She nodded vigorously. “Yes. You’ve solved so many cases together. They figured they should start a business.”
I looked at Bernie, who was shifting uneasily in his chair. His expression said, ‘no way,’ while his mouth opened up and said, “It’s a great idea, right?”
I pressed my lips together. Apparently Bernie didn’t want to upset the détente he had going on with the love of his life, and I guess I couldn’t blame him for that. Even so, the thought of those two ladies on the loose hiding in shrubbery taking pictures made me reach for the antacids I’d discovered in my top drawer.
Bernie held out his hand, and I dropped two tablets onto his palm.
We both chewed and swallowed in unison. Then I tried to retake control of the situation. “Bernie, I need to ask you more details about your night with Sharon Smith, and we can do that privately if you wish.” The skin between my shoulder blades itched at my even bringing up the subject.
Florence stiffened and straightened her back.
Bernie sighed and rubbed both gnarled hands up his face. “Sure.” He slumped in his chair, his white hair now standing on end. “We had a poker night, and we had too much to drink. I vaguely remember Sharon coming inside, and I think we even dealt her in?” His head bowed. “The next thing I remember was waking up at her place in her bed.”
Florence pressed her lips so tightly together they turned white.
I frowned. “Have you been able to recollect anything else since this has been on your mind so much? Do you remember having sex with her?”
Bernie jolted. “Geez, Anna. Come on.”
Florence slowly turned to face him. “Do you?”
His chest concaved when he exhaled heavily. “No. But we were naked that morning, and she said we did, so I believed her. Plus, I had a raging headache, one of the worst I’ve ever had, and I needed to get out of there.” His voice lowered. “I needed to confess to you, and that was the only thing on my mind.”
Florence’s gaze met mine. “You think?”
I shrugged. “Totally possible.”
Bernie looked from her to me. “What are you two talking about?”
I tried to find the right words when I truly had no clue what had happened. “What if Lawrence set you up completely and not just by introducing you to Sharon? Do you have any idea how long he’d held a torch for Florence?”
“No,” Bernie said, looking at Florence.
She blushed prettily. “Truthfully, I played the field a bit before Bernie and I settled down, and I did go on a few dates with Lawrence. But no romantic sparks ignited until Bernie and I split and Lawrence was there for me. He was a shoulder to cry on that turned into more.”
Hope and a flare of anger lit Bernie’s cloudy eyes. “You agree with me that I didn’t break my wedding vows and was set up?”
“Maybe?” I said. “Have you ever gotten so drunk you lost time like that?”
“No,” he burst out, an alarming red staining his wrinkled face. “Never. Sure, I get toasted sometimes, but I’ve never woken up not knowing how the heck I got there. Do you think I was drugged?” Without waiting for an answer, he slammed his hands on his thighs. “That bastard. I wish I could kill him—that he wasn’t already dead.”
Well, crap. “That’s a heck of a motive to kill him,” I said quietly.
“But I didn’t know,” Bernie protested. “I had no clue it was a setup or that I didn’t really have relations.”
I reached for a legal pad. Would a jury believe that he hadn’t known? “Who was there playing poker that night?”
“It was a big poker night—we hold it annually to benefit the CASA organization in town. There were several tables, and I could try to track down the guest list, but no guarantees.” Bernie leaned forward and tapped his finger on my desk. “I played at two different tables, and I mostly remember who played at those. It was me, Lawrence, his son Hoyt, Donald McLerrison, Earl Jacobson, Doc Springfield, Jocko Terezzi….” His voice trailed off. “That’s only seven. I need one more person—we played four at a table.”
“What about Micky Sala?” Florence asked, tilting her head.
Bernie’s eyes cleared. “That’s right. It was Micky.” His chin lowered. “Mick had prostate cancer and only lived a couple of months beyond that. He was a good Kringle. Yes, he was.”
I examined the list. “I’ve met Hoyt, Earl, and the doctor.” Although I’d need to speak to them each about this. “But I haven’t met Jocko Terezzi. Who is he?”
“He’s a good guy and a great Santa,” Bernie said, which seemed to be his barometer for judging most friends. “He owns the Irish gift store on the other side of Spokane. They have lots of china and jewelry, and he really does a good business during the holidays, which makes it even more impressive that he takes time to be an authentic Santa.” Bernie smiled, revealing smooth dentures. “He also gets the best whiskey from his ex-brother-in-law, but he doesn’t sell that.” Bernie added the last hastily.
“He’s divorced?” I asked.
