I zipped up my jacket. “That Truck had ample reason to want Xavier dead. I don’t think Truck would’ve gotten that Hollywood contract if his buddy had lived.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that,” Ruth said.
“Not only that, but both Truck and Slick sold Xavier the rights to use their image. Xavier could do whatever he wanted with them—make and sell action figures, posters, you name it—and Truck wouldn’t see one dime. Looks like both men tried to get Xavier to sell the rights back, but their buddy wouldn’t budge. Now with him out of the way, the rights revert back to Truck and Slick.”
“But now the show’s dead,” Alice said.
“But not their careers,” I said. “We know that Truck has a deal. What about Slick?”
“I don’t know,” Alice said. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“That’s what I need to know next. Do y’all have any idea where Slick will be tomorrow?”
“How about a funeral?” Ruth said. “They’re burying Xavier.”
“Is it invitation only?” I said.
“Far as I know,” Ruth said. “But we might be able to get in if you need to talk to Slick.”
I tapped my toe. “Let me think about it. I’ll let y’all know in the morning. If Truck tells Slick what we did—went through his stuff, he’ll avoid us like the plague. That’s a problem.”
“Oh no he won’t,” Ruth said.
“Why’s that?”
She pulled in front of the bed-and-breakfast and stopped. “Because I happened to teach sixth grade in Haunted Hollow for twenty years. Every single Christmas I receive a card from Slick’s mother. If there’s something I need from him, you can bet Miss Martha Ann is going to help me however she can.”
My lips coiled into a smile. “I’ll call or drop by first thing in the morning. Get some rest, ladies. You did great work tonight.”
As I walked down the sidewalk and up the stairs, I realized that I’d meant what I said. The ladies had done a wonderful job, and I did appreciate it. For once I’d worked with a group, and I found myself almost liking it.
I’d worked alone for so long that I thought it was the only way to do business. It wasn’t. Even a team of old women could be relied on to make things work.
I reached the porch. Soft guitar music filled my ears. It was “Blackbird” by the Beatles. I started to walk toward the sound. The pine boards creaked beneath my feet. I stopped, turned back to the door.
“I know you’re there, Blissful.”
I grimaced. I jerked my arm in an aw-shucks gesture, but when I did it, I meant aw-crap.
Roan had caught me. I slowly walked around to the other side of the porch. When I reached the building’s joint, I leaned one shoulder on the wall.
“Waiting up for me?”
Roan sat with his guitar on his knees. He grinned, his face shining. “No. Everyone else is inside. It was either you or a thief. I really didn’t want to have to karate chop a thief, so I laid my bets on you.”
“You were right.”
“Is the wall comfortable?”
“Oh, you know, a Jacuzzi would beat it, but I don’t see a tub of hot water around here. Maybe up in my room, but not outside.”
“There’s a hot tub on the back porch.”
Of course there was. Probably where he wooed his women. “Great to know. When I sprain my shoulder, maybe I’ll jump in there.” I realized that my sarcasm actually might be a teensy bit inappropriate. “Look, I know you probably think I’m crazy—”
“I do. I think it’s the hair.”
I scoffed. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
