more than once.”
“That’s not fair,” Rachel protested, but there wasn’t much heat in it.
“No,” Zachary said into the silence. “No bright and shiny, new, white Bronco. And I don’t think there was a Beetle, but I can’t swear to it. Not in the dark.”
“What about the paint?” I asked Rachel. “You don’t think Kenny would do that, either?”
Rachel hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. But it seems petty, even for him.”
“Petty is Kenny’s specialty.”
Rachel opened her mouth to respond—I was bracing myself—but before she could let rip, the front door opened and Jacquie walked in.
Chapter Fifteen
She looked awful. I’d thought so yesterday at Fidelio’s, but today she looked worse. Her makeup was immaculate, but it couldn’t hide the redness of her eyes or the way her lips pulled down at the corners. She even looked thinner, although that could have been because she was wearing all black again—yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and a jacket, with black sneakers; it was like she wasn’t even trying—and because her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so severe that it sucked all the fullness out of her cheeks.
“Gina,” she said, and her voice cracked. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course.” I gestured to the chair. “Have a seat.”
She perched on the edge of it, clutching her purse in her lap. It was black, too. Edwina, sensing distress, jumped down from Zachary’s lap and trotted over to sniff at Jacquie’s shoes.
“I need your help,” she said. “I need you to find out who killed Nick.”
Oh, was that all?
“That’s the police’s job. We specialize in cheating spouses, remember? Murder investigations are way outside our wheelhouse.”
“But you’ve done it before.” Her eyes were huge and pleading. “You figured out what happened to David, and to Heidi’s husband. You’re good at this.”
“I got lucky,” I demurred. “That’s different from being good at it.”
In fact, I had a tendency to stumble over the solutions to things, not from clever deductions, but from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Please.” She leaned forward, and I could see the tears gathering in her eyes. “The police think I did it. I can tell. Detective Mendoza came with you that first day, and yesterday there was a woman, Samantha something. They keep asking me where I was, whether I own a gun, whether Nick and I fought. They think I killed him, and I didn’t. I loved him.”
“Then you need a lawyer,” I said, “not a private investigator.”
“I need both.” She pulled an envelope out of her purse and set it on my desk. “Here’s another two thousand. I want you to use it to find out what really happened.”
