In the midst of all this chaos and scrutiny, when it seemed like the entire town would implode any second, Sean King pulled out two bottles from his portable wine cooler and went to dinner with Michelle at Harry Carrick’s home.
As she exited her cottage and climbed into the Lexus convertible, King’s eyes had widened at the sight of her. “You look beautiful, Michelle,” he said, scrutinizing the clingy dress that stopped about midthigh and showed off a healthy dose of her Olympian legs. She also sported a stylish blue wrap around her shoulders; she was no longer wearing the sling. She wore makeup, and it appeared she’d even washed her hair, and hardly any of it was dangling in her face. It was a stunning contrast to her usual jeans, windbreakers, sneakers and running suits and flyaway tresses.
For his part King was dressed in a suit and tie and even had a handkerchief in his coat’s breast pocket.
“I wanted to make a nice impression on Harry,” she said hastily. “But my, I didn’t expect such accolades from you.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“I found the breakfast and lunch I made you in the trash can again. If you don’t like my cooking, just say so. It’s not like it would hurt my feelings.”
In his best Bogart imitation King said, “Aw, angel, you shouldn’t waste time in the kitchen. Not your style, angel.”
She smiled and said, “Thank God for small favors.”
“But with that said, the tuna dish you made the other night was really good.”
“High praise coming from you.”
“I tell you what: the next meal we’ll make together. I’ve got a few tricks I can show you.”
“Okay, that’s a deal.”
“How’s the arm?”
“Like I said, just a scratch.”
As they drove with the top down along the winding country roads on a warm, fine evening covered by a vast sky of stars, Michelle glanced at him admiringly and observed, “You look pretty spiffy yourself.”
“Like Eddie Battle, I can clean up well on occasion.” He smiled to show he was joking.
“Are we the only guests?”
“Yes, since I was the one who suggested we get together.”
“You? Why?”
“It’s time we sat down and talked this case through, and I do my best thinking over a good bottle of wine or two.”
“Are you sure you just didn’t want to escape another meal at my house?”
“Thought never occurred to me.”
Harry’s house was large and old and its interior beautifully decorated.
He met them at the door and led them into the library, where, despite the warmth of the evening, a cozy fire was burning. The old lawyer was wearing a snappy three-piece suit with stylishly muted checks. A carnation was pinned to his jacket lapel. He poured them drinks, and they sat on a soft, cracked leather sofa in front of the fire. The couch looked as though it had carried the posteriors of at least five generations.
He raised his glass. “A toast to my two good friends.” They drank to that, and then Harry added after eyeing Michelle, “And really, I believe another toast is in order.” He lifted his glass once more. “To one of the most lovely women I’ve ever encountered. Michelle, you look extraordinarily beautiful tonight.”
Michelle smiled and glanced at King. “Now, if I could only cook.”
King started to say something but seemed to think better of it and hastily took a sip of his cocktail.
“What an incredibly interesting place,” said Michelle as she looked around at the built-in, worm-eaten wooden shelves stuffed with what looked to be ancient tomes.
Harry’s gaze followed hers around the library. “Of course it’s haunted, as it should be for a place that saw the light of the eighteenth century.”
“Haunted?” said Michelle.
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen numerous apparitions over the years. Several I consider to be regulars. Since my return here, I’ve felt a real duty to get to know them, considering I’ll be joining them in the not-all-too-distant future.”
“You’ve got a long time left, Harry,” commented King.
“What would we do without you?” said Michelle, tapping her whiskey glass against Harry’s tumbler of bourbon.
“Even before the other branch of the Lee family was building its fortress at Stratford Hall, my line was laying the brick and mortar for this.” Harry checked his pocket watch. “Calpurnia serves promptly at seven-thirty. That gives us a little time to talk before the meal, although I’m sure I can guess our dinner topic.”
“Calpurnia?” asked Michelle.
“Calpurnia is my cook and housekeeper; a delightful lady who’s been with me for years. I discovered her when I was serving on the supreme court in Richmond, and she graciously agreed to return with me here. I’d be utterly lost without Calpurnia.”
He took a sip of his bourbon, set down his glass and put his hands together, his features now very serious.
“We must solve this thing, and soon, you know. It’s not like people are going to stop being killed simply because we wish it.”
“I know,” said King. He stood and faced them, his back to the fire. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, having had not much else to do while recovering from that deep draft I took of carbon monoxide. Now, there’ve been eight deaths thus far.” He held up the fingers on one of his hands. “But I want to talk about only five, at least at first. And I want to begin with Rhonda Tyler.”
“The dancer,” said Harry.
“The prostitute.”
“You’re sure?” said Michelle.
“I checked with Lulu. Tyler was one of the ones who opted for the ‘extra pay’ structure.”
“What’s that?” asked Harry curiously.
“A little sideline of the Aphrodisiac; it’s since been shut down,” said King vaguely.
Harry nodded in a knowing way. “I always suspected that was happening. I mean, you can’t let men watch naked girls, ply them with alcohol and not expect some to want more than to merely play voyeur.”
“Exactly. So Rhonda was a prostitute. Was that why she was killed?”
Michelle ventured an answer. “Well, prostitutes are probably the number one victim pool of serial killers.”
“Right again. So are we simply dealing with an ‘ordinary’ serial killer who opted to start with this ‘classic’ victim pool, or is there something else going on?”
“What do you mean, Sean?” asked Harry.
“I mean, was Tyler a symbol or was her death more personal?”
“How can we answer that with the little we know?” said Michelle.
“Let me answer a question with a question. Could Bobby Battle have enjoyed the services of Rhonda Tyler? She was at the Aphrodisiac before Bobby had his stroke. He was known to frequent the place, although Lulu was pretty vague on the last time she’d seen him there.”
“I hadn’t considered that angle,” said Harry quietly. “But let’s say he did sleep with her. Why would that make her a target for our killer along with at least four other people who seem to have no connection?”
“What if some of the other victims did have connections to Battle?”
“Such as?”
Michelle answered, “Sean thinks Steve Canney was Bobby’s illegitimate son. His mother had worked for Battle and probably gotten pregnant by him, and we think Roger Canney was blackmailing Bobby. We also think Bobby may have been involved in Mrs. Canney’s death three and a half years ago, and that’s when the blackmail started.”
“My God!” exclaimed Harry.
“But, Sean,” said Michelle, “I’ve been thinking about this too. Bobby openly had affairs with women, slept with prostitutes. If what you say is true, why would he care if the truth came out about an illegitimate son? Why would he allow himself to be blackmailed over a sexual encounter?”